Couth
by Ed Higgins
Ralph hawked
up a throat-rasping loogie, let it sit
momentarily on the back of his tongue while he
hurriedly cranked down the car window and let the
mucus lump fly as he turned from West 5th. Ave.
onto Main street. He shifted into second gear.
“Well, that certain was disgusting,”
Pam noted dryly, as he rolled the window back up
and then shifted into 3rd., picking up speed
slightly, careful to keep under the 25mph in a
residential zone. They were on their way to lunch
at La Panaderia. Not much for atmosphere but
class-act Mexican food, and the prices were
reasonable too. Ralph liked to take Pam there
because she could read the Spanish menu board on
the wall behind the counter.
“Why do
men always have to spit,” Pam continued,
“it’s so damn rude.” “Men. My
father even spits in the kitchen sink at home and
then stands there with the tap on washing it down
the drain. So rank! In the kitchen sink. The
bathroom sink too, it’s too gross to believe.
Sometimes he doesn’t even rinse the sink. Or
I’ll go to use the toilet and this big gob
is floating there unflushed. And my stupid little
brother’s pick up the filthy habit too.
Although I cracked him with my hairbrush the
other day when he came in the bathroom and spit
in the toilet.”
Ralph slowed
for the traffic signal onto 99w. “Hey, gimme
me a break, men spit. Besides, it’s spring
and my hay fever’s acting up. I gotta spit
sometimes.” Sheesh, whata bitch, Ralph
thought as he sat waiting for the light to turn,
a tickle starting to plague his throat. I’d
sure as hell hate to live near her hairbrush. If
I was her little brother I’d hawk a couple
on her hairbrush the next time I was alone in the
bathroom.
Pam felt the
back of her neck tightening. Who needed this? At
least he spit out the window, not in the sink or
unflushed toilet. Flush this lunch date she
thought ruefully. Ralph really wasn’t a bad
guy for all his macho posturing around campus:
drama leads, on the tennis team, usually an A
student. Quite a catch really, reddish-brown wavy
hair, nice arms, gentle hands. But he was
starting to roughly clear his throat again.
“Are you going to rudely spit again. Because
if you are you’ve just spoiled my lunch.”
“Oh,
right,” said Ralph, feeling an intensifying
of his phlegm’s thickness as the congestion
loosed in his bothered throat. The loogie sitting
on the back of his tongue like an angry cat ready
to explode out of his mouth. “I can’t
even ex-pec-tor-ate out of my own car window
because you’re squeamish about male spit
ritual!”
Ralph turned
back to his driver’s side window and ejected
the expectorate from his mouth just as he was
pulling into the curb beside the La Panaderia.
The splat on
the rolled up driver-side window was nearly
audible.
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