I'm in the restroom, the motion-controlled lights are on, and all is well. A high-spirited coworker, a Russian man about my age, we'll call him Aleksy, shuffles in and enters a stall. A few moments pass.
The door opens again. We hear the voice of Aleksy's crony Bogdan, an equally high-spirited Bosnian man. Together, Aleksy and Bogdan are the office goof-off and class clown, although which man is which varies from day to day.
Bogdan has somehow come into possession of one of the little keys that turn motion-controlled lights on and off. "You must," he intones from the doorway, his heavy Eastern-European accent dripping with profundity, "learn to use -- the instinct!"
And the room goes pitch black.