Have you ever...

...stepped into an elevator that smells like a TOOT? Then, as the doors close, you are nearly suffocated by the rancid air? You frantically stab the down button.

But the elevator stops on the fifth floor. A stranger enters and after the doors close, he sniffs. Loudly.

Twice!

Do you defend yourself? Do you smile and wink? Do you slyly inquire, "Allergy season?" Or do you both hold your breath and then bolt when the doors open again?


Image via flickr (That elevator sign has not been photoshopped: apparently "I Fart" is Dutch for "In Motion." Fitting, no?)

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Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 42
The weather has been unbearably cold. I don’t dare leave the house until I’m bundled up to my eyeballs, my arms jutting out from my sides (a la The Christmas Story). If I could tuck my skirt into a snowsuit without causing wrinkles, I would. I seriously would. It’s that cold.

Those (197) layers were my only defense last week.

It’s because I was attacked on the metro.

Before you completely freak out (mom), let’s start at the beginning of the story.

As we've already established, the morning was arctic and I left my house completely bundled, layered and mummified (and yet STILL freezing).

(Apparently in addition to fashion description, trauma, terror and the metro, this story is also fraught with multiple parenthetic asides. (Maybe even parenthetic asides inside parenthetic sentences inside parenthesis?)).

I made my way to the metro platform, boarded a train and sat next to a gentleman reading the paper. After peeling back the mitten part of my convertible fingerless gloves (an iPhone essential) and unwrapping my scarf from my face (for breathing purposes), I extracted a book from my Mary Poppins-esque bag and began to thaw.

All was fine for the first stop.

Then came the assault.

A puff of fetid air nailed my nostrils, which flared reflexively. It was immediately evident that I was not dealing with the usual stinky fart or obtrusive B.O. This wasn’t even the ever assailing vomit (although one whiff and I was ready to retaliate with my own regurgitated breakfast).

I tucked my head in my scarf and smelled the faint, yet relieving scent of my perfume.

The train whizzed along.

After a few seconds the air cleared and I sat up straight.

Immediately, another stunning puff of pungent, sour air blasted my nose. I couldn’t tuck my head away before the offender fired again.

Now I knew the source of the stench. He was sitting next to me, reading the paper. And (apparently) unbeknownst to him, his death-inducing breath was eeking from his clenched teeth. Every sigh, every exhale, every throat clear, every minute parting of his lips projected a cloud of stink.

My perfumey scarf was no match for his lack of dental hygiene. The hot air ricocheted off the newspaper and hit me squarely between the eyes. My stomach heaved and sloshed. His breath wrapped its tentacles around my neck and squeezed.

Just as I bowed my head to pray for an emergency train evacuation, he folded the paper, turned to face me and said, “Excuse me. This is my stop.”

I died. On the spot. I’m writing this postmortum.

But for the love of dental floss, can you please take a breath mint and pass one on? I would hate for others to suffer death by breath. It’s a stinky way to go.

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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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Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 33
Last night was a fairly uneventful commute home – no unwelcome serenades, no sleazy pick-up lines, no nudity (that I know of). But then, like Pepe le Peu’s steaming trail of “love,” I caught whiff of a nostril-searing scent. I could tell it was bad, but as is often the case with unpleasant smells, I needed confirmation. I inhaled deeply.

Suddenly a familiar sourness pooled at the back of my throat. My eyes welled with tears. I swallowed hard.

Do I really smell vomit?

My stomach turned in confirmation. I held my breath (and stomach) for the remainder of the ride.

-----

This morning an ice storm ruined my day. While I had the boss’ blessing to arrive two hours late, I nearly died on the hockey-rink sidewalks.

When I reached the metro station, my train was pleasantly un-crowded, allowing me to find a seat and settle in for the ride.

Out of nowhere another stomach-turning musty smell began to overwhelm my airspace. I immediately ceased nose breathing and parted my lips, narrowly avoiding nausea.

Just then I glanced toward the closing doors and noticed the station sign. It should have read, “Hey, idiot. This is your stop! Why are you still on the train?”

Did I really miss my stop?

-----

After a minor detour, I made it back to my original destination. As I was exiting the station, I passed within a foot of a pigeon statue.

The statue adjusted its feathers.

Did I really just see a pigeon inside the depths of the metro station?

Weirder things have happened, I guess.

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Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 19
One step and humidity’s suffocating arms cling tight around my body. My entry into the parking garage, deep in the bowels of the apartment building, is met with a tingling, burning sensation in my sinuses. In an instant I’m a snake charmer, seducing a serpent who weaves and slithers slowly, rhythmically through the dense air. I think of turning back, but I’ve already been stung by the hovering odor.

Moisture wells in my eyes and I’m keenly aware of the connection between my nose and stomach. This is not how I’d imagined it, not that I’d spent any time thinking of this before. Like many things the men in my life “just take care of,” I thought it sort of went away naturally with no impact on me. What’s more, I hadn’t imagined our over-priced, mega-hyped, “luxury” apartment building as this sort of place.

I’m just glad I didn’t actually see the rotting rat carcass emitting the stomach-turning fumes. And I’m thankful I didn’t forget where I parked.

Though the smell reached my nose for only a matter of seconds, my memory became permanently emblazoned with the stench. Fortunately, that particular memory was logged somewhere in the back closet of my mind until a few days ago as I entered the Metro station.

Everything felt and happened as it had before, but now I did not have the luxury of speeding away in my car. Each escalator brought me closer to the dead rodent. The gaseous fumes became more concentrated and intense.

Boarding the crowded train was a relief. I even found a seat; I began to breathe again.

Then my eyes discovered the vomit streaking down the side of the car near my leg.

The scent found my nose soon after.

Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 18
In the grand scheme of life, few things compare with the simple joy of a grilled cheese sandwich. The recipe isn’t complicated; there’s what, like four ingredients—at the most? Even if you’re trying to go all Emeril Lagasse Bam! (ie: gruyere cheese, tomatoes, Texas toast), the fact remains: anyone can make one. And cheese + bread + grilled = delicious.

During college one of my favorite pastimes was listening to my wonderfully boisterous friend recount stories about her autistic brother and his escapades. Even with tales of church guests and unanticipated nudity, an obsession with blue food (not blueberries, rather blue soda, blue ketchup, etc.) and Megaman toys from Japan, my all-time favorite involved—you guessed it—a grilled cheese sandwich.

As the story goes, my friend’s brother, like me, appreciated the tastiness of a grilled cheese sandwich from time to time, although technically, his might be called a microwave cheese sandwich. Essentially the sandwich construction was the same – two slices of bread, cheese (butter?). With all ingredients properly loaded into the micro, he’d set the time and return to his Nintendo game or Internet search while his meal cooked.

Here’s the thing — how long does a microwave cheese sandwich cook for anyway? One minute? Two? I’m guessing her brother did not consult a recipe before deciding to set the cook time for 30 minutes.

When the timer finally went off, said brother returned to the microwave to find his sandwich cooked down to a charbroiled pile of unrecognizable matter. I’m sure he was thinking, “Crap!” Apparently he was also thinking his sandwich had to get pretty hot to turn black and flaky. And there could be only one solution – insert burned microwave cheese sandwich up the refrigerator’s ice dispenser to cool it off.

End of story.

Well, almost end. The family would only discover the microwave-cheese-gone-bad instances when they tried to fill a glass with ice. Problem: when you live in Texas you need ice in every drink and charred sandwiches aren’t exactly flavorable additions to beverages.

Although I never actually witnessed the microwave chef-ery, I can imagine the smell. And the other day on the Metro, my mind instinctively identified a foreign smell and conjured up this story. Last time I checked, Metro trains were not equipped with microwaves OR ingredients for cheese sandwiches. And although you can smell food on the clothing of fellow Metro riders from time to time, I'm pretty sure this was not the source of the odor.

So I have a question: Is it natural for the train to smell of burnt grilled cheese sandwiches? Is this a campaign to reduce the number of people riding the Metro, because honestly, if I lived more than 8 stops away from the city, I don’t think I could have endured it. If that’s the case — kudos WMATA — your brilliant scheme is working.

Okay, that was two questions. But really, should a train, with its screeching rumblings down metal tracks, really emit this sort of odor? I guess I’ll wear my flame-retardant jacket tomorrow. Just in case.

Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 17
There’s a reason I buy a certain brand of perfume. And no, it’s not (just) because my fashion magazines labeled it a “hot scent” for September.

The truth is, finding a perfect fragrance is no easy task. If you’re a woman, it should be light, floral—but not too floral, musk-y—without smelling like musk, sophisticated—but not old-ladyish. You should be able to wear it near your face for extended periods of time without experiencing a headache, nausea or light-headedness. Oh, and the bottle should look cool. Easy enough, right?

I take a lot of time and care selecting my signature scent, starting at Sephora (or somewhere similar), I spray down paper tester wands and place them in my purse. When I find a lingering scent that makes me want to stick my head in my bag and keep it there, I return to the store and spray my wrists and neck (careful to avoid my clothes in case the paper tester trial deceptively convinced me the scent smelled good, when on my body, it closely resembles sour beaver musk). Eventually, after repeating both tests over and over, I find the perfect perfume.

It feels good to complete this process and I sometimes find myself dreaming of baths in the lovely new fragrance. But, remembering our last apartment’s elevators, which reeked of cologne and perfume hours after the offending socialites made their exits, I use discretion in my application. A few squirts and I’m ready for the day.

Many do not employ such discretion. It’s unfortunate and mildly annoying, but not usually something to write Congress about.

On the Metro, though, it’s a whole other story. This morning I found myself seated next to a middle-aged man reading the Washington Post. Pretty normal commuting circumstances, except for the fact that he STUNK—not of B.O., which is never pleasant, but of cheap cologne—the kind you purchase for $3.99 at the local 7-Eleven. Sitting at an angle, with his thigh extending into my part of the seat, I squished myself as far from him as possible. With his leg leaning against mine, I tried to concentrate on my book. And breathe through my nose. Neither strategy worked. In fact, the stink hovered like a cloud in the enclosed space and intensified as we creeped along.

By the time I reached my stop, my clothes reeked of his sickening scent. I thought walking the two blocks to my office would air things out, but no. I still stunk. For the rest of the day. And became a little nauseous.

I can think of only one solution:

Dear Men and Women of the United States Congress:

In the spirit of the freedom that makes America great, I encourage you to pass legislation prohibiting the use of stinky, cheap cologne in public places.

The right to peaceably enjoy a subway, elevator or cab ride is important, nay fundamental, and perfectly alligned with the vision of our forefathers for this country. Our nation’s future cannot be certain unless the aforementioned legislation is quickly produced and enacted.

With great anticipation of a stink-free America,

A Concerned Frequenter of Public Places

Misadventures on the Metro

chapter 1

Aahh, public transit is a wonderful modern marvel, especially in a city with horrific traffic. But some days, doubtful thoughts creep into my mind and I wonder if it's really worth it.

Recently I was traveling to work by way of a crowded metro train, balancing next to what could be a stripper pole, my head buried in a thick novel. We arrived at a stop and a crowd of people rushed into the already full car. Just as the doors were about to close, a man with a robust belly squeezed his way inside, pinning me between the glass and his protruding gut. I was facing forward and he was facing me, breathing down my neck. Luckily I had my book for distraction; it was a very awkward ride to work.

Just last night as I headed home after a long day on Capitol Hill, I found myself once again standing on the metro train, though the cars were not overly packed. I was lost in my book when a group of commuters boarded the train, including a 40-something man in a light blue dress shirt. He stood mid-car, hands grasping the railings overhead. As the doors closed his pungent odor hit me like a ton of bricks. I tried to breathe through my mouth, but I seemed to have momentarily forgotten how. My eyes started to water and I was consigned to taking as few breaths as possible. Trying not to empty the contents of my stomach, I prayed he would at least put his arms down. He didn’t.