Betty J. Cotter: A Nip Here, A Nip There, Everywhere A Nip

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The following excellent essay on litter in our community was originally published in the Providence Journal and is reprinted here with the permission of the author, Betty J. Cotter. Betty J. Cotter is a monthly contributor to the Providence Journal, teaches writing at the University of Rhode Island and English at Three Rivers Community College in Norwich, Connecticut.

When you walk the roads of rural Southern Rhode Island, you are never far from the drinking habits of its residents.

You might find, for example, the aperitifs of those inclined to a delicate sip now and then. We refer to the “nip,” as it is colloquially called.

The nip comes in many flavors and brands: Smirnoff vodka, Jagermeister liqueur, Fireball cinnamon whiskey. Packaged in a wee little bottle, it’s a shot of booze for a few bucks. Easy to buy (on the counter of our local liquor store), easy to hide and easy to dispose of when you’re done.

On a raw but sunny afternoon, we set off from the homestead armed with a garbage bag and a grabbing tool. It wasn’t much of a walk because we had to stop every few steps while one of us (me) operated the pincers and the other (my husband) held open the garbage bag.

And what riches we found. Beer cans: Coors Light, Budweiser and Narragansett the preferred brands among the cost-conscious. Beer bottles: Heineken for those special occasions. Soft drinks: McDonald’s cups, Coke cans. Coffee cups: Cumberland Farms, Dunkin’ Donuts (although not as many of these as we expected).

Mostly, we found nips. Dozens and dozens of nips. Nips tossed to the roadside. Nips in the underbrush. Nips alone; nips with a friend (Red Bull being the accompaniment of choice).

Most of the trash was just beyond a driveway or house, as the perpetrators clearly see a moral relativity here: best not to sully someone’s lawn, but the woods next door is fair game.

As we walked, we tried to profile the guilty. Young, because they don’t want Mom or Dad finding a nip bottle in the console? A little older but never schooled in environmentalism? Alcoholics hiding the evidence even from themselves?

One thing’s for sure: They must have pristine vehicles. Truck cabs unsullied by the morning’s empty coffee cup, or the potato chip wrapper from lunch. Sedans whose floor mats gleam and seat covers sparkle.

To get to a place mentally where you can throw a bottle out the window, you must live in a very small world. One in which the inside of your car or truck is all that matters, and the roads you cut through to get from one place to another do not.

Our neck of the woods is beautiful. Roads wind in and out, across rivers, by ponds, past historic mills and churches. People come here to take pictures in the fall. They walk and bike through, and not because they are interested in the sociology of someone else’s trash.

As we headed for home, sweeping the other side of the road, we turned our attention to the source of most of this garbage. A business in our own neighborhood where you can buy nips on the counter. They might as well just dump them down the road, saving the middle man.

Since 1990, the state has required every seller of food and beverages to buy a litter control participation permit as part of their state tax license. But the cost is negligible: $100 for a store doing between $400,000 and $1 million a year in business.

The idea was that businesses would warn their customers not to litter. Clearly, that has not happened.

The litter tax, and a per-case beverage tax paid by vendors, generates $2.5 million a year – all of which goes into the general fund. The state does fund litter patrols, but they concentrate on main roads.

Which leaves the real mess in our rural communities for the residents to deal with, one winter walk at a time.

Betty J. Cotter