How Rude

There's nothing common about courtesy anymore

You can’t make it through life without occasionally wanting to punch someone in the face. It’s impossible. I’m pretty sure German neuroscientists have proven it.

We don’t act on that impulse because it’s not what civilized people do.

There are lots of things civilized people don’t do, things we’ve all tacitly agreed upon to live in a functioning society. It’s an imperfect system, but it’s all we’ve got. The thing is, I don’t know how much longer we’ll have it.

I walk my dog Brady a lot, so I see and experience things that you’d miss from the vantage point of a car. Things that make me wonder if evolution is doubling back on itself.

We’re talking golden-rule-type stuff. Love-thy-neighbor-type stuff. Don’t-be-a-blight-on-mankind-you-depraved-fuckwit-type stuff.

Included among this stuff is more urine than you’d think. We don’t want to dive into that pool right away, so let’s ease into this.

Hellloooooo

Imagine you and I are approaching each other on foot from opposite directions. We’ve never met, but I’m not frothing at the mouth, or unironically belting out a Smash Mouth song, so you see no reason to be concerned.

When we’re a couple feet apart, you flash a polite smile and say, “Hi.”

I look at you, but I don’t smile, speak, or make any other attempt to acknowledge you. I just walk on by. You’d feel unsettled, right?

This happens to me about once a week. Sometimes the person doesn’t even look; it’s just a flat-out snub. I’ve been saying hello to people my entire life, and I dare say I’ve mastered it. So it’s not me, I promise.

If it’s someone I see more than once, I keep saying hi every time with increasing enthusiasm until I scare them enough and they say it back. I essentially beat the politeness into them. I’m like a cross between Batman and Emily Post.

As soon as I pass by, I return to keeping my eyes trained on the ground ahead. In the past couple of years, there’s been a huge increase in people not picking up after their dogs. Not just on grass, but on sidewalks too. In fact, the sidewalk surprises have become so prevalent that at first I thought it must be some kind of street art, perhaps a Banksy installation.

Then I saw it happen. A man and his dog were maybe 30 yards in front of me and Brady. His dog assumed the position, and I zeroed in on the other end of the leash to see if the guy was brandishing a bag. He wasn’t.

He did, however, take a quick look around, in the way you do when you’re thinking about trying to get away with something. His glance was so brief and careless that he didn’t see me.

I waited until he and his dog took their first steps away from the scene of the crime before I yelled, “You’re going to pick that up, right?”

Startled, he looked back at me. “Yeah, I’m going to,” he said. Guess what this jagoff then produced from his pocket. He had a bag all along, he’d simply chosen not to retrieve the pile his Labrador left.

Unfortunately, I can’t be out patrolling for poop 24/7 like some kind of fecal vigilante, but at least I did my part that day.

Take whatever you want

For as long as I can remember, the post office in my town had three mailboxes out front. It always struck me as overkill, but if we know one thing, it’s that the United States Postal Service never makes a mistake.

One evening a few months ago, I had some things to mail, so I walked Brady down there. I was surprised to see that there was now only one mailbox. I was even more surprised when I pulled its handle and discovered it had been modified to open only about an inch. Apparently, the days of letter-bearing throngs of people indulging in wild postal free-for-alls were over. A crackdown was afoot.

“I can take those if you want,” said a postal worker who’d appeared from the side of the building. “I just emptied the box, and I know it’s tough to put things in there.”

“Thanks,” I said. “What’s going on with this?”

“We had to do that because people were sticking something down the slot and stealing mail. That’s why we got rid of the other boxes too.”

What kind of low-tech Identity Theft for Dummies bullshit is this? I want my fraudsters to be mysterious, computer-savvy outlaws, not some schlub jiggling a coat hanger like he’s trying to unlock the door of a 1979 Plymouth Fury.

The postal worker and I then spent a minute commiserating over what pieces of garbage people can be.

That’s a conversation I’d repeat about a month later, this time with a sanitation worker. After talking with some of my neighbors, he’d discovered that someone had stolen the tips that people had left out for his crew at the holidays.

Trashy.

Breaking a different golden rule

There’s a couple that lives nearby. They attend mass every morning at the church at the end of my street, and I often see them as they’re walking home. Recently, Brady and I were strolling alongside them for a bit, when we all came across a couple of plastic water bottles in the road.

It was obvious—to me, anyway—that the water inside them had since been recycled through someone’s kidneys. The woman, however, somehow failed to notice that important detail and bent down to pick them up. One of the caps was loose, presumably on purpose. It fell off, and her hand got drenched in urine.

Let’s review: this faithful, God-fearing woman, trying to beautify her neighborhood by disposing of some litter, was rewarded for her efforts by getting doused with human waste. That’s some Job-level shit right there.

If you think that’s the worst of it, urine for a surprise. (Not sorry.) In the past few months, I’ve seen two men peeing in public. Not together; it wasn’t a synchronized tinkling event.

One was in the yard of a house around the corner from me.

Now, when it comes to relieving themselves, there are three kinds of men.

• Zipperers. Self-explanatory. This is by far the largest group.

• Unfasteners. These gentlemen not only unzip, they undo their belt and pants. Typically sufferers of phallus claustrophobus.

• Droppers. The rarest type, these poor souls are incapable of urinating without pulling their pants and underwear all the way down to their ankles. Once you’ve seen this spectacle in a public restroom, it raises a lot of questions that you can never, ever ask.

The man in the yard was a Dropper. And I’ll tell you, nothing in life prepares you for spotting an outdoor Dropper on a beautiful, sunny day.

You’d think the guy might have been embarrassed. But as he hiked up his pants, he looked at me as casually as if he expected me to offer him a paper towel and a mint.

The second peeing perp was even more brazen. Though it was evening, he wasn’t one to hide under the cover of darkness. No, this free-spirit answered nature’s call in a well-lit Bank of America parking lot on the busiest thoroughfare in town.

The bank was closed, so where else was he supposed to make his deposit? In the restaurant next door? In the grocery store directly across the street? Please. Some penises are meant to live in the spotlight.

Feeling punchy

I realize there are much greater problems in the world than getting snubbed by a stranger, or coming across an unrepentant outdoor Dropper. But that’s kind of the point.

When things are darkest—with hatred and violence dominating the headlines every day—that’s when we need these small courtesies the most.

How are we supposed to walk together in harmony if we keep stepping in dog shit?

How can we make someone’s day with a hand-written card if some cretin is treating our mailboxes like an arcade claw machine?

How are we expected to love thy neighbor if thy neighbor doth maketh our neighborhood his toilet?

Sometimes the best solutions are counterintuitive. Maybe the way to bring back civility is one of those cases.

When you see someone indulging in these kinds of behaviors, you’re going to feel that urge to punch the person in the face. This time, don’t dismiss it right away. Give it some thought. Sit with it for a moment. Just be sure to look first—you never know what you might sit in.