Stinker
Erin Douglass
One morning several weeks ago, a woman with fluffy blond hair boarded the bus at Fairfax and lowered herself onto the seat before me.
I should have smelled her coming.
Wave after wave of cheap perfume rolled off her clothes, her arms, heck, probably her lunch, into my sleepy, unprepared nose.
Stifling the urge to shout "Phew!" I gasped for air.
Now I'm no nasal rookie. I like scents of all kinds. Citrus sprays. Musky oils. Dryer sheets. I even liked patchouli after graduating from college.
But this odor was different. Crawling up my nose, the smell was cloying, powdery, undefinable. My head swam. I tried to dissect the perfume's components. Hyacinth? No. Lilac? Don't think so. Soft Scrub? Maybe.
Just when I thought I'd black out, the woman suddenly, inexplicably, stood and moved to the front.
Sighing with relief, I fanned myself with a magazine and felt oddly grateful for the fresh L.A. air.
About eight stops later, another woman, this one shorter and with a graying bob, sat down in the same seat, directly in front of me.
The blasts of perfume were even worse.
What is this? I thought, eyes watering. The stink spot?
Unfortunately, the woman didn't switch seats. Instead, she crossed her legs, sat back and looked around like she was on a StarLine tour.
Resigned to my smelly morning, I took shallow breaths and prayed for speed.
Several days later, I boarded the evening, westbound bus and beheld a surprising sight.
Where countless faces usually sit, staring back from seat after seat, there were vacant rows. Baffled, I peered toward the back. About seven people sat scattered about. Other than one fellow in the front, the bus was empty.
Delighted, I plunked down in a seat two rows behind the sole front sitter and pulled out my magazine.
It took 10, maybe 12 seconds for me to realize why I was the only one up front with this guy.
He stank.
This man emitted a gourmet blend of old shoes, sweaty armpits and unwashed hair — complete with top notes of cheese and pee.
It was overpowering. And yet I didn't move. I can stick this out, I thought, eyes tearing slightly as we accelerated and a ripe, new wave wafted by.
The bus slowed to a stop. A girl with a ponytail and sweatshirt jumped on and slid into the row beside me.
After five seconds, she stood up. "It stinks," she muttered and moved to the back.
The bus slowed again. A man in a suit got on and sat down in front of me. For a moment, I thought he was going to stay put. One stop and a rank blast later, he stood up and moved across the aisle. Not sure that helped much, but he didn't move again.
Then a high school girl in a baseball shirt climbed on board and sat in the ill-fated row behind the man.
She won't last, I thought.
Her butt hadn't hit the seat when, nose wrinkled like a pug, she moved to the back.
I peered over my shoulder. Riders left and right pressed hands or stretched shirts over noses. You would have thought there'd been another SARS scare.
The bus slowed again. A teenaged boy with buzzed hair flopped down in The Hot Seat. With impressive resolve — or maybe just a head cold — he lasted the four stops to his destination.
Through all this coming and going, the man sat quietly, staring straight ahead. He appeared homeless, but didn't have the usual passel of bags and sacks. Breathing through my mouth, I wondered where he was headed.
The bus lurched to a stop. A girl wearing a shirt that said, "I'm perfect, you just don't realize it" sat down across from him. Soon her head was turned to the window, fist delicately blocking one nostril. But she didn't move.
Another young woman boarded. She sat the closest yet to the smelly guy — on the front bench perpendicular to his row. I watched and waited. This lovely woman, who looked like an Aztec goddess with her long, sharp nose, didn't budge. Or even flinch.
I'm not sure if she realized it, but it was a gesture of kindness.
Many stops later, I glanced behind me again. Almost everyone was gone. The Aztec goddess had since departed. So had Miss Perfect. Tempted by the sudden availability of back row seats — and frankly tired of the unrelenting smell — I gathered my things and moved to the rear.
It didn't help.
What was worse, the one remaining passenger suddenly stood up, gave me a chilly look and walked to the front. After asking the driver a question, she sat down as close to the stinky guy as she could without being in his lap.
She caught his eye and smiled.
And I, now alone in the back, felt shallow and weak for moving.