Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 39
I wish I had the shamelessness of a five-year-old. (Note that I said shamelessness, not maturity. I’m super mature – shut up!)

It’s no secret that certain odors cause uncontrollable giggles to rumble through my body (sometimes forcing unintended liquid to spurt from my nose).

(Am I overdoing the parentheses?)

But sometimes said odors do not inspire laughter. Sometimes they cause my eyes to fill with stinging, acidic tears. Sometimes the odors make my throat constrict, blocking my shallow breaths from reaching my pleading, desperate lungs. Sometimes they trigger my gag reflex and I feel the scalding burn of stomach acid at the back of my throat.

Let’s just say I wasn’t in giggle mode a few days ago.

I was, however, on the Metro, which may explain the problem. After 10 minutes on the train, I noticed a faint, sour odor. I mistakenly inhaled.

It was a fart.

A smelly, sticky, lethal fart. (Does toot work better for you? Sorry, this stinker was definitely a fart.)

The evil smell began to burgeon throughout the enclosed metro car, creeping up my nostrils and causing pools of sweat to puddle at my temples. In a matter of seconds I was enveloped in the gaseous cloud of death and began hallucinating as one does right before “the end.” Instead of seeing my life flash before my eyes, I was assaulted by swirling images of outhouses, rotten eggs, sewers and poop, all set to the soundtrack of rumbling rear noise.

I began wobbling back and forth as I fought unconsciousness. Somewhere through the thick cloud of stink a tiny garbled voice mumbled, “Doors are closing. Please move to the center of the car.”

I stumbled through the crowd and desperately flung my body toward the exit. Once in the station, I doubled over, gasping for air as the thick cloud slowly dissipated. I stumbled to the first escalator and rode until my legs regained their strength.

With my head cleared, I was suddenly enraged. Not only enraged, I was LIVID! I wanted to stomp back on board, channel my inner shameless five-year-old and call out the culprit. I wanted to point and scream, “YOU did it! YOU FARTED! You are SO GROSS!”

Then the remembrance of the smell overwhelmed my thoughts and I nearly tumbled down a 50-foot escalator. I quickly regained my footing and ran toward the clean fresh air, two stairs at a time.

Maybe next time I’ll just eat beans in advance and hope someone gets their dues.

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