Steam was rising from the tap, fogging the mirror. His hands were turning into lobster claws. “You don’t look so good, there, pal. Come on, let me set you up. One toot.”

If there was a single germ left on his hands I’d have been surprised. My nostrils were dilating in some Pavlovian response to his offer.

“Friend, come on! Earth to pally, pal. You’re like in a stupor, there.”

His forearms were covered in a blur of blue ink, except for the underside of his right arm where the green blob from Ghostbusters looked like he was about to slime Dr. Venkman. The rising steam slowly revealed the clear outline of a word drawn on the mirror: OBSIDEO.

“What are you, brain-dead, pal?”

I looked in the mirror. My hair was still caked in fake blood. It was streaked down the sides of my face and dotted my shoulders. Were this man a normal person he’d be calling me an ambulance, not offering narcotics.

“Anyone needs a toot, it’s you. Trust me there, pal.”

“No, thanks,” I said, surprised my voice still worked. I pointed to the word on the mirror in front of him.

He grunted laughter. “Kind of bathroom shit is that?” he said. “Back in the stall there someone wrote, Looking For a Little Joke? It’s In Your Hands. Now that’s funny shit.”

It took a couple of seconds for the joke to sink in, then a dull, dopey laugh tumbled past my lips. Damn, if laughing didn’t feel good. Doesn’t it always?

“Heh, there you go. Lighten up, pal. You ain’t in no church, you know. Try and have a little fun.”

Finally, the man decided he’d nuked all the germs on his hands and cut the water. Ripped several paper towels from the dispenser and dried off. Balled the beige paper and shot it into the trashcan. Swish!

“Get after it, killer,” he said, clapping a steamy hand on my shoulder as he walked past, those phony teeth flashing through his smile. I waited for the door to shut behind him, then approached the sink he’d been using and cranked the heat. It wasn’t quite scalding, but it was close. I cupped my hands underneath the tap and splashed water on my face. Dunked my head under the faucet and washed out the blood. Crimson water colored hairline fractures in the basin of the old porcelain sink, turning it into a bloodshot eye. I wetted a paper towel and began to dab the spots on my shirt.

Use COLD water, JESSE, or you’ll lock the stain in. This was my mother’s advice, which I ignored, as usual. Maybe if she’d tried punishing me once I’d have paid her more attention. I don’t know. Maybe if she’d offered more than trite witticisms handed down from dummies.

Wish in one hand, spit in the other.