The train was already in the station at Grand Army Plaza when I swiped my Metrocard. I double-timed it down the stairs.  The automated voice on the newer trains announced to stand clear of the closing doors. I flew through the nearest open door moments before it shut. I watched the platform slip away as I congratulated myself on my agility and speed and on the fact that I would now only be 10 minutes late to work instead of 15 had I been forced to wait for the next train.

Then I turned around.

I was alone in the car.

It takes a moment to process why one would be alone in a train car during the height of rush hour. Was this train out of service? Maybe we were headed straight for the bowels of the city, some Dante-esque place where the trains are destined for an eternity of riding on a circular track, never reaching a terminus. But through the window to the next car I could see plenty of people. In fact they looked like they were wedged in tighter than a toothpick between two molars.

And then I understood. The realization came to me slowly as if riding on a wave of air molecules. The entire car had been compromised by one extremely rank homeless guy.

I've smelled plenty of foul stuff before. One particularly horrific stink involved a county fair ride called the Gravitron. It was an enclosed ride shaped like a spaceship. You entered into complete darkness (except for strobe lights) and then the spaceship spun around gathering enough centrifugal force that you'd "stick" to the walls. After a month at the fair servicing thousands of funnel-cake-eating, pot-smoking teenagers, I imagine they had no choice but to burn the ride to the ground to eliminate the smell.

But this. This was extraterrestrial stink. I know I'm failing you as your faithful subway commuter, but I honestly can't describe the smell. It was layers and layers and months and months of egregious filth so powerful that it cleared an entire subway car. This was the kind of smell that stays with you. It permeates the fibers of your coat and your hair. Your eyes water. Even breathing through your mouth doesn't stop the funk from going undetected. Somehow, despite years of commuting under my belt, I'd boarded this car anyway. Rookie mistake.

There are not many things that would cause a New Yorker to forgo an opportunity to sit and instead pack himself into a car for the next 30 minutes. I've remained in cars next to people eating chicken wings, in complete darkness, with a mariachi band working the crowd, but this was unbearable. Damn the MTA for locking the doors between the cars.

The ride to Bergen Street when I could move to the next car was interminable. I was poised as we pulled into the station. As soon as the doors opened, I burst out of the car coughing like someone who had been stuck in a gas chamber then suddenly set free. I squeezed my way into the next car. People around me wrinkled their noses and issued sidelong glances at the new girl who stank to high heaven.

Jacquelin Cangro