Photo by Paul Woods
One of our most fascinating skills as a people, is the ability to delegate responsibility. I suppose we’re actually justified every so often; the power failures are the government’s problem, the patchwork roads entirely the municipality’s fault – and certainly not our problem.
Trash on the road, for instance, is definitely somebody else’s problem.
Enter the Ferrari, screaming through the streets of Broummana and breaking every moral driving code invented. By the time they’d moved from my rear-view and happily into a collision path I had learned to hate hot rubber, young drivers and the summer hotrod season in general. But rather than ruin a beautiful day, I over-clocked my air-conditioner and blasted some heavy metal.
The blond in front of me clearly did not care to self-medicate.
It would’ve been tolerable too, had we not gotten stuck in traffic together; the louder their bass got the more creatively I wanted to hurt them. This, apparently, was a sentiment the blond did share; but like me she didn’t bother moving, even when the kids barked at women walking by. Actually barked.
Then they tossed out a garbage bag.
She smiled, the way women smile when they’re about to skewer you, the way the barbarians of old smiled at dead boars, slowly roasting over the pit.
They turned down their music as she approached the car: ‘Can I help you gorgeous?’
‘Probably not, but please help yourself to the road.’
‘I’m sorry?’
She opened the trash bag and dumped its content onto the driver’s lap; whatever was in there seemed splashy, and caused him a great deal of distress; he loudly took his liberty in describing her mother.
‘I just wanted to tell you,’ she continued, ‘every woman in the country understands that a green license plate means you could never afford this car; we’re smart like that. So smart in fact that we can tell the size of your penis from said car, and Ferraris rank way, way lower than, say, Hondas.’
Mildly concerned about her, but more interested in seeing the boys’ full expressions, I got out of my car and stood by its door.
She kept going: ‘I live in Broummana, and I will make it my mission to describe you to every girl I know and mention how horrible you are in bed; please, feel free to drive around and bark at more of them, maybe you’ll get lucky. But if I ever catch you littering again, I will pull you by the ear your mother should’ve ripped off and make you pick it off the floor with your teeth; do you understand?’
I suspect they’ve never in their lives understood anything quite as clearly. Visibly more relaxed but still smelling of brimstone she turned towards her car, and stopped to glare at me.
‘I never litter, I swear!’ I told her, ‘and I drive a Honda.’
All Rights sold to Time Out Beirut
You You You are getting married!! Mabrouk 
)))
))
...
That’s the cleanest image of trash I’ve seen anywhere in Beirut. Usually its a lot more disgusting. I’m glad your protagonist got the bag open before dumping it. I noticed we kind of have the same cedar in the browser tab, though I admit yours looks a bit spacey. Then again mine is ginger…
Georgia´s last blog ..Store cupboard recipe for the fountain of eternal youth
Hey I hand-drew that cedar thank you! Aaand may or may not have been drinking at the time. Thanks for the comment ginger.