Smelly Guy

Sometimes you get the smelly guy. Oh you don’t think he’s going to be “the one” but much to your horror he is. He’s middle aged and sharp dressed. He has a yellow tie and a good looking suit on. The tag on his computer bag says he’s from some college. Starts with a B. No, not Berkley. It’s one I’ve never heard of. Which doesn’t mean anything since I haven’t heard of many. But as a general rule, if your school is not part of March Madness, I probably haven’t heard of you.

This guy doesn’t speak to you. Oh no…he’s much too important and you are to much of a dweeb to address. He does however let you get in to the seat next to him. Now you’re all tucked in by the window in seat 5D. First Class. Ready for a nice two hour, forty minute jet ride that will take you half way across the USA. The sun is shinning. Things are nice. You’re reading your book. It’s rather interesting. Kind of weird. It’s about a guy that sees ghosts. You take off. Your neighbor seems restless. He’s constantly straitening his tie that is already perfectly straight. He makes sudden jerking motions. Like he might have an itch somewhere you shouldn't scratch in public.

You’re up there around 40 thousand feet. They bring you some coffee…in a real ceramic cup. None of that environmental killing Styrofoam. Not up there. Not in First Class. At first whiff you think maybe they’re cooking up a storm right there in the galley of the plane. It smells like tamales. Have you ever had a hot homemade tamale wrapped in corn husks? Good stuff. I’ve had them in Texas for breakfast. Yep…good stuff. But Northwest Airlines is not known to serve homemade tamales. But they do serve us a cheese omelet, fruit and a bagel. Okay stuff. I never do get another cup of coffee. My neighbor finishes his breakfast and gets up to visit with an associate sitting a few rows ahead of us. He’s gone for quite a while. I’m still snug as a bug reading my increasingly weirder novel. My neighbor returns. All of a sudden I smell tamales again. I realize he’s the source of this smell. What the hell? Where did he get involved with a tamale already today? Or is it some other corn product? I’m not sure. And why would he eat another breakfast here on the plane if he had already eaten, from what I gauge to be, a dozen or so tamales? Oh well. The ride continues.

Tamale guy is typing away on his computer and writing notes on his boarding pass. Each time he finishes writing he flips the note over to insure I don’t sneak a peak at his top secret college notes. Maybe he’s a sports scout and he’s writing down the next offer he’ll make to the next prospect player for his never heard of college. It probably says ‘Hookers, Jack, Roids and a Honda’.

We only have about an hour of the ride left. Then it hits you. Super smelly. What now? Fart. Flatulent. Gas. Pooper. Toot. Plain and simple. At first I suspect the rather large woman sitting ahead of me. As soon as the smell almost takes down the plane, she gets up and goes to the restroom. Good, now maybe that’s taken care of. But no. She returns and goes to sleep. And again and again and again I am assaulted by fart. Is it? Could it be? Tamale fart? Who knows. But I’m absolutely sure it was tamale guy that is leaking this toxic waste. Please just get us on the ground safely. I fear if this drifts up into the cockpit, the captain could go blind and we’ll have to rely on that 12 year old co-pilot to land this bird.

But all ends fine. My eyes are blood shot from the fumes. My gut hurts from the retching but otherwise all is okay. Good bye and good riddance Mr. Smelly Ass. May our paths never cross again while you’re in such a condition.