Sir smells of Camelot

Friday morning train rides into the city are by far the best. Ppl start slacking off a little... Some work from home or even take a long weekend. I have high hopes this morning that my ride might JUST be... Normal. :)
I stand corrected. Sir smells of Camelot just sat down beside me. I can't place his sent that's seeping from every pore, but I can only best describe it as gasoline mixed with bengay thrown into a first grade classroom with stale play dough on the walls.
To make matters worse, sir smells of Camelot can also be called elbows McGee! From what I can tell, his left elbow is neatly tucked to his side while his right elbow (he's reading the paper) is moving in circular motions at a 90 angle from his side. This ofcourse would be his operating arm. So far, I have been nailed by said news paper operating arm in the, the shoulder and yes... My left lady... Which to add is always awkward....
Oh but wait, yes! We have a triple threat! Elbows McGee/ seat back body slammer/ sir smells of Camelot has just moved up to number one in my book... For he is now sleeping, jolting, head bobbing and twitching while ever to slowly falling in my direction. Seat piping had been crossed, personal space... Violated.

Looooooove desire....

Despite sitting next to one of the sharpest dressed older men I have seen in a long time, tonight's adventure didn't wait long to come out and play. Within five minutes of sitting down next to me, Mr. Brown derby man was dead asleep. Hat over his eyes, leaned up against the window, I could only assume that he too had once married the MTA. I was hopeful. He dressed well, didn't smell, had a nice watch, looked clean....

CLICK, click, click... clickclickclickclick... "TICKETS"!!!!!

Mr. friendly train conductor man BUSTS through the car door yelling "tickets" to wake everyone up. Needless to say, Mr. Brown Derby man woke up... but he didn't just wake up.... he flew out of his seat as if someone had just shot off a gun! I really have to remember to thank Mr. Friendly conductor man for yelling, because if he hadn't... oh this next part wouldn't have happened.

PLEASE NOTE: If you are uncomfortable in your tiny seat on the train... PLEASE don't readjust yourself by slamming your body into the seat-back...  We, for the next 45 to 60 minutes are attached and share a common resting place for our behinds. The seat piping, though magical, will not lessen the jolt I (your seatmate) receive from your repeat attempts at comfort. It is, after all, a plastic covered, nonadjustable, bench in which we willingly signed up to sit in for a period of time. ALSO, if you are still not comfortable by your 20th body slamming attempt for comfort... get up. it's not going to get any better.

Once Mr. Brown Derby hat finally realized this fact... he began to clap. Yep. He clapped his way from New Rochell alllllll the way to Stamford. Guess what folks... it didn't end there. I started to get a little worried when he began pointing to the invisible man while saying... you dah man, fist pumped and then flashed the thumbs up, to the back of the seat. AFTER taking out his freshly wrapped  cigar and running it under his nose... the singing began. Yes, I caught this on video, yes I finally stood up due to the pounding in my head, yes I'm happy tomorrow is Friday. Brought on from his seat thumping, hand clapping, LOVE DESIRE mmm mmm mmmm-ing, I now have a headache. Enjoy!

Socked in the eye by news paper guy

I totally understand wanting something to do or read in the morning to pass the time on the train. Playing a game on your BB, checking email on your new ipad, reading a book or a magazine... But there should be a rule about reading the new York times on the train. The seats are only so big... If you took a paper and opened it edge to edge... It would cover both your seat and mine. JUST because your paper CAN open and unfold to such a ridiculous size, doesn't mean it should.

Needless to say, fog horn long arms over here didn't get that memo. Such injuries to other passengers can easily be avoided by folding the paper back on itself. Thus reading one section at a time. By doing so.... Your arms and hands will remain close to your body... Elbows TUCKED... And away from my eye socket.

Four cars... what??

So tonight's adventure took me allllllll the way to the front of the train in the bowels of Grand Central Terminal. It's never a good sign when you see "track 106" flashing on the monitor. Flashing, I have come to learn, is the MTA's little way of saying, HEY heads up... you might have a track change. Never fun. 

As I walked to my train, I thought about the blog I had been told to start. I thought to myself, maybe I'm being overly dramatic... maybe it hasn't been all that bad...  THEN I reach my train and realize... there are only four cars tonight. So I hop on in the last possible car and look for that kind of overweight slightly stinky commuter with their bags all over the middle seat. No one ever sits in the middle seat next to a big greasy dude with no sense of personal space. Two minutes before the train doors shut, 30 plus people rush on because well... there were only four cars! Apparently, the only other people willing to sit next to big greasy dudes of the train... are other big greasy dudes. Squashed in the aisle seat next to big dude hanging all over my side of the seat piping, I pulled out my phone and started to play bubble popper. 

Knees up on the seat in front of me, half way through the ride home, I noticed people kind of looking around with a stink face. Just when I thought big dude, plus even biger big dude was as bad as it was going to get, I was blind sided by "the smell". EVERYONE smelled it... NO ONE knew what it was. It was bad, it came in waves and it came from all over. About five minutes after my first encounter, I noticed "we'll call him skipper" jump up and B line straight for the bathroom. When someone willingly uses the train bathroom... you know it's bad. By his third marathon to the Jon... well, I'll let you put two and two together. My fellow commuters and I positively identified "the smell".

Soooo I thought I was in the clear when "skipper" didn't come back from the bathroom... that's when I was hit with my parting gift from Metro North for the night.... Big Greasy Fat Dude's NOSE BREATH all up on my hair. Something's not right when a ones nose breath creates the same "hair blowing in the wind" effect as a New York tornado in September.

Until tomorrow....

Nose breath...

Four years... It's been four years, nearly 1040 days... 2080 hours... 124,800 minutes since I willingly moved out of the city... and married... The Metro North Railroad. After day in and day out of encountering the most bizarre, the most unthinkable interactions a single person could have in an entire lifetime, I decided to start... my blog.

Each morning and each night I step foot on good old Metro North and wait... without fail, for my "movie" to begin. Sometimes it's a comedy, some days its a horror, and then there are those days when I feel like I'm in the Twilight Zone. 

If nothing else, this will be my little place to document everything I see (note worthy, of course), experience, and smell. So I hope you join me,  as I question my own sanity and post about humans at their best, on my daily commute to the city and back.

Happy trails! or should I say... tracks...