I'm waiting in line for the ladies room at Cafeteria. Not the one that serves salisbury steak and cubed Jell-O. The one where a girl was carried down the stairs, superhero-style, and plopped across one of those plasticky quasi-modern tables while her wasted friends hollered, "Who's got the car?" I plow through crowds so thick, I'm reminded of Mardi Gras. Ride the elevator to the second floor, where a DJ is hunched over the decks, spinning a dance rendition of Toto's 80's ballad, Africa.

Girls are squeezing out of the bathroom in clumps of twos and threes. I push past them and open the door.

There's a girl at the sink, waving at me. I'm not sure who she is. The girl could've been wearing a halter top, mini skirt, hoop earrings, dark jeans, candy-colored heels. Her mouth was moving. I had to bend down, just a little, to hear:

"You're my English teacher."

Here we go again. I say, "Yes. And now we're partying together."

The girl squints. "Not really," she says. "We're peeing together."

"Right," I say, ducking into a booth.

It's time to go home.