A few weeks ago, I bragged about how I hardly ever get sick. Obviously my pomposity incurred the wrath of some God who wanted to punish my mortal conceit by visiting upon my nasal cavities bearing sickness (and leaving behind a gallon of ambrosia.)
Yes, I have a head cold. It’s all in my head, literally. Total hearing loss prompted me to take an over-the-counter decongestant during my lunch break yesterday. The box should have had a warning – DO NOT WRITE DOCUMENTATION AFTER TAKING THIS MEDICINE – because it made me skittish, almost frantic.
All of this has nothing to do with the commuter rail, except these nasal difficulties landed me on the 2:40pm train home, where I snagged a single seat near the door and spaced out over an open newspaper. About two minutes out of the station, the conductor began taking tickets when a large African-American man bundled in layers of sportswear approached him.
“Hey, just wanted to let you know that it smells real bad like sardines in here,” he told the conductor, gesturing. “Just wanted to let you know, in case it’s the terrorists.”
The conductor, an older white man with a slight gut and dripping South Shore accent – a walking MBTA stereotype, really – stared at him. “I can’t tell if you’re crazy or cheeky.” He turned away and continued taking tickets.
“Usually I can tell if they’re crazy” the conductor said, ostensibly to the man whose ticket he punched. The crazy and/or cheeky man said nothing and returned to his seat. And me with my nasal congestion, I was left wondering if the train car really did smell like sardines.
