Subway Farts

The New York City subway system is one giant centrifuge.  It strips away all the bull shit and leaves you at your most human.  My most human moments occur in the subway, like when I’m up to my neck in stranger wondering who is touching me and not really caring that it’s happening - a sentiment I’m sure isn’t shared by fellow women riders.  But it is what it is.  We’re all stuck on this metal tube snaking underneath the city; better make the best of it.

Usually I’m totally ok with all of it.  This morning however, I reached a new point.  I followed my usual protocol for mornings; I stood along the back doors, halfway leaning on the hand rails and door.  Everything was going along swimmingly until somewhere between Grand Central and 14^th street my olfactory nerves were suddenly under siege like the French in WW2.  I was under enemy fire from a familiar foe: a fart.

Now I understand the attractiveness in letting one rip on the subway.  I can’t act holier-than-thou since I, in acts of a desperate man, have had to let one rip indiscriminately.  There is something, however, to be said to letting something out of your body that you know will stink.  Some will say “you don’t know that a fart is or isn’t going to smell”, but we know that’s a lie.  Sometimes you feel that pit in your stomach and a familiar grumble.  Sometimes you know when the fart is on the tip of your butthole much like words on the tip of your tongue.  It lingers there, momentarily and you wonder “what have I eaten that led to this?”

Now I don’t know the solution.  Sometimes you just can’t hold it in no matter how hard you try.  Should we institute a warning system despite how embarrassing that might be?  Should people raise their hand and say “I’m sorry but I can no longer hold it in!”  I’m not really sure but for now, I’ll just bury my nose in my scarf and give you the stink eye for giving me the stink nose.