The guy chowing the stankin’ buffalo wings on the 5:46 yesterday.
I boarded right before we left and went from car to car looking for a seat.
I smelled you even before I entered the car, the odoriferousness of your buffalo wings in the plastic clamshell spilling out of your train car, fighting past the stale air of a Grand Central tunnel, and weaseling its way into the next car down the line like a curly white cartoon wisp of stink.
You sat in a four-seater along the window. The two aisle seats in the four-bagger were taken, and the (otherwise) empty seat across from you held your dinner.
You greedily shoveled the wings into your mouth, dripping with blue cheese sauce, like you’d just been booted off Survivor. Your seatmates looked at you dubiously, wishing they’d selected any other seat on the train–even the stenchbench. You were impervious to their sidelong glances as you gnawed what little meat remained on the bones.
It was 5:46, Buffalo Bob. I just can’t imagine that you were that hungry. You were going to be home in, oh, 50 minutes–you’re at my stop and it’s only 42 minutes away. Home. In your house. At the dinner table.
Even if you were truly starving, why not grab something that doesn’t stink up the whole car–and even the car next to it? Turkey with brie on rye, thin sheen of mustard? A salad? Cold can of Chef Boy Ardee?
But no, you saw fit to consume the messy victuals while in close contact with a few hundred of your closest commuter friends.
And while we’re on the topic, who the heck eats buffalo wings without a beer and a flat-panel TV showing football, anyway?
Disgustedly,
Trainjotting