You start to wonder how many men and women drive to work with a finger up one of their nostrils? You know some would lie and say, “I never have.” But even if they haven’t let their own fingers wander into the orifice of smell, you are sure they’ve seen others who have. You know this terrible habit sits somewhere between a false sense of privacy and indiscretion.
A microbiologist would shudder to think of the organisms the man behind you is packing up his nostril. You watch him through your rear-view mirror with compulsive interest, intrigued at the gall of those thick sausage fingers. If you were a microbiologist you’d wonder what strain of Staphylococcus is being pushed halfway to the man’s brain.
There comes a moment when you wonder if the man notices you behind his sunglasses. You can’t see his eyes but you’re sure he can see yours. You glance away then wonder if he has a wife, and if she knows about the terrible habit her husband has inside his car. After three seconds, you take another peak, shake your head and think, of course she does. She probably finds the brittle crumbs when she changes the sheets.
This picker is repulsive, and your disgusted even more by his lack of discretion. There are people watching; you know because you are one of them. You glance again and realize it has been five seconds since that finger entered the portal to his olfactory system. Then you glance to your right to see the woman next to you. She is in her car talking on her mobile. You turn left to glance at the young student singing to himself in his car. Then you realize that you just may be the only one who seems engaged with nosey. But given time, that finger, and that nostril, you are sure he will draw more attention to himself. You are damn sure.
The volume on your talk show is low. It has been in the background of your commute like music inside a grocery store; it’s apparent but only like a soft whisper. Words drift to your ears like motes suspended in the air. You turn up the volume, optimistic that the topic will divert your attention away from the finger and the gridlock.
The guest on today’s show is a noted scientist who has studied the spread of illness and researched the importance of hand washing and microbiology. You imagine him to be slightly attractive in his white lab coat as he is being interviewed.
The brake lights of the car in front of you suddenly flash crimson. You are caught off guard and hit your brake pedal, immediately gauging your rear-view mirror to see if nosey is paying better attention. If he isn’t you are positive that his fingernail will pinch off a small portion of his frontal lobe when the dashboard hits his elbow. He may live through it, but five divided by four will never seem right to him, or the color magenta.
Thankfully and regrettably, he saw your brake lights but now he is rolling something between his index finger and his thumb.
The traffic starts to open up and you begin to speed up. Your car creates a line of distance between you and the picker. You can’t see if he’s given up on the mother load or if he’s mining for more and you are glad for this.
When you reach work, you are content that you’ve made it on time. You check your reflection in the mirror before you open the door and then take your first step out of the car. Before you stand, a small discomfort, a small pinch, warns you of a possible indiscretion of your own. You are sure you will not walk away without relieving yourself of it.
You stand up then reach behind, down the crevice of your gluteus maximus. You pull a large portion of your underwear out from your buttocks, then smooth out your attire. Your first thought is whether you should check yourself in the restroom. Your second thought is to wash your hands the moment you enter the office.
Copyright © 2010 Tom H. Romanehur for Just Moving Along .com
