This week on Metro Confessions, we’re diving deep into the underworld of public transit etiquette—specifically, the war crime that is hocking a loogie in an enclosed, shared metal tube hurtling beneath the capital.
Let’s be clear: There are things you expect to endure on the DC Metro.
- 🚦 A mysterious “schedule adjustment” (translation: no one knows what’s going on).
- 😴 Someone passed out mid-ride, possibly drooling.
- 🍲 An aggressively seasoned to-go meal that smells like guilt and shrimp paste leftovers.
But what I did not expect—what no rider should ever have to mentally process—is to be within spit-shot range of an unbothered, highly caffeinated chaos merchant.
🎭 SETTING THE SCENE: TUESDAY TRAUMA
The ride began like any other.
I boarded at L’Enfant Plaza, claimed a window seat, and prepared to zone out into a trance of post-work melancholy and people-watching.
Across from me? A woman on the phone. Mid-drama. Mid-volume. Mid-verbal assault on someone named “Tasha.”
Naturally, she was on speakerphone. Because privacy on the Metro is for cowards.
I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. (I was ABSOLUTELY trying to eavesdrop.)
🤢 THE MOMENT TIME STOOD STILL
Right in the middle of telling Tasha about herself, The Offender paused…
…cleared her throat with the force of a thousand windpipes…
…made intense eye contact with me as though I personally started this drama…
And then—
SHE. SPAT. ON. THE. FLOOR.
A full send. A declaration. An unholy punctuation mark at the end of a sentence I did not subscribe to.
She just… kept talking.
Nothing to see here. Just desecrating shared spaces like it’s a hobby.
🧠 THE FIVE STAGES OF METRO GRIEF
I went through them. Fast.
- Denial – “Maybe she sneezed downward?”
- Anger – “Ma’am, where were you raised? A literal dungeon?”
- Bargaining – “Maybe she dropped something and made a strange noise? Maybe this is all a dream?”
- Depression – “Society is unraveling. This is how it ends.”
- Acceptance – “Okay but I’m definitely burning these shoes.”
Everyone else on the train?
Just as traumatized. We exchanged glances like survivors of an unspeakable event. One guy clutched his tote bag like it was rosary beads. Another woman silently mouthed, “Did you see that?”
Yes, friend. We all saw that. And no, we will never unsee it.
🧼 THE SOCIAL CONTRACT (WHICH WAS VIOLATED IN BROAD DAYLIGHT)
When we step into a Metro car, we silently agree:
- 👀 Minimal eye contact.
- 📵 Quiet voices.
- 🚫 No liquids on the floor unless it came from the HVAC system.
- 🙏 Keep your bodily fluids inside your bodily boundaries.
This is not a battlefield. This is not your patio. This is group suffering with air conditioning. Let us have that.
🧙 POSSIBLE EXPLANATIONS I CONSIDERED (AND REJECTED)
- 👹 She was summoning a demon. (Plausible based on tone and volume.)
- 🧪 Social experiment? (Sir, end it.)
- 🎤 She thought “spitting bars” was literal. (Creative, still no.)
- 🧠 Psychological warfare? (Effective.)
Whatever her reason, her delivery was flawless. Traumatizing. Confident. Zero hesitation.
📚 LESSONS LEARNED
- Don’t trust calm Tuesday commutes. That’s bait.
- Carry hand sanitizer. And pepper spray. Maybe a sage stick.
- The Metro is improv theater. The rules change with every transfer.
- If someone stares at you, clears their throat, and spits…
👉 You’re now part of the performance.
📜 UNSPOKEN RULE OF THE METRO #39
“Thou shalt not hawk loogies on the floor of the Silver Line.
Not for drama. Not for Tasha. Not for anyone.”
🙃 FINAL THOUGHTS
Public transit is beautiful. It’s chaotic. It’s humanity with doors that sometimes close. But let’s agree on one thing:
👉 Don’t bring spit to a shared space.
Until next time on Metro Confessions, where:
- The trains are late,
- The eye contact is accidental,
- And basic hygiene is somehow controversial.
🚇 Mind the gap.
🖐 Hold the pole.
💦 Keep your fluids to yourself.
