EAU DE PUBLIC TRANSIT

by Folly Blaine

He entered the metro and slumped into a molded seat across from my wheelchair. I assumed he was homeless. He looked bad and smelled worse. It was the sort of funk that creeps up on a person — the kind that comes with cartoon tendrils wriggling through the air to push aside your nostrils and caress your nose hairs.

A young woman got on at the next stop. I don't know what she was thinking. Seat near the door? Preoccupied with work? Regardless, she sat beside the man.

The doors chimed and thunked shut, which is when she noticed. At first she played it cool. A manicured hand pressed discreetly to her face. A small cough. Briefly, she met my gaze, saw the wheelchair strapped to the wall, and looked away. I knew the type. She cared too much about what other people thought to move. So the odor put its arm around her shoulders and drew her in. It teased its way down her throat and curled around her tonsils.

Meanwhile the man appeared to have dozed off. His head sank against his chest as a persistent wheeze-rumble erupted from his mid-section. The young woman's eyes darted back and forth in panic.

"Move," I said to myself. "Why won't you move?"

She finally closed her eyes and breathed through her mouth. After a while she seemed to achieve some kind of self-deluding rhythm. I knew it wasn't my business, but I couldn't look away.

Suddenly there was a terrible screech of metal against metal grinding under tremendous strain. The overhead lights flickered and died; all the passengers were thrown backwards. As the car lurched to a stop, its interior was infused with morning light, blue-gray and weak. I straightened and peered out the window but couldn't see what had happened. We were on a covered bridge; icy river water swirled beneath us.

The floor looked like an orgy gone wrong. Commuter bodies struggled to untangle themselves and stand. Seated passengers leaned over to retrieve briefcases and purses, umbrellas, and shoulder bags. Some rubbed bruised body parts or gingerly tested a boot-covered foot. No one seemed seriously injured.

A muffled voice came over the loudspeaker. It told us we had suffered an electrical short. We would be stopped until the engineer allowed us to continue.

"We apologize for the inconvenience," the voice said.

A few people groaned. Several pulled out cell phones. Within minutes almost everyone in the car was muttering into their palms they would be late to work, "No, I don't know how late. Ridiculous, isn't it? Today of all days. It figures."