Smells in the City

As a New Yorker, we are forced to acclimate ourselves immediately to a strange variety of smells. The scents of this city, are in some ways as much a part of the experience as the sights and sounds can be. Some of the fragrances of this city are heavenly. The sweet, roasted cashew smells of the Nuts 4 Nuts stands, the unmistakable, powerful aroma of the Starbucks beans, brewing on every corner, Grand Central Market with its flowers and breads and sauces. The men in expensive suits, gliding in front of you, their expensive colognes breezing into the air behind them. Esse bagels. Bodegas lined with flowers. Yes. There are good smells.

However.

Most of the free world would never be able to dream, to imagine in the worst of their nightmares, some of the horrifying nasal assaults that rain down upon us, rise up beneath us, and smack us in the faces each and every day. Some of the worst offenders: the gust of stale, hot and filthy subway air that blows up your body and into your face as you innocently pass over what was a seemingly inactive sidewalk grate. The stench of raw sewage, which can be found on any normal day on Lexington Ave between grand central and 50th Street, or on any rainy day walking down any street that might happen to (surprise!) contain beneath it the city sewage line. The hot stench that hits you in the face when the subway car's doors open during a 90degree, crowded rush hour, into a car with no air conditioning. The smell of the straphanger next to you, his arm jutting into the air as he clings to the bar, his deodorant having failed him miserably during this morning's conference call, (as apparent by his pit-stained pin-stripes) as your face is shoved virtually INTO his pit while you're crammed from behind, deeper into the smelly dismay. Chinatown. August. All of these things smell badly.

These, true, are some of the worst offenders, but believe me I could continue. Yes, friends. I thought I'd smelt it all here in my glorious city. That is until I stepped onto the subway this afternoon. And nothing in this world could have prepared me for that.

There is always a scurry for a seat during rush hour. There are only so many to go around, and they go quickly. I was positioned by the door, but still managed to be surpassed by five or six wide-hipped secretary types who all wore ugly shoes and seemed determined to plop down. I turned to the right, and noticed an empty bench, all but one middle aged man sitting by himself at the end. I walked over, the secretaries having stolen all other available spots, and plopped down myself. I'd noticed the smell as soon as the doors opened, but as I sat, I noticed that it'd suddenly become overwhelming. At first the musty smell seemed to be just that; must. The result of a train car without air, which on a 60 degree day in November isn't all that bad. A man leaned against the doors to my right, and my neighbor, right next to me was the only other occupant on this side. Two other men sat across from us, staring blankly, seemingly unawares. (You might be wondering why I sat directly next to this person beside me, and I will tell you it was simply a function of habit. Standard subway etiquette allows the spaces closer to the door for late-comers venturing in behind you. I thought I was doing a good deed.)

Suddenly, terribly, it became clear that this smell was far, FAR worse than I'd originally assessed. It was unlike anything I'd ever breathed before. The three key ingredients that came to mind were rotten bananas (not just bad, but ROTTEN), soiled baby diapers, sweat and pumpkin. I gagged, immediately, and tried in vain to breathe through my mouth. I could taste the air, it was thick with must and filth. I could feel the smell in my throat. I gagged again. I yanked my scarf up over my face and the man next to me shifted and mumbled. "Bitch," he snarled under his breath. Oh my god. When he moved it was worse. It was as though the stench was rearranging the molecules in the air around us. I closed my eyes hard. What could I do? Just as I thought to slide down, a woman took the seat next to me. Foiled.

I sat there, trying desperately not to breathe. Could I survive holding my breath at least between stops? When the doors opened some fresh air might seep in and I could have a few, shining moments of oxygen, then resume holding my air, safe from the stench, in my lungs. I know what you're thinking. "Why didn't you get up and move?!" Believe me I thought of it. But this man, though seemingly normal in appearance, was obviously not right. Every time I gasped for clean air, shifted slightly, or shut my eyes in pain, he mumbled something hateful and stared at me. If I moved, stood up and changed cars, ran for my life, would this invoke some kind of crazed, smelly anger in him? Would I survive the smelly showdown? I just prayed (and I'm an atheist, so that tells you something) for it to be over. I imagined my eulogy if he killed me. "Cops tried to question suspect but passed out as a result of his stench. So they eventually just let him go. Jennifer will be missed. We're sorry that's the last thing she smelled on this earth." But truthfully, part of me just wanted to die if living meant to go on breathing.

Twenty excruciating minutes later, after I'd tried in vain to concentrate on my book, on my music, on my hopes and dreams for the future, he finally stood up and got off. Taking with him all of the chunky air and all of its horrors. I survived. But barely.

I don't think there's a lesson here really, other than that I have to be more protective of my right to the air around me. We all have a right to the air around us. Except maybe that guy. I'm used to a lot of atrocities taking place in the air of this city. But my God. The next time a man smells so badly it chokes me, I swear I'm changing trains.

It Comes @ a Cost

I'm quite bad with money. I try, every month, to plan my budget down to the penny. I don't allow for much leftover, because quite frankly, there just isn't breathing room for leftover. I pay rent with the first check...and have about $150 remaining. I pay bills with the second check...and have about $150 remaining. This is $300 living money for the month. This is not enough.

True that I have a tendency to spend that remaining $300 frivolously. I do stupid things like eat every meal out. (Although my boyfriend would tell you that what I eat generally doesn't constitute a meal-- what does he know.) But, in New York, eating out constantly isn't unheard of, (you might find, in fact, that it's somewhat commonplace and not much more expensive than buying groceries) but frivolous nonetheless. Also, in the instance that I find myself with an extra $100 or so than usual, I tend to think that it's freeee money. Mine for the spending. I earned it, damnit. I can spend it how I see fit! That is, until it's gone, and I realize I have nothing to show for it. And I can't buy coffee. And so I'm tired. And I miss my $100.

According to most people, I have no right to complain. I live in one of the most expensive cities in the world. My father is one of the people lacking sympathy for my situation. "Try living someplace where a cheeseburger doesn't cost $12," he says. A cheeseburger? I haven't been able to afford a cheeseburger in years! I survive on takeout Chinese food, and the leftovers absolutely MUST last me the next two days. No one can make one container of wonton soup go the distance that I can. It's a science, really, that I've perfected.

I get frustrated sometimes, seeing many of my peers who live with their parents in New Jersey, or in elevator buildings in Murray Hill with parentally subsidized rent, who spend all of their disposable income on themselves: their wardrobes, trips with their friends, expensive technology and their high-interest bearing savings accounts. It's annoying, but I can't complain. This was my choice, and that is theirs. I think the hope is that in a couple of years, once my time has been "put in" (though put into what, exactly, I'm still not sure. It seems to me that I'm devoting my time strictly to stagnant poverty and bad Chinese food) I'll come out on the other end, a successful, wealthy cat. Maybe I'll have some sexy parties when that happens. I'm also hoping for some nice cashmere sweaters and a fat savings account to show for it. Just for comfort, you know.

I'm happy with my life here, and if it comes at the cost of being poor for a little while, then so be it. I just wish my credit card company understood the necessity of living the dream, at any cost.