An Open Letter to the Uber Driver Whose Car I Just Farted In
Dear Kevin M.,
We don’t really know each other, but that’s alright. It’s for the best. When I got in your well-maintained black 2013 Toyota Camry, you sensed that I wasn’t in a talkative mood and you turned on the radio. I sincerely appreciated that you didn’t make me participate in shallow small talk after a long day of work, and was perfectly content with zoning out until I could get home. But then we got into traffic. This would have been fine on a normal day. Sure, I would have been a little inconvenienced, but the traffic in the city is rough, and I wasn’t really in a rush home. Unfortunately, I had Indian food for lunch.
I really tried to hold it in for as long as I could. I have respect for people like you, drivers who spend all day chauffeuring random people around the city in their own cars. Sometimes you provide tiny water bottles or fruit snacks! Unfortunately, the only thing that I provided for you, Kevin, was a large emission of stank. I had the decency to keep it quiet, and the music provided a safe cover for it. And for the minute after it happened, I was hopeful that I had managed to pass gas under the radar and that this whole awkward situation wouldn’t even have to be a big deal. But then it hit. And in a car with the windows closed (Kevin, you were so gracious to turn on the AC even with the high energy costs!), the smell quickly incapacitated our shared aromatic landscape.
In this moment I recalled the great T.S. Elliot quote: “This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but with a whimper”. I know the second that you knew, because you let off a polite cough that, on the spectrum, was somewhere in between a throat clearing and a sniffle. I noticed that you stopped breathing out of your nose, a vain attempt at escaping the vicious odor
permeating the automobile. The green pine tree air freshener that hung from the mirror even began to shed its leaves and turn an autumnal crimson. Then the AC stopped, and you slowly rolled down the windows, even though we were on the highway and it made that weird pulsating sound. And yet, even though we were cross-ventilating the car like nobody’s business, the smell lingered on.
I’d like to think what happened next was your fault, Kevin, but I know that I’m somewhat responsible. I think that you were so preoccupied with ridding the car of my malodorous gaseous discharge (and I don’t blame you!) that you didn’t notice that the car directly in front of you had stopped. As we rear-ended that car, I was so startled that I let out another fart, more putrid than the last. That’s when you aggressively vomited, Kevin, probably caused by a combination of shock from the impact and my newly-minted gas emission that smelled of corrupted tikka masala and regret. The driver of the car that we just rammed into came out of his car to examine the damage, but I think he caught a whiff of the rank stench of clouding the air because he quickly got back into his car and swiftly drove away without even writing down your license plate number or trying to get your insurance information.
As we’re nearing my house, I just want to reiterate how sorry I am. This experience will linger in my memory for as long as the smell of the combination of my odiferous butthole and your coagulated vomit will remain in your car. I would give you five stars, but you waited to pick me up on the wrong side of the street, so I had to cross the street and that kinda sucked. I hope three stars will suffice.
We will smell your farts! Apply to Sherman Ave!