Riding the Orange Line yesterday, a man jumps on at Back Bay station, and he's all in a tizzy. He throws his bag down on the ground, and starts assessing himself as though he's been shot. I think nothing of it: I myself have found the need to frantically search my person to insure that I am indeed of sound body. Usually after I've walked through Dudley Square or any place in Dorchester.
After this man, this very frazzled, very tanned, very middle aged, very grey haired man finds that he has no extra holes in his body, he pulls out of his bag a metal cigar tube. He then uncorks it, and pulls out a small spray bottle.
Energetically and with all the enthusiasm of a man clawing at your shins while you are holding his head underwater with your foot, he starts spraying himself. All over. Everywhere. On the back of his neck, the top of his head, his hair, his shirt, under his shirt, his pants, in his crotchel region, his shins, his butt, and then his feet. He then sprays his hands and rubs this stuff all over his face.
At first I thought it was strange. I smelled nothing. Not even a waft of scent. I was starting to think that he was just spraying himself with water when all of a sudden it hit me.
It was... all I can do to describe it is use a really long analogy that will waste not only my time in writing it, but your time in reading it.
It was like an old Greek woman named Nicola who has emigrated to the united states from her hometown on the Island of Lesbos. She has lived here in the U.S. for 35 years with her husband Yurgi. They run a small dry cleaning and tailoring shop over on Elm St. Two years ago Yurgi developed lung cancer, probably from the chemicals at the dry cleaners. The two couldn't afford the treatment, and so Nicola watched Yurgi slowly fade away as the cancer ate his body up. He died a painful death 3 months after diagnosis. Nicola continued to work the dry cleaning store, only to fall slowly behind in work. Eventually the bills piled up (Yurgi dealt with the finances) and her store was forced to close. Bank notices and collection calls hound Nicola for weeks, until finally she receives a foreclosure notice in the mail. Distressed, Nicola goes to the bank, pleading for help. The nice young man who is handling her case says that he can only afford to give Nicola one more month. Satisfied and placated, Nicola leaves the bank.
Only to be smashed into by a runaway bread truck.
That's how bad it hit me. Soberingly awful and with forced tears in my eyes. Fer Christs' sake dude, fucking spray that shit elsewhere. I've heard of cologne showers, but goddam! The fucking orange paint on the train was peeling. I'd rather you shower yourself with urine because then I'd understand you aren't sane! Damn! It still haunts me!