You don’t know me, but I’m the person in the car behind yours at the red light. The person who is as deserving of a clean environment as you are. The person who asks only that you attempt to use those good manners that I’m fairly sure a 27-ish guy would have learned by now.
How do I know how old you are? Because I, along with the other drivers surrounding you, just had the chance to see your face (and your grungy-is-not-cool beard) as you opened your door. Leaned out. And, with the kind of full force that would have made Jack Dawson on the Titanic proud, spat on the street before shutting your door and making a left when the light changed.
Both I and the young woman in the car right next to mine looked at each other and went “eew.” (She is so swiping left if she ever sees your face on Tinder.) Let’s just say that your exhibit was so gross that I didn’t even want to drive over it.
I know what you’re thinking — “What? It’s biodegradable.” True. But using the world as your personal sink or handkerchief, or whatever the heck you spit into while at home, is so lame. And based on the shameless way you expectorated, I expect that this wasn’t your first rodeo, cowboy.
You had other options. First, driver, meet tissue and his bestie, napkin. Or, there was the donut-chain coffee cup that you pitched out the window after your not-so-little display — you could have just used that (and saved the pitching for your next frat-boy-type softball game). Or, even better, you could have used your passenger’s baseball cap (please do him a favor and tell him that wearing that cap backwards is so over). Given that he was busy dropping cigarette ashes out of his window, he probably wouldn’t even have noticed.
Maybe you’re a nice guy who just doesn’t know any better (not likely). Maybe you’re a selfish ass clown who doesn’t give a spit about anyone else (way likely). Either way, you need to clean up your act — you’re driving a Prius, for goodness sake.
Take the high road.
ⓒ 2017 Claudia Grossman