Where's That Smell Coming From?

As a native New Yorker, I have built up a significant tolerance to foul smells. 

While visitors and the uninitiated walk through the streets of Chinatown and Midtown pinching their noses, I suck in the "freshness" of the New York air without much pause.  But even I have a low tolerance for scat odors.  I mean, this is one of the most sophisticated cities in the world.  Why do I need to smell anyone else's poo?  Especially in public.

Well, no matter how much I think it should happen, people do crap the subway car from time to time...or at least their pants while in the subway.  It tends to be homeless and/or people who are severely mentally ill.

If a subway rider (or sleeper) has soiled himself publicly (it's usually a he), in the afternoon when there is no rush-hour congestion in the subway, most olfactory-enabled riders simply move to another car and it's all goodish.  But when this kind of offense occurs during rush hour, people are forced to just sit or stand there and deal with it.  Ooh.  That can be hard to do.

The other day, I was in this unfortunate circumstance.  It was 8:15 AM and the subway was packed.  I was lucky to find a sliver of space to squeeze into on the 8:15 train and wasn't about to let some poo make me late for work. 

The smell hit me right smack in the face, almost dividing my nose directly down the middle - it was that awful.  Of course I did my due diligence and scoffed and hissed aloud, looking around at my neighbors with a combination of disdain for their potential participation in the offensive odor, sympathy for their co-suffering at the hands of the maniac who made this stink, and horror to make it clear I was not involved in the smell.

I had only made it about seven inches through the door when I entered the subway on 96th Street.  As I stood, squished between an uncountable mass of coat-wearing, brief-case holding 9-to-5ers, I decided that I had to move across the subway car somehow, to further investigate where this smell was coming from and possibly see if the air were a few whiffs lighter on the other side of the car.

I managed to find a 1-foot clearing where I could actually stand upright and find a piece of poll to wrap a finger or two around.  Bliss.

Unfortunately, when I stood upright, I actually found myself in an even more pungent whiffing spot. Lucky me.  Life in New York just doesn't get better.

Anyway, by this time, the subway had pulled into the 86th Street station where a few passengers exited and a few got on - one of whom was a middle-aged lawyerly-looking matron who found herself at my side just as she seemed to notice the odor that was already such a significant part of everyone else's day.

Our eyes met as her accusing stare rested upon my face.  In my periphery I saw her raised nose pointing at my head as she casually walked back to the door she had entered through.

What a bitch.