The Gym was open 24/7. Most of the folks who came in after hours were police officers, insomniacs, or bartenders. Let's assume the guy who came downstairs at midnight, terrified, was not any of these. When confronted with a terrified man clutching a gym towel, jaw quivering, tears flowing, one must brace oneself for some kind of experience. You can barely contain your smile because you are thinking: "This is going to be awesome."
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"Okay?" He cried. "I don't know! We'll find out when I get my blood results back!"
He hurled the towel at me. I picked it up. Examined it.
"I'm going to get AIDS!"
I dropped the towel.
"Look," he said as he approached the front desk, wiping his tears away from his face. "Look!"
I stepped away from him as he retrieved the towel and pointed his finger at a small red stain. "BLOOD! I used this towel to dry my body! My hands! My face!"
"First of all, this could be lipstick."
"No," he said. "This is blood and I am going to get AIDS."
"Second, I don't think you can get AIDS from using a towel that's been washed and dried." I said.
"I'm taking this towel with me and I'll be back with my attorney!"
But he must have died fairly quickly, because I never saw him again ...