So both the people who come around here regularly will probably recall a time or two when I’ve complained about the smell of other people on the train.
I know I can’t forget… Back in May, there was the Man Sweater. If I close my eyes real tight and think of rotten swamp rats dunked in sewage, the memory of his smell comes back to me.
Then there was Cigarette Water Bucket lady, that wonderful woman who smelled like she bathed in a putrid mix of spitoon residuals soaked in bong water.
And now I’d bet my best Bruce Campbell action figure that someone out there in Portland is still haunted by the memory of that sweaty, stinky dude they shared the train with last night: me.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m quite proud of some of the smells I can create. For instance, my ability to clear a room after a hearty Grande Soft Taco and Bean Burrito (minus onions) is unmatched. And long after I’m dead, minstrels will be singing about my Dr. Pepper belching prowess.
But the sweaty stankiness from yesterday? Even I was upset by that.
See, as I’ve mentioned before (and as my fellow mass-transportin’ PDXers know all too well), the Steel Bridge is closed to non-pedestrian/bike traffic for the next few weeks. Unfortunately, that’s the same bridge my train takes to cross the Willamette River into downtown Portland every morning, so Our Hero has to jump off at the Rose Garden arena and hot-foot it about 1.5-2 miles to the office.
In the morning, it ain’t that bad. I get to the office a little later than I normally would and I work up enough of a sweat that I don’t feel like a total douchbag loser for not having biked in.
But in the afternoon? When it’s 850 degrees outside (rounding up, of course)? Carrying a backpack? And I’m all tucked in, wearing clothes that manage to trap more hot air than something that’s, um, really, really fucking good as trapping hot air?
So last night, I head out the door of the office and, as expected, it’s hotter than… fuck it, I suck at analogies. It’s hot, OK? Fucking hot.
And there’s pretty much zero shade from Point A to Point B, and the concrete walls, streets, and sidewalks are reflecting all that heat back at Our Hero from every angle.
So I sweat. A lot.
By the time I got to the train, I’m pretty sure I lost about 87 pounds of water weight thanks to my half-hour mid-summer power walk. Unfortunately for the fellow MAX riders, I also got to the stop about 17 seconds before train did, meaning I didn’t have any time to cool off before hoping on to the train.
To make matters worse, that train was standing-room only, so I had to hold on to the rail above my head to keep my balance.
So I stood there for the thirty minute ride, sweating like a fat man on a treadmill (hey, that one worked!) with my arm pit projecting my stank into the faces of the two poor gay dudes sitting on the bench seat to my left. Poor bastards.
If either of those guys, or anybody else from that ride, is reading this, I’m soooooo sorry. I really do shower at least once a day, and I typically smell more like a very manly meadow of wildflowers than Prince Fielder’s used jockstrap after a doubleheader. It won’t happen again.
