Many institutions offer Safe Havens, highly coveted evacuation stations for one.
The nature of these private stalls make them the day’s season ticket, your personal 50-yard line for unfettered relief. Their sound-proof architecture implies a free-for-all air (pun intended), a brazen call to the wild–a recipe for true violation. But not always. So, let’s get particular about Safe Haven clientele. They’re a fun bunch:
- The Private Dancer – they just want to be left alone, enjoy the moment, without shame.
- The Blow-Out – they’d prefer to help themselves, but can’t.
- The Worker – they bring their smart phone and conduct business on the can.
- The Opportunist – those who don’t know they have to go until the Safe Haven presents itself.
- The Hyena – they treat the environment as if it’s their personal kennel, laughing uncontrollably while they desecrate.
These folks are definitely elitists, chiefly by refusing to defecate with the herd. I admit, I’m part of this soiled aristocracy, which is why I get so pissed (pun intended) when someone’s in my Safe Haven. Finding the joint occupado, I throttle the handle, bluntly signifying, “My territory. I’ll unhinge this door if need be!”
The above characters represent a minor calliope of Safe Haven users, and I realize this type of critique has occurred in many forms. This one is tops. Flush.