He entered the train car, and an iron curtain of stink fell upon the entire car.

No, it wasn’t a homeless guy on the 6 train.

It was a cologne-doused conductor on the Metro-North.

He was a small man, with a trim moustache, Latin coloring and a giant wristwatch. The smell was completely overpowering, as in, you knew he was in the car when he was 20 feet away, you couldn’t breathe through your noise as he approached, and it took a good five minutes for the air to clear after he’d left.

He’d walked into our car while we were still in the Grand Central tunnel. As he checked tickets and walked through the back door, I actually turned my face toward the open door to take in a large gulp of carbon-monoxide-laced tunnel air for relief. Had there been a bathroom in the car, opening that door might’ve provided relief as well.

I’m generally a live and let live kind of guy. But someone–his wife, his friends, his co-workers–has to tell this guy that he’s laying the perfume on a wee bit thick.