“You didn’t wash your hands.” He was looking down at me, a big, clean-cut football player type.

“Uh, no, I didn’t.” Only half consciously, I stuck my hands in my pockets.

“That’s not cool, man,” said Football. “You’re spreading germs. Now they’re all over your pocket, anything you take out of there is, just gross.”

“Okay, then.”

“I’m not going to touch your hands. Or anything you touch, man.”

“That’s fine,” I said.

Apparently he was attending the same conference I was; we were walking back to the same conference room. “Why don’t you go back and wash your hands, man?”

“Don’t need to.”

“Don’t need to?” he exclaimed.

“I just took a shower. I’m clean enough.”

“Clean enough,” He sputtered, and then he shut his mouth into a tight, thin line. We reached the door to the conference room where a lecture was still going. Football said to the attendant there, “He didn’t wash his hands,” with a chin-gesture at me. The attendant looked at me with disgust.

“I didn’t,” I started, but the attendant had already summoned her peers, and they were hauling me away. “My penis is cleaner than anything in that bathroom,” I shouted. “Washroom fascists!”