After running for seven blocks, I arrived at the theater glistening. Wearing a herringbone sport jacket over my hoodie with my hair combed neatly to the side, I looked, at the very least, unsuspicious. I spotted my mother outside the box office and leaned down to hug her. She seemed smaller than she had on her last birthday. This made me feel sad for her. I felt deeply sad about this for the duration of the hug. I imagined her waking up and realizing that she was shorter. Age is just a stalker that follows you around, picking away the things you like about yourself, one at time. I let go of her and shook my dad’s hand, trying to hide the gift bag behind my back.

My father asked us to wait a second before going inside while he returned a phone call. I also removed my phone and checked my email. For a moment the whole family was staring at our phones. We were all together for the first time in three months.

Together we walked into the theater and down in the first row mezzanine. I envisioned myself falling backward, landing splat in the middle of the orchestra, impaled on a cello, bleeding onto tubas and violins. What a dramatic tragedy that would be. But I’d feel terrible about this because I’d been such a shit over the years. I hadn’t given them nearly enough good to remember me by. Also, my death would surely ruin my mother’s birthday.

I grasped the rail in front of me, inching along behind my parents. We finally got to A211–A214, where a man and woman were storing their jackets and shopping bags. We asked them to move their things and they huffed and puffed, slowly rearranging their coats and bags. The old man had a torso much like the man who had jerked off in front of me all morning. I wondered if there was a chance that he was the same man who typed in all caps, but this seemed like an unlikely coincidence.

For an hour and a half, a flamboyant, overweight actor pretended to be a bumbling President of the United States. The old man behind us asked his wife to repeat the punch line to every joke because of his hard hearing. My mom would glance over at me after each joke to see if I was laughing and when I noticed, I laughed.

I clasped my phone tightly as the timer counted down the seconds. Give or take a few minutes, I’d be on my way to chills by the time the alarm ran out. Just holding it in my hand and looking at the screen from time to time was comforting.

Things were working out. My mother seemed happy, convinced.

During intermission, I headed for the bathroom.

As I waited on line, I shoved my fists into my jacket pockets and rocked back and forth on my heels. Around me, people discussed the play. I looked at one of them and nodded and he nodded back. I was “fitting in” here. I wasn’t too far gone. If I could make this work, then I felt confident that I could get my acting career back on track. I only needed the right person to hear my monologue. It was just too good. With all that in place, the drug stuff would work itself out. I was confident of that.

When I reached the men’s room, I balked. There were only two urinals right next to each other, with no dividers. An old man with dark spots all over his skin had his white briefs and chinos down below his knees, his belt clanging against the tiled floor. His naked ass was only inches away. It felt like work all over again.

I took my place next to the old man, whipped it out and stared at the eggshell tiles on the ceiling. Before I was even halfway done, I noticed that the man next to me was acting strangely, loudly sucking air in through his teeth. I tried to ignore him, to go on about my business, but soon his head was turned toward me. He glared directly at me, gawking almost. Holding my ground, I stared right back, finishing what I was there to do. My skin tightened as I screwed my face up at him but he just kept staring back, unfazed, like he had some sort of agenda. I was ready to start screaming if he didn’t just come out with whatever was on his mind.

But then he did.

“Son,” he said. “I can smell you from here. You need to wash up.”

Embarrassed, I murmured, “What?”

“Your crotch smells!” His shaky hand came fumbling down on the wet metal flusher. “Wash yourself!”

The old man reached down to pick up his pants and fastened his belt. I just stayed there, unable to move.

I thought about the rest of my cash and how it would be gone as soon as I got home. I thought about how I had no hot water; how I wouldn’t be able to wash myself. Having hot water running through my apartment again was so far-fetched, so unlikely to happen anytime soon, that it seemed like a dream. For a moment, everything all felt so insurmountable. The old man left and I stayed there staring at the pink urinal cake, wishing that I had a better gift for my mom as the house lights dimmed, even here in the bathroom, to let me know the show was about to start again.

Excerpted from the novel, published by Instar Books