and when I come up for air, it must look like I'm bursting out of the ocean or I'm in a shampoo commercial or something but Paul doesn't notice because as soon as I rise, he greedily takes my place and hoovers up what I've left behind and while he's doing this, someone starts pounding and kicking on the cubicle door, yelling at us to hurry up, and all I can do is laugh as I imagine the poor guy hopping around with his hand pinching the ass of his jeans and so I yell at him to hold it in or use the sink or one of the urinals but this just makes him kick the door harder and I can't think of any other advice I can give him so I kick and punch back but I stop when I realize I've taken a splinter out of the door and the exposed wood against the white paint looks like a monk, kneeling and praying, and this freaks me out, maybe because monks make me think of death, and then I start to worry about where the splinter went if it's not part of the door any longer because I can't see it on the blue floor and it would stand out no matter which side it landed on, so the only other place I can think it went is into me and into my bloodstream and isn't there lead in paint and isn't lead poisonous and I don't want to die and I really don't want to die from a stupid monk-shaped splinter of wood from a cubicle door in a skanky nightclub and the cubicle suddenly feels very small and very hot and the chopping noise that Paul is making below me seems very loud and I start to panic as I search my knuckles for a cut or tear and although the knuckles are red from punching the door, there's no damage and my hands look fine except that my fingers and wrists look fatter than I thought they were, but anyway, I manage to calm down and I even manage to laugh, partly from relief, partly because of my reaction, but mostly because the guy who needs to get in here is still banging on the door and I start to think that he can't be that desperate otherwise it'd be in his shoes by now and then Paul stands up and looks at me with his white moustache and twitching nose and I'm about to say something when I realize what we're doing and it's Sunday for Chrissakes, or maybe it's tripped into Monday, and I'm wiping my lip and wishing I'd stayed clean tonight because although it feels impossible right now, experience says I'm going to feel dead until at least Thursday and I've got an interview on Tuesday morning, but then Paul passes back my rolled-up twenty and offers me another bump and I decide it's pointless turning him down now, so