"Must you apply your make-up here?" asks the stack-haired woman who sits next to me on the southbound No.2 train one morning.
"Yes, I must," I shoot back while continuing to apply my packed-powder foundation. "I just can't deal with both my make-up and hair and get out of the apartment on time," I say as I fumble for my blush.
Hey, I think, get a life! It's not as if we're sitting at the opera! For many of us Borough Hoppers the subway has become an extension of our homes. During commute time we do the home-type things we otherwise never seem to get done -- applying make-up, balancing the checkbook, removing ugly nail polish, sewing on loose buttons -- whatever. Besides, I was sitting here first.

My tone sweetens when I realize the woman's sitting posture will cramp my making-up style. "If you could possibly reposition your elbow, I'd really appreciate it," I say politely. "Otherwise you'll poke this mascara wand right through my eyeball when the train lurches forward."
"Really!" the woman says as she scoots over. "It just seems like such an intrusive activity for the subway."
"Intrusive," I repeat to myself while applying a few preliminary blush strokes. Refresh my memory: did I shove a boom box in your face? Did I sing you an acapella version of "Under the Boardwalk?" How "intrusive" could applying lipstick possibly be when you consider these alternatives?
"Are you getting off at Clark Street?" I ask.
"No, I'm not. Why?"
"Because I do my mascara between Clark Street and Wall Street -- anything that requires staying within the lines can't be done until you leave Brooklyn. There's just too many local stops, it interrupts the groove and you end up with globs."

I continue, "lipstick goes on last because it comes off first. It gets saved until I transfer to the #1 train at Times Square. Blush should be re-checked at 34th Street. You may be wearing too much, you may not be wearing enough. Who knows until 34th Street?"
Suddenly a voice crackles over the P.A. system: "We are stopped here at Grand Army Plaza due to a sick passenger at Atlantic Avenue. "Music to my ears!" I exclaim. "You see, I only apply eye shadow on stalled trains. It's a real challenge. You're dealing with the careful mix of two separate colors ..."

The capacity-packed cherry red train slowly grinded to a halt in the airless

station. Standing alone on the platform, I bent forward and peered into

the smudged car windows - there was not a seat to be had. Every possible inch

of body space was occupied. If a deli clerk had tossed a dollop of mayo, a

squeeze of lemon juice, and a dash of paprika into the car, it would have

The scuffed train doors wheezed open. No one got off. I stepped up and surveyed the entrance
possibilities - it was going to be a mighty tight squeeze. I acted as if I didn't notice the perturbed
glares from the riders closest to the doorway whose intended message was unanimous: what, you think
we're gonna just move out of the way and let you pirouette in here? Right!
Look for another car, asshole - this one's too crowded.

The chipper chime signaling imminent door closure sounded. I was running late
for a crucial appointment and had to get onto that train. Realizing the exotic
body contortions I would need to attempt to fit into the
subway car - the spine-mangling potential of which would make an adventurous
chiropractor giddy with anticipation - I carefully pushed and
way inside, just in time to feel the closing doors nip the fleshy outer edges
of my butt cheeks.

Easing my way through the thick, sweaty pudding of humanity, I managed to find
a palm-wide hand space on a shiny center pole that was otherwise completely
covered by the stubborn grips of fellow passengers. As the train resumed its
journey (my face flush against the mossy armpit of a tall, tank top-wearing
disheveled man intently pondering the poster ad of a doctor whose specialty of
practice was the removal of anal warts), the notion of a taxicab commandered by
a surly, hirsute, traffic law-flouting, meter-tampering, nicotine-addicted
driver named Xcvylew Rhiimlziani suddenly seemed rather attractive.

I gingerly reached around to my back jeans pocket and pulled out a rolled-up
copy of The Daily News. I then proceeded to slowly work my hand and the
magazine upwards between the myriad torsos pressing against me, realizing that
the slightest wrong move in any direction would result in my being on the
receiving end of either a severe ass-whipping or a fevered charge of aggravated
sexual assault - or both. As my hand's patient journey continued on to its
ultimate eye-level destination, I empathized with the globs of toothpaste at
the tail end of the tube that are delicately massaged outwards in a heroic
struggle to reach the moist, waiting brush.

Inexplicably, I began to detect the commotion of a round, spinning gas pocket
blooming in my lower intestines (I later considered my dinner the night before
of brown rice, kidney beans and steamed asparagus and came to the realization
that the aforementioned sensation was perhaps not quite as inexplicable as
originally believed). My internal butt puff was growing and would be hatchable
any second. I scanned the surroundings in search of adequate audio
distraction: there was certainly enough ambient noise to provide sufficient
camouflage for my boisterous methane emanation - hey, I was in a speeding New
York subway car, fer Chrissakes! No one would have a clue as to the
origin of the offending odor. My expressionless eyes coolly locked
onto a paragraph in my raised, open magazine, I clenched my back teeth, flexed
my sphincter muscle, and let loose a hot, hissing booty bomb.

The average MTA subway car traveling on New York City's underground rail system
is 51'4 long by 8'9 wide with a crush capacity of 165 individuals (combined
seated and standing). I'm not exactly sure whether it was the force and
resulting throw weight of my rump smog being exponentially greater than I ever
imagined or the ventilation system's remarkable efficiency in quickly
circulating the internal air supply or the guilty cloud's bite being so pungent
that it simply cut through the car like a hot stiletto through a tub of whipped
margarine. Whatever the reason, each and every passenger from one end of the
car to the other immediately froze - their faces contorted in twisted
expressions of curious, agitated disgust.

Yuppies in business suits began mumbling expletive-rich epithets under their
breaths, shuffling their newspapers angrily while vilifying those closest to
them with body language that said 'What in God's name have you been eating, you
cretinous pig?' Other passengers discretely covered their mouths and noses,
their eyes quickly darting back and forth to see if anyone would betray
tell-tale signs of culpability for causing the gaseous catastrophe. I
enthusiastically joined in the 'whodunit
scrutinizing an older man whose back was to me. I raised and lowered my
eyebrows, nodded my head and smirked self-righteously, as if to say to those
around me 'I don't know, but this geezer over here is looking pretty darn
guilty!' It was all I could do to keep from bursting into uncontrollable
hysterical laughter at the toxic environmental hazard I had created. The most
memorable response to the lingering stench was an exchange between two teenage
homegirls seated near the middle of the car:

HOMEGIRL 1
(COVERS HER MOUTH AND NOSE) Omigawd!

HOMEGIRL 2
(COVERS HER MOUTH AND NOSE)
Yo, that is so nasty... Mmfff!

HOMEGIRL 1
Now you know that's gotta be a man's insides. Ain't no woman's insides smell
like that.

I covered my mouth with my hand at this comment to keep from busting a gut.

HOMEGIRL 2
Yo, whoever did that, you is nasty! Damn!

HOMEGIRL 1
Go see a doctor about that shit yo, 'cause that's disgusting, word up.

The train soon stopped and half the car emptied in a mad, desperate rush to the
doors; I don't know if the stampede occurred because everyone had a pressing
engagement or because my l'odeur de colon was so noxious. The doors came
quickly to a close as did my airborne creation, which had finally dissipated.

For one temporal, resplendent moment on that memorable day, New Yorkers of all
races and creeds managed to put aside their differences and come together in
total undivided agreement on an important issue of immediate concern: my gas
passage was sinus-singingly revolting. I nobly basked in the warm, peaceful
glow of self-satisfaction, knowing my fellow commuters had shared a common
experience they would not soon forget.