Last night the foot traffic, lights, and fellow New Yorkers were all on my side allowing me to get to Penn Station in time to catch the early train, which I usually miss by about a minute. This train is often more packed than my normal train, but a seat is findable with very little effort.
I slid into the car and noticed an empty place in the center of a three-seat. I said the obligatory, "Excuse me," to the guy on the end while pointing to the middle seat - the standard commuter sign language. He harumphed a bit, but got up to let me in.
The first thing I noticed as I settled in was the thick cloud of pot smoke pulsing from the guy next to the window, now sitting on my left. It was excessive and I could tell that I was in for a contact high just from sitting next to him. I could practically see it emanating off his skin, bringing the image of Pigpen from Charlie Brown to mind, only instead of dirt it was pot smoke.
I turned my face away from the pot fog only to be assaulted by an odor coming from the other side of me. I tried to mask my reflexive gag with a yawn but I'm not sure I was successful. I didn't want to make him feel bad, but the guy on my right was in dire need of a shower. Or deodorant. Or both.
So there I was, stuck between Pot Guy and Stinky and trying to figure out a way to ride home in peace without upsetting either of them. I mean, Pot Guy probably knew that he carried with him the fog of his activities, but he was way too stoned to care. And I don't know what Stinky's story is - perhaps he has a condition, or is in a situation that doesn't allow him to bathe on the regular - but I didn't want to make him feel "less than" just because his aroma was nauseating.
But I also had to do something to protect myself from these olfactory assaults.
Thinking quickly I decided that I should dive into my book and assume a pose not unlike "The Thinker" only with one finger resting under my nose. This, I decided, would alleviate some of the burden my poor nose was now under.
It worked to a point, but it was the best I could come up with.
Had this been my only issue with my fellow seat dwellers it would have been a fairly simple ride from there.
But, no. This is me we're talking about after all.
To set the scene a little more I should tell you that I was wearing a cute denim skirt that I love. The hem lands just above my knee and there are slits in the sides measuring about three inches. When I sit the hem hits me at about mid-thigh. Sitting in this three-seat we were not squished or pressed against each other, but our legs did touch gently. We were about as comfortable as three people can be in a three-seat on New Jersey Transit.
As I was sitting there mimicking the dude above, I suddenly felt a tickle on my leg. I thought the hem of my skirt was moving and causing the sensation so I reached down and moved it a bit, quickly resuming my pose. The smells were combining and making me ill.
Then it happened again, only this time I could feel Stinky's pinky finger slowly sliding up and under my skirt.
I looked at him and said, "Don't do that." He had the nerve to look confused. My statement also caused Pot Guy to make a strange gurgling sound.
We all resumed our poses, Pot Guy curled up against the window, me "Thinking," and Stinky looking confused.
I dove right back into my book.
Several minutes go by and I suddenly feel a hand on my knee. My bare knee, mind you, because of said skirt. He must have been very stealthy, or my book was just that good, because not only was his hand on my knee but his thumb was making little circling movements as though we were lovers, and may have been resting there for a while.
"Take your hand off me," I said, though quietly, while simultaneously trying to hold my breath. I was still attempting to be polite, you see. This caused Pot Guy to catch a case of the Pot Giggles.
It took all of my self-control not to burst out laughing right along with him, but I knew that Stinky would take it the wrong way if I did.
We all resumed our poses as the giggles trailed off.
My book beckoned yet again and I dove right in.
When Stinky started in with the pinky again I snapped my head at him and said, "Really?" immediately regretting that decision as the assault of scent hit me, which made Pot Guy nearly burst. His face turned beat red as he tried to stifle the laughter, curling deeper into as much of a fetal position that NJT seats would allow, all of which resulted in him snorting and popping as he tried to hold it all in.
Unable to stifle my own giggles this time I said to him under my breath, "Look, I know you're all kinds of stoned, but try to keep it together!"
His response was to press himself up against the window and say, "Hoooooooo (deep breath) hoooooooo (deep breath) hoooooooo!" in an oddly high voice as he tried to calm down.
I'm not sure whether it was the contact high or just the absurdity of the situation, but I caught his giggles. The two of us sitting there, trying to stifle our laughter and, at the same time, trying not to breathe must have been a sight. Several other passengers were catching the pot giggles as well.
Relief flooded through me as I noticed that my stop was fast approaching. Before I could ask Stinky to allow my exit, however, I felt a hand on my thigh yet again! Only this time it was on my inner thigh and moving north.
I had had it.
"Take your goddamned hand offmythigh!!!" I said quite loudly. He had the audacity to look shocked. Pot Guy was now screaming with laughter. Our fellow passengers were a combination of giggles and outrage (though I couldn't tell if their outrage was directed at me for being loud or at him for putting his hands on me).
"I'm getting off," I told Stinky, who begrudgingly stood up (I'm usually much more polite than that). He managed to place himself in a position next to the seat that, were I to slide out I would have had to press myself against him. I just looked at him blankly.
Finally the guy across the aisle noticed my predicament and made Stinky move.
As Stinky slid back into his seat I heard him mumble, "Well, don't wear a skirt if you don't want..."
As though the fact gave him tacit permission to put his hands on me. As though my wearing a skirt was a sign that I wanted to be touched by a total stranger. My first instinct was to let him have it, as loudly as possible, but the tide was moving toward the door and a scene was no longer an option. I just left.
By the time I reached the fresh air of New Jersey my head was pounding. I had been clenching my jaw the entire ride as a result of the bouquet of scents I was ensconced in. I felt dirty as well: I could feel the pot fog sticking to my skin, feel Stinky's hand print lingering. I usually love getting the early train as it allows me more time to freshen up before going out. Not this time.
I cancelled my plans and exchanged them for a long soak in a hot bath. It took a lot of heat to remove the memory of those scents and that touch.
In my youth I had a lot of incidents with men putting their hands on me without my permission, some of them a little scary. One would think that now that I am a plus-sized woman, a BBW if you will, that this would have stopped, but no. Certain men still try to put their hands on me in random places, still whisper come-ons tinged with threats in my ear, still think that they have the right to my person just because I exist. Usually they back off as soon as I say something. This guy just feigned confusion that I would have any objections to his hand on my skin.
It pissed me off.
Plus, he was really stinky.
So, to the guys on the train sitting on either side of me ... you suck. Pot Guy, while you kept the situation entertaining, you were too stoned to come to my aid when a man put his hands on me. You were too stoned to care that your seatmate was in any kind of distress. And Stinky... first, you need to bathe AND use deodorant. If you do have a condition you need to make an extra effort. Seriously. And don't ever put your hands on another woman without her permission, you prick. Especially after she tells you not to. Even if I had been sitting there naked it wouldn't give you permission to touch me.
Sitting between you both was an olfactory nightmare and a decidedly uncomfortable situation. Neither of you should be out in public, let alone stuffed into a metal tube with a thousand other people.
Both of you, you need to get your shit together.
