About two weeks after I first moved to Chicago (did you know I used to live in Chicago? I loved it.), at the grand age of 21, I was walking home from the busy train stop at Belmont.

A filthy-looking  man in a khaki suit jacket (sleeves rolled up), dress shirt, flowered shorts, and bare feet was standing in the doorway of a building, peeing into a transparent plastic cup.

I did what any sheltered young thang would do in such a situation: I stopped dead in my tracks and stared with my mouth hanging open.

When the cup was so full that it was about to spill, the man glanced up at me.

He yelled, “Ma’am, don’t look! That’s my penis.”

Boy howdy.

Take-home lesson: if you must pee in a cup while standing in a doorway, try to ensure that the cup is opaque. Or, you know, don’t face the street.