The women’s restroom sat to the right, and the men’s restroom sat to the left. Both doors were painted a sky blue hue with white stripes. Graffiti on the men’s door read: Eat Paula’s AIDS p***y. I tapped on the door and called out, “Lewis?” Nothing. No answer. Patiently, I waited for him to grunt, which he sometimes did to communicate with me. I tapped on the door above Paula’s name. “Lewis, are you in there?” Nothing. Still no answer. “Lewis, grunt for me already. Stop f*****g with me,” I said to the door, almost brushing my lips against its slatted blue wood and the word Paula’s. Nothing. Still no answer. Then I palmed the door’s rusty knob, turned it to the left, and pushed it inward. The bathroom smelled of urine and reminded me of a bathhouse in downtown Pittsburgh called The