He nudged the door open with a joint-bending index finger. The rectangular plate screwed to the door had worn through its chrome polish, straight to the cheaper brass alloy. He wondered how many millions of oily caresses the metal had endured before it lost its integrity and gave way to the lesser metal. Above the plate, more germ-conscious men had left their own dark smear on the wood of the door. The actual portal was a walnut color but the greasy impression of countless hands seeped into the even-toned wood to the shade of rot, and he avoided that spot as well. Inside the two-man restroom, there was a urinal and a toilet. The urinal held a tiny bowl of orange piss in its gullet. Yellow-tinted coffee bubbles sparkled around the smooth-cornered hole of the device, still hissing and popping from the last man’s expulsion. He walked into the toilet stall. The seat was down and spots of sprayed shit dotted the back of the seat and dried as flaky trickles on the tiled wall behind. The last occupant had apparently been a standing one and left trembling drops of well-hydrated urine on the left and right hemispheres of the horseshoe seat. Between every man’s feet, unfathomable amounts of dripped piss had swelled and distorted the grout on the tiled floor into a bulging mutant surface. While apparently passing a coiling tube of feces, a man had scrawled “Republicans fuck their sisters, bitch” to the right of the toilet paper dispenser. The message was written in black marker and was highly stylized: slanted, aggressive, angry. Someone who disagreed had hastily written in thin-lined pen, “dems f republicans sisters 2.” This response was written high and angled, as though the man was standing when inspiration guided his hand. “H.R.6566 is pussy” another vandal wrote. The middle “5” and “6” of the proclamation slimed an inky rivulet as though a reader responded with a splatter of spit. The man flipped his tie over his shoulder and urinated. He was careful not to whiz on the seat and add to the filth of the place, though he would not touch the disgusting flush handle even with the soles of his leather shoes. He jiggled his dick, carefully directing his final drops into the toilet and not the saturated floor, and tucked it back past the clean white elastic of his jockeys. He left the stall and stood in front of the sink. The entire top section of the wall mirror was broken off in a clean conchoidal wave, so his image stopped reflecting at the knot of his pink tie. He removed an alligator-skin whiskey flask from his coat and sterilized the grimy facet handle with its amber liquid. He took a long gulp from the expensive gift and stared at the dripping handle. He’d only touched the door with the gold “Gentlemen” sign and decided that his hands would only get dirtier by washing them there. He splashed whiskey over the pad of his offending index finger and massaged the alcohol between thumb and forefinger. He turned to yank a paper towel from the continuously feeding wall dispenser when he noticed a message he’d never seen scratched into the mirror: “¡D-TEX POR VIDA PUTO!” Anger heated from the man’s rising testicles to the pulsing temples on his head, and he slammed his fist into his hand. “Bitch!” he hissed. It was Sanchez. He knew it. Goddamn wetback, rubbing in his dirty ear-mark victory. Let’s see if you’re still around in six months, you smug little ese. He reached across the chipped sink, holding his tie and coat to his stomach so it wouldn’t brush against the wet countertop, and he scratched a deep gash across the insult with the diamond of his Stanford class ring. He pounded his fist again, snatched a paper towel with which to pull the door handle and dashed across Minton tiles to tell his committee what he’d seen. The brown paper towel unwrapped from the door handle and floated to the ground as the man’s tapping shoes echoed around a corner, and it settled there.