A small foyer greeted me, begged for entry, telling me I was the most important person at that moment. I felt like it.  Dressed the way I was, it was easy to receive the reception reception captain (or whoever he was) at his podium, to receive his direction to the restroom. There, I peed and pranced in front of the urinal. I winked at myself in the mirror, rested my heel on the shoeshine stand and took stock of myself. I was not important or even remotely regal. But I could pretend I was, for the moment. After a quick once-over in the mirror, I was off to the second floor, filled with ghostly gallantry, ready to make waves at the party.