Having a mouth so overflowing with saliva that it needs to be expelled in the most grotesque manner imaginable happens more often than it should, says Mark Spence.
It was a morning like any other in Abu Dhabi: blindingly bright, fresh and welcoming. The streets in Tourist Club were beginning to flood with people trekking into work, all accompanied by the tooting of car horns and the lilting, friendly tune of morning birdsong. Beautiful.
As I navigated my way through the parked cars by Time Out headquarters I was filled with a great sense of renewed hope for the day ahead. My keyboard wasn’t going to know what hit it. Then it happened.
I could see him coming towards me yammering away loudly on his cell phone, briefcase in hand, paunch swaying slightly from side to side as the sweat began to form on his brow and trickle down the side of his face. There was plenty of room on the footpath we were both simultaneously occupying, but so embedded in his conversation was my fellow citizen that he wasn’t paying attention to my gallant efforts at avoiding him.
I stepped to the right. He followed suit. I moved to the left. So did he. I tried the same manoeuvre again but speeded the dance up a little. So did he. We were heading for certain disaster. The whole sorry situation had head-on collision written all over it. I envisaged his briefcase spinning into the air and the confetti-like image of his documents fluttering to the ground like wounded butterflies was all too vivid. I was prepared. Or at least I thought I was.
Just as I braced myself for impact the rotund fellow in my path, paying no attention to me whatsoever, made a gurgling, retching noise that came deep from within his throat. His face contorted and, while still chatting, he projected a huge ball of phlegm that arced through the air and spun with such centrifugal force that little globules of spit detached themselves and formed their own splinter group. As I watched the horror unfold I still hadn’t broken stride, which meant while this chap was unleashing his saliva I was now practically parallel with him. No matter though because I still managed to dodge the incoming spit with all the feline finesse of Neo acrobatically swerving bullets in The Matrix. Spinning my body away from my advancing enemy I glanced down at my shoe and realised I’d taken a direct hit. It was disgusting.
I stared at my assailant. He looked at me. In my head Spaghetti Western music was playing. This was a showdown unlike any Abu Dhabi had ever witnessed. And then he carried on walking, oblivious to his crime. Still reeling I looked at my fellow commuters for support. I wanted justice. It was at this point another chap crossed the road. Had he seen what had happened? Was he about to offer moral support? Perhaps a helpline I could ring? No, instead he himself, with added gusto as if to make a point ‘hocked a loogie’ of his own and sauntered into the morning haze. I was alone. Abandoned. Just me and my sticky shoe.
Since this incident I’ve seen numerous people just casually spitting in the street. I still don’t know why so many of our citizens insist on doing it so publicly. Or loudly. All I can say, dear readers, is that if you see a fellow Abu Dhabian’s face contort and a guttural growl emanate from said person then you better take cover.
