This morning when I waited for the A train at West 4th Street, it felt like a sauna. Just like a sauna, except everyone had clothes on, and there were no coals or wooden, tiered benches to sit on. And it was sticky. And not very clean. I felt a layer of moisture form instantly on my arms, and I saw a few people wipe their foreheads of sweat, so I did the same. Slick. And all I really was concerned about was whether a visible puddle formed in the armpit of my shirt. Because I was on my way to work. And I had clothes on.
This probably isn’t the best time to admit that I don’t wear deodorant, eh? I do drink a lot of water, and my body odor isn’t offensive. Is it? IS IT. Look at me. Tell me I’m not smelly, and I may reconsider putting you in a headlock.
I don’t know why I have these kooky, violent ideations.
I almost had words with the vending machine in the work kitchen today. I politely drop my money in. I push the buttons that correspond to the tasty snack that I want, the coil spins to release the tasty snack, but the tasty snack does not drop, but instead perches perfectly on the edge of the shelf. Then I try kicking the machine. True story. The window is made of fiberglass and when I push on it, it gives the appearance that I’m actually shaking the machine, but that’s impossible, because the vending machine weighs 500 pounds, and it’s only the window that shakes. So I kick the side of the machine. I sideways jump-shove the machine. Left shoulder, because my right shoulder is already too jacked up. The machine makes a lot of noise, but that tasty snack evades me. It just sits there. I don’t have enough change to try giving myself two of the same kind of tasty snack, so I give up. I don’t really need that tasty snack, anyway. I’d rather drink the rest of my half-gallon of water for the day and smell my underarms at intervals and impress myself with how much I don’t stink.
On my way home, I went back down into the Fulton Street Inferno, and some police officers stood next to a table, ready to check bags at random. I got a good look at the table. It was white. And it was plastic, like a card table or something you’d sell contraband behind. A female officer stood opposite the two guy officers, and she saw me and my backpack, my backpack that’s longer than my torso. That makes me look like a terrorist, apparently. So, Ms. NYPD stopped me and said, “Excuse me, Miss? Your bag.” So I took off my bag and set it on the table. The guys didn’t open it, because I think that’s against the law. What they did instead was rub my bag with a white piece of cloth or paper, two inches square. Then they placed it in a slot of a black, rectangular box. It reminded me when we were kids of those boxes we made with two slots and we put a slip of paper with a question on one side in one slot and the piece of paper came out the other slot that had the answer written on the other side. It was a magic machine, remember? Anyway, this box had a green, digital display, which the officers appeared to be studying. After about five seconds, they handed me my bag and thanked me, and I went on my way.
I have to say, ion chromatography isn’t as cool as a magic machine. Ion chromatography would have been able to detect my sweat with minutely trace amounts of stinkiness, and a magic answer machine would have told me I exude a delightful aroma. Which is ALWAYS true.