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.

Enemies of the State - Subway Edition

It’s been awhile since I’ve run through a current list of “Enemies of the State.”  As an informal reintroduction, let’s so a special “Enemies of the State” about something that makes NYC, NYC: the subway. 

Accordingly to internet sources procured through only the most intense research, 1.1 million miserable bastards use the NYC subways on any given day.  1.1 million Dolts are sharing the same experience daily.  All of them strangers, some going to the same stop - maybe even to end up at the same destination, others not so much.  Some of these strangers you might never see again, others you might see frequently.  Some might even die by the end of the day and you’ll never be the wiser; which is to say, yea, the subway is sort of a big deal.  It is the life force of the city – the common enemy we all despise but rely on.

Enemies of the State:

1)      Old Ladies - Stop judging me you old hag.  I was on the train before you so therefore have a right to sit here cramped between the nervous looking girl and construction worker.  I understand you’re no spring chicken but through various sporting activities and life in general, neither am I.  Stop looking at me with those eyes – half judgmental, half hungry.  I’m not budging.  I’m not getting up and letting you sit down.  Judging by your “Sketchers Fit” shoes, maybe you shouldn’t even mind standing up for a bit.  It’s good for your glutes you know.

2)      Pan Handlers – as Terrence Howard once sang, it’s hard out here for a pimp.  I don’t begrudge you trying to make your nut by any means necessary.  I do begrudge however two specific pan handlers: the Central American performs and the seemingly Gypsy types with the accordion and lady usually carrying a baby.

Maybe it’s paranoia but the Central American performs make me increasingly self-conscious.  All of a sudden I am VERY well aware that besides them, I’m the only other Hispanic on the train.  I can feel the stares from other passengers - the stares that seem to say “you’re going to give them money for playing YOUR music right?”  The worst part is that I actually enjoy the music.  Who hates mariachis? Certainly not this jaded bastard.  It takes every ounce of strength not to yelp out an “AYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYE” in accordance with all Mariachi music.

The Gypsy types are a fairly recently development in NYC subways.  It’s always a family of indeterminate ethnicity.  There’s a dad playing an accordion in ill-fitting Euro trash clothing and a Kangol, a mom in an unfortunately short shirt unveiling her bread grown stomach, and a baby.  Sometimes there’s also a small child of about 2 or 3 holding the mother’s hand.  Now, the accordion is obviously the greatest instrument ever but this act is always wrist-slashingly depressing.  The dad plays some ethnic song on the accordion while the mom – holding the baby – walks around with a baseball hat collecting any tips.  In one case, the mom was actually BREAT FEEDING the baby as she was collecting.  I’m here to tell you that something evil happens inside a man when you’re simultaneously hoping a nipple makes an appearance, grossed out, and incredibly sad in the same moment.

3)      Close Talkers – during rush hours, the trains aren’t the best places for those that value their personal space.  You’re never really sure whose hand is touching what or why.  You just accept the situation for what it is and go to your happy place.  Unfortunately, there are those that decide it would be a great time to start a conversation on how closely packed everyone is.  We are extremely tight; please don’t try to engage me.  I can LITERALLY see the piece of meat in your molar from last night’s dinner good sir.  Please don’t talk to me for I fear that you might actually bite my nose off.   Good Day.  I SAID Good Day!