Old Spice and Irish Whiskey

The last time I rode the subway was in 1972. And, I wouldn't be on this particular rolling garbage can if my cab driver hadn't been sans green card and trying to test the limits of his speedometer.

A mass of humanity propelled me forward into a cloud of chicken wings, Cheese Doodles, and despair. I sat down on the cleanest dirty seat I could find, pulled my mink around my face, and tried to look invisible.

The human tapestry before me tickled my muse — a story of hot sex served up on a bed of imagination. I sharpened my mental pencil and went to work.

I focused on an elderly couple seated near the door. The gentlemen wore a shiny suit and run-down shoes. He braced his hands under his chin while his thumbs made lazy circles to a beat only he could hear. I imagined his name to be Harold or George.

A plain woman sat next to him. Most likely, his wife. The name "Ethel" filled the imaginary dialog bubble over her head. She sat upright in her seat, stiff, controlled. A cluster of whiskers sprouted from a mole on her cheek. I watched her pick at a stain on her threadbare coat. Perhaps mustard from a corn dog.

I imagined them having sex when they were young, her nightgown pushed up around her neck—missionary style. Just when I got to the good part of my fantasy, the train pulled up at the Rush/Presbyterian stop and robbed me of my muse. The couple exited the car.

A large woman wearing fake fur, held together with orange duct tape, came aboard. She eyed my mink. "Nice coat, Sweetie," she said and plopped down next to me. She reached into her oversized handbag, pulled out a Styrofoam container shrouded in a plastic bag, and armed herself with plastic utensils. The box unfolded on her lap: Pancakes, swimming in syrup, and link sausages glistening in grease.

I calculated the odds of scooching past her without dragging my mink through her breakfast. I opted for staying still and praying for death — hers.

At the next stop, a tall man lumbered aboard wearing a trench coat, and hat pulled down over his eyes ... straight out of a Humphrey Bogart movie. He gave me a look. I gave him the cold shoulder. He walked to the bench behind me and lowered himself into the seat. He smelled of Old Spice and Irish whiskey.

With Bogey behind me and the duct tape diva next to me, we entered a tunnel. I felt claustrophobic. To relieve my stress, I started doing multiplication tables in my head. Before I could get past the "fives," the train made a sudden stop.

Let me rephrase that. Our train hit the train in front of us. Children screamed, lights went out, and pancakes rained down on my head. I saw my life flash before me — I would die with syrup in my hair.

Were it not for Old Spice and Irish Whiskey, I would have catapulted into the vestibule of the car. His strong hands held me in place while Mrs. Butterworth went airborne.

Emergency lights flashed, and a voice came across a loudspeaker, "Please remain in your seat." Too late. People scrambled for the doors. Bogart held me tight and whispered in my ear, "Stay with me, Zee Zee."

Then, he picked me up and carried me out of the wreckage. The tunnel was dark, dank, and smoke-filled. Injured passengers lie in and around the twisted metal of what had been a subway car.

I clung to Bogey with the sickening realization that no dry cleaner would ever get the smell of scorched plastic seats out of my fur coat.

As emergence personnel approached, it hit me — memories of Old Spice and Irish whiskey. I knew it could be none other than Conner, my ex-lover.

"Love," may be too strong a word. How about "The man who drank his way out of my life." How about "The man who borrowed ten grand to pay off his gambling debt and then disappeared."

He lowered me to the ground. "Are you alright, Zee?" he asked.

I hit him with a round-house punch for all I was worth and still not hard enough, not nearly hard enough.

"That's a strange way to say 'thank you' for saving your life," he said, massaging his jaw.

"You're lucky I don't have you arrested. Or better yet, dismembered and buried in a shallow grave where your remains can be recycled into rat shit."

I made my way toward the light at the end of the tunnel, no pun intended. Emergency personnel filed past me towards the twisted cars. None stopped to inquire as to my state of health. None offered to take my temperature or blood pressure. Maybe they thought I was just some rich old broad taking a stroll in the subway tunnel. I journeyed forth, wishing I'd worn comfortable shoes.

"I'm going to pay you back," he yelled from somewhere behind me.

"Wait till you see the interest accumulated over the last twenty years," I said without turning around.

My hand stung from the wallop, my eyes stung from smoke and fresh tears. My heart stung from ... whatever.