This morning was one of those where the 6 train is running behind so much that the 77th St. platform is filled wall to gap with annoyed commuters not getting their $82/month worth. I usually hate this. I hate being jostled, I hate watching 3 trains go by until there is finally one I can fit on, and I hate that everyone thinks they're so important and refuse to understand that everyone there is late and has somewhere they'd rather be.
Whatever, but today I was feeling pretty zen about the whole thing, so as a couple of trains came and went, I made my way to the south end of the platform so I could get the end car like I like to do. It was super crowded, but I ended up standing where the door would come right to me next to this really sexy boy with floppy, golden-brown hair and a nice shirt and cheekbones forever with kinda pale skin and he smelled great. Oh, and he was reading The Jungle, so that was pretty hot too.
Of course when the train came, everyone was pushing and arguing like this was the last train out before they nuclear bombed the Upper East Side, but I wasn't annoyed because I ended up near the opposite door like I like AND smooshed up against the sexy boy who didn't stop reading his book.
So I stood there enjoying the sight and smelling him and pretending he was mine because I'm creepy like that, and I thought to myself "This boy is perfect. This is exactly what my life should be like." I daydreamed some stories of love with him and enjoyed a euphoric patheticness.
But, alas, as they say: "The ripest apple is the soonest rotten; the warmest love is the soonest cold." It wasn't 2 minutes before my romantic reverie was shattered to seriously sharp and eye-gouging pieces.
It happened between 68th St. and 59th: the thing that subway travellers fear above all else. More than accidents, more than breakdowns, more than those fucking mariachi bands. It started out as a little tickle in my nose, but one second later my stomach heaved as my entire nervous system was seized by the most offensive effluvium ever emitted by man or beast. It was wretched. Somebody had farted.
The subway fart is an interesting phenomenon because everyone reacts to it the same way. It's so crowded that nobody knows where it came from. I've always called it the Ghost Fart. The Silent Boo Diddly, if you will.
As usual, I watched as people became aware of the offense and started pretending they didn't notice, all the whole sneaking looks around deciding on who they were going to blame. Nobody says anything, but you can tell. It's the person they glance askance at more than once. I don't usually get blamed, which is nice. It's because I'm tall and attractive and clean. The people who get the looks are usually ugly or dirty. So, a couple people chose a chubby guy with a bad combover toward the door opposite me. I, however, agreed with the man in the purple tie that the offender was an seedy-looking mid-50's guy with a fake tan and dyed black hair, the bastard.
The only person who didn't seem to react adversely to the onslaught was my sexy boy. Usually ignoring the ghost fart too intently implies guilt, but I know it wasn't him. He's the type who would have the decency to at least shuffle his feet uncomfortably if he had done it. No, I chalked up his non-reacting to his novel. I imagined him immersed in Sinclair's world of meat and carnage, catching a whiff, and thinking "This book is great, wow, I feel like I'm there!"
It took until after 51st St. for the air to fully return to normal, at which point I couldn't bring back the magical place I had reached with my sexy boy. At Grand Central, though, I had one last pleasurable moment when the conductor braked a tad too hard and the boy was thrust into me, his chiseled, marble pectoral pressing into my cushiony soft one, a dim reminder of the love I felt.
So it wasn't a total loss. I mean, it inspired my awesome Boo Diddly pun. And to quote another idiom: "It is better to have creepily lusted after someone for 2 minutes than never to have loved at all." I have my memories of subway attraction unrequited. He has his Sinclair and a happy obliviousness.
Having forever gone our separate ways, I guess there is just one thing we share and will always have: the essence of the slaughterhouse.
