Some background vocals were recorded in the Westlake shower stall.

After hours at the Westlake Mall was usually the time of day that Lori did the most of her thinking. Brush, brush, sweep, sweep, the thankless task of Westlake’s janitorial class. Past the Claire’s, the Waldenbooks, the Bath & Body Works. Her hands worked mechanically, methodically, and her mind was elsewhere.

What if I went back to school? Thirty-nine, no kids, a few years of paychecks saved up, I could do it if I really wanted to. Two years and I could have an associate’s in business administration. But it’s two years of having even less of a life. Cheryl did it a few years ago, but she was always the studious one. Would I even have it in me?

Second floor. The empty mall could be unsettling to the uninitiated, but to Lori, this was a second home. The way the second-floor balconies overlooked the food court, the play of light streaming from the Target upon glimmering patches of ground floor—she had soaked all of this down to her bones for a decade. Move along. Brush, brush, sweep, sweep. Sleep. I need sleep.

Next on the itinerary: the second-floor men’s restroom. She rolled her cart in its direction, and this is when she heard the strange noises coming out of its open doors.

Coughing and vomiting and retching. Heavy laboured breathing. Staccato shrieks, punctuated grunts. It was as if five kung-fu fighters were having an orgy.

“Ha, a-ha, huh! HEE, hee, hee! Tyah! Kyah! Tyah! Kyah! WHOOO! Yeah-yeah! Shucka-chucka, DOW! Shucka-chucka, DOW! WHOOO! YEEOW! Ah! A-ha! Yeaaah! OW!”

Lori approached the doorway. She couldn’t see the source of the sensual grunts, for it was around the corner, where the urinal space opened up into a row of stalls and showers. She wasn’t supposed to enter the men’s restroom while it was occupied, but then again, it wasn’t supposed to be occupied.

“HOOOO-hoo!”

“Um, sir?” she called out from the doorway. “The mall is closed, you can’t be here at this hour.”

“HEEEE-hee!”

“Sir?” she cried, a bit louder. “When you’re, uh, finished with your”—she groped around for an appropriate word—“thing, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. It’s after hours!”

“YEEOW!”

He can’t even hear me.

She took a breath and walked in. She’d dealt with evening intruders before, usually teenagers, but never in the men’s restroom. And she knew every tile and crack of this restroom, she’d cleaned it countless nights, just not with men in it.

To hell with niceties, she decided. I have a job to do.

She peered around the corner. The face that greeted her was—

It was recorded at Westlake Recording Studios on Santa Monica Boulevard in Los Angeles, California.

Oh, it’s a recording studio. Never mind then.