The C train never smells very good to me, but it’s usually tolerable. Not last night.
A man sitting alone in the corner of the train was laughing jovially as I got on, a poopy smell wafting through the car. It was sweet and pungent and disgusting. Definitely not just a fart.
“It wasn’t me,” the man said, chuckling to himself. He had a crutch by his side and it looked like he’d been sitting there for a long time. I couldn’t tell if he was enjoying the smell, but he seemed amused by its potency, which amused me.
Everyone else in the car stood far from the man, most with their backs turned at him.
“It wasn’t me,” he said again, laughing all the while.
I believed him. Even so, at the next stop I ran out — along with a bunch of other people — and got into another car.
It smelled like Indian food, and I felt better.