It’s a Friday night. It’s raining. There’s a “smoke condition” in one of the East River tunnels (Honestly, there are so many smoke conditions in those tunnels, it would make more sense for them to announce when there’s NOT a smoke condition). So naturally the train is going to have a track change and be two cars short.
Someone needs to explain this to me. Does the rain wash away two cars somehow? Are shorter trains more aerodynamic and more suitable for wet weather use? Why two cars? Why is a train never just one car short?
Anyway, I’m stuck standing a in a vestibule which is quickly filling with lots of people. In front of me is a man of either a middle eastern or African origin, talking quite loudly on his phone in a foreign language, laughing every 20 seconds or so in a boisterous, raspy laugh. Fine. I have headphones. I’ve dealt with worse. Much worse.
We hadn’t even left Penn Station when this guy proceeds to open a plastic shopping bag and produce a plastic take-out container, which has clearly been sitting in a fridge due to the condensation under the lid and the fact that there was no steam coming off the thing. He opens the lid. Holy. Fucking. Shit. This is one of the worst things I’ve ever smelled. My initial reaction was that it must have been curried dog asshole. It had to be. What else can smell that bad? It was a brownish-gray meat of unknown origin with rice, that was coagulated together in thick, cold chunks. And this guy was shoveling it down like it was his last goddamn meal.
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| For the uninitiated, the LIRR does not have a dinner car. |
Not too many scents make me feel nauseous instantaneously. Bad fart in a confined space? Gross. Dog poop on a hot day? Pretty rough. This food? Nasal Armageddon. I couldn’t even breathe through my mouth because I could taste the smell. And this was cold. Imagine if this was heated up. The whole train would have been dead within a matter of minutes. If I wasn’t sardined into my spot, I would have left.
Thankfully the guy finished it quickly (it must have been delicious). He then proceeds to lift the bottom of his polo shirt up to his mouth to use as a napkin, all the while making odd kissy noises and lip-smacking sounds. And I can hear them OVER my music.
These sounds go on, and on, and on, and on. They don’t stop until he takes another phone call, in which he again laughs boisterously every few seconds, and talks at decibel levels that are higher than the music playing directly into my ears.
Finally, the phone call ends. And relative silence.
Smack, smack, smack. Again with the sounds! All the way until he got off at his station, two stops before the end of the line.
I don’t know what I did to deserve this punishment, but I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. Honest.
