Back track twenty years. It’s 1991 and you’ve landed that dream job as a junior copywriter at the third largest advertising firm in the midwest. You make more money than anyone at your high school, and you drive a red car.

Your prime corner office is wedged between two other corner offices; you enjoy it, but say nothing, fearing the consequences of physics. You’re typing up an expense report from your business trip to Dover when you get hit by a distinct wave of arousal. Knowing this will only delay the delivery of your report, you make the adult decision to purge all sexual frustration in the bathroom.

You close your computing machine, put your beeper on silent, zip up your backpack and take the elevator to the corner bathroom. Locked in the stall, you un-clasp your business pants and hold your eager genitals in your palm. Furiously pulverizing, relief is on the cusp of the horizon.

You stop. Something is wrong. You re-clasp your slacks and walk out of the stall. The back of your neck chilly and tingly, just like the second time you watched Romancing The Stone. Everything seems off. You look around. The wallpaper is floral, beige armchairs line the sink, there’s a tampon dispenser on the wall.

You’re in the corner women’s bathroom. Panic creeps up your body, vertigo bringing it up the rear. The whole room spins and pulses. This isn’t even the right floor. You took the elevator down instead of up. You were too busy thinking about tonight’s mediocre beef flavored dinner. Idiot! You take a few deep breaths and calmly walk out. Relief is still a far away idea.

Everything seems weird and foreign, like the time you meandered into Chinese Town. It’s time to investigate.