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On the Road (But How'd it Get There?)
by
Nathan Hartswick
A few days
ago, as I was walking in my consummately civilized
Long Island town, I noticed something that struck
me with such overwhelming oddity that it quite
literally stopped me in my tracks. Like the skin of
some strange, latex snake that had discarded its
outer layer and slithered off into the underbrush,
this sociological anomaly stared up at me from the
sidewalk.
"Huh," I said aloud. "That's a condom."
Yes, a condom. Not a condom conveniently flattened
and hermetically sealed in a half-dollar-sized
package (though were this the case, I can't say I
would have exclaimed "score!" and pocketed the
trinket for further use). No, this animal was very
much out of its cage, and for that matter, its
natural habitat. What set of circumstances, I began
to wonder, could possibly have brought this little
token of someone's affection into my path as I
wandered the streets of my suburban neighborhood?
Many people engage in protected sexual congress; of
this we can be certain. And some surely engage in
said sexual congress within the confines of an
automobile; this has also been proven.
Additionally, if one had the inclination to
research the data, one might even discover
instances in which this sexual congress has
occurred in
a car moving along a street at speeds of up to
sixty
miles per hour.
But even these adventurous and illegal vehicular
circumstances do not excuse this particular
couple's method of
prophylactic disposal.
I suppose we cannot expect a high level of
preparedness from two people so desperate to relate
sexually that
they haven't the time or consideration to even search for a phone booth in which to do so. I doubt
the following
conversation happens often among the high-speed
lovemaking set:
Woman: Honey, have you got the keys?
Man: Yup! Ready to go?
Woman: What about the rubbers? Did you get the
rubbers?
Man: Right here! How long's the ride, anyway?
Woman: Depends how long you can last.
Man: No, I mean the trip. How long's the trip?
Woman: Thirty minutes.
Man: I'll bring two rubbers.
Woman: Do we have any Ziplocs?
Man: Ziplocs? What for?
Woman: Disposal, silly. You weren't just going to
throw them out the window, were you?
Man: Oh, no, of... course not. Hey, we're out of
Ziplocs. Is a Tupperware okay?
It is more likely, of course, that any two people
combining their love of travel and intercourse in
this manner are
going to subscribe to the "hucking" method of disposal, whereby the woman rolls the window down
halfway,
wings the unneeded apparatus onto the gravel
shoulder, and attempts to straighten her hair and
adjust her
tube top before she and her boyfriend arrive at her
mother's trailer to watch Walker, Texas Ranger.
But it is not this, the most probable explanation,
which concerns me. The most troubling question
is, if this
discarded, one-fingered phallic glove did not fly
from the window of a passing car, then where on
God's good
green earth did the disgusting little thing come
from? The condom fairy?
Let us puzzle over the alternatives. Perhaps it was
stuck to the heel of a prostitute; but no, this was
not that
kind of neighborhood. It could have fallen off the
back of a condom truck, but I have never even seen
such a
vehicle (though when pressed to envision it, a
modified version of the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile
springs to
mind). Or maybe 18-year old Peter Johnson was
walking home from his girlfriend's one night and
decided to
get rid of the used item that, when her parents
returned home unexpectedly, he had so hastily (and
regrettably) placed into his pocket.
This is a likely direction; the youth of America
are always a good group to blame these sorts of
things on. This
unwanted sleeve could well have been left behind by a group of pre-adolescent schoolboys. One of them
probably pilfered it from his father's sock
drawer, opening it as he walked home with his
friends. They
snickered at the way it looked, inflated this limp
little item, blew some balloon animals, and when
they became
bored, threw it to the curb.
But none of the above solutions explains another
strange element. Hard as it is to believe, this was
not the first
condom I have seen on the street. Having witnessed more than three of these cases in my lifetime, I
must surmise
this to be a regular pattern, and I doubt there are
groups of boys in various towns regularly discovering condoms,
becoming bored with them, and ditching them
gutterside. No, this is most definitely an epidemic
(defined as
any time the total number of worldwide cases rises
above, say, zero).
It is often said that the simplest solution is
usually the correct one; could it be that we are
overlooking the most
obvious cause? If one were to find a used condom lying on a bedroom floor, one would naturally make
the
assumption that it had been used in that room and
not, for example, on the roof, and then transported
to the
bedroom. Perhaps, then, the fact that this
implement of safe sexual relations lay on the side
of the road
means only that two people engaged in safe sexual
relations on the side of the road.
I wonder if it is possible this is a common
occurrence. If indeed it is, then to these audacious couples I have a
message that is twofold.
First: the next time you absolutely must make love
in the out-of-doors, please, take only pictures and
leave
behind only footprints (also acceptable:
indentations from various other body parts).
Second: you may be under the impression that this
valiant rubber scabbard can protect you, but trust
me -- if
your idea of successful sexual congress includes rolling around horizontal and naked on a hot
stretch of
asphalt, there is nothing "safe" about it, my
friends.
Thank you for reading. One day when we live in a
civilized society, this sort of thing will no
longer be permitted
to happen. Until that day arrives, however, we must
all do our part to spread the word of how people
can live a
cleaner, more responsible sexual lifestyle. I will
begin my own quest a bit later on; at the moment, I
have to
drive over and see my girlfriend.
I'll be picking up Ziplocs along the way.
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