The Scent of the U-Bahn

It creeps, tiny putrid tendrils, wrapping tentacles around corners, reaching up, cloying into crevices of your nose.

Is it you?

You can never be sure really.

The man down the way on the U-Bahn - yes, surely it’s him, he looks like he could use a shower.

It smells sweet and sick: dead flowers, harsh cheerleaders who haven’t been told - rah rah, rah, yes, you.

He leaves - olfactory peace.

And then it starts again, just the tiniest glimmer, lurking around the validation machine conveniently ignored.

It blossoms, like death camp spring, sharp green notes accenting decay.

A quick stretch to warm the muscles is a furtive sniff: armpit, mine, do you smell? Is it me?

All’s well, all’s chemical, all’s good - the good ol’ fashioned sanctity of American deodorant.

Cut onions fill the air, no tears, no garlic, no pasta - cut onions, left fermenting, in a sweaty, hairy crevice.

By now the investigation is full swing - all are suspect. U-bahn denizens, temporary citizens all, held captive for questioning, under divisive suspicion.

And then it thickens: woolen, wet, wretched.

It has reached the peak, the ultimate, the unforgivable - the unmistakable! - the smell of mildew.

Human mildew - slimy armpits with their own ecosystem, a vibrant work camp, producing utter misery.

Your nose hairs tingle in defense, bristling together, attempting to form a shield. Breaths bate, held captive in the rib cage, shallow attempts to avoid intake, avoid contamination.

The bahn stops, whoosh, Einsteing bittuh, says the machine, and the crush of people exchanges places: seat, now platform, inside, now out.

It’s calm. The sort of calm where you can take a big, honkin’ greedy nose-full of air and savor it - holding it in, rol-ling it around.

Like fine wine, really - the smell of the empty U-bahn.

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