Dear John
With the sort of desperation that can only come from too many lemonades and the potential for long rides on short trains with no bathrooms, he slipped into a port-a-potty that seemed built for him. Perhaps not him exactly, because it wasn't particularly well lit and since the sun had set this caused a particular darkness when the door was closed, but it was so messy anyway that he was sure that poor aim would probably go unnoticed. The port-a-potty of his prayers was located in a bit of an alley between the yuppie grocer and a movie rental establishment. As he relieved himself in the darkness he heard the clack-clack-clack of several pairs of high heels making their way past. The thing about high heels is that they almost never travel alone. Usually a woman takes up residence above them. Not looking forward to emerging from this street toilet into the company of the opposite sex, he listened closely as the clack-clack-clack faded away and then pushed hurriedly on the door. It didn't budge. The plastic lock was stuck. He had wondered if shutting the door completely had been a mistake and now with renewed wonder he debated the potential embarrassment that would follow if he had to shout for help. The embarrassment looked to be so thorough and the plastic lock so weakened by repeated shaking that he was able to emerge from the alleyway loo violently, but unscathed. A quick scan of the area revealed that the people around him had not let him down with their collective and complete disinterest in both the man and the toilet. He slipped quietly away and out of third person.