The swinging door of the bathroom muffled the chaos behind me. It was surprisingly quiet in there. Just me and one really, really drunk guy.
He didn’t notice me at all and hummed loudly to an unsettling cover of Counting Crows’ “Mr. Jones” playing outside. He leaned toward the condensated wall at a 45-degree angle and put his hands on the urinal. His head tilted back, eyes on the fluorescent ceiling and his long, curly, greasy hair dangled down his sweat-stained Hawaiian shirt.
“How ya doin’?” I asked.
“I fuckin’ love Countin’ Crows, baby!” he screamed, followed by a quick, wide-legged twirl and a jog through the swinging door…