Rite of Passage or The Man Who Stinks of Piss
  By David L Rattigan

There is one particular gateway through which everyone must pass if they are to become a full initiate in the transport system of any country. It is a rite of passage that one can point to again and again through the years as proof of having entered -- and endured -- the public transport experience. There are various milestones in the story of one's public transit use: The embarrassing debacle over the misplaced ticket ("Honestly, driver, it was in my pocket somewhere!"); the first attempt at reading the daily newspaper aboard a crowded bus (in London, where the Times and Telegraph are printed on broadsheet, this situation can rapidly escalate to hazardous proportions); the absent-minded boarding of the wrong bus, when you think you are heading a few blocks further downtown, but after a monotonous hour your suspicions are alerted by signs saying, "Welcome to (insert name of next province or state)". But none of these is an adequate substitute for that crucial event of which we all must someday partake: That unpleasant episode of sitting next to -- indeed, being forced by circumstance to sit next to -- the man who stinks of piss.

Pardon my language, but that is the general term adopted when one later relates the incident to colleagues, friends and family: "Do you know, today on the bus I had to sit next to a man who stank of piss?" By the time the story has done the rounds of co-workers, neighbours and relatives, minor details may have been changed, embellished, even grossly exaggerated, but that little epithet remains constant: "A man who stank of piss." You see, "smell" belongs to "urine", but "stink" only really works with the corresponding "piss".

I must admit, nothing prepared me for the day I was the chosen candidate to undergo this particular ritual. When I left the house in the early morning, it seemed like quite an ordinary day. Even up to the point when I boarded the downtown bus, there was nothing noticeably amiss. What I did notice, however, was that on this particular day the Washdale ferry had docked at almost the exact same time as the Clayton ferry, which meant a mad scramble to get a seat. Had I known what terrible events awaited me, I should have gladly given up my seat for another. As it happens, I was just at that place in the queue that gave me the chance to nab the last available spot.

Looking around, there was the usual Clayton Island crowd, along with a few faces I did not recognize. I was almost tempted to take up my pew next to the fat lady, but being rather portly myself, I had visions of one or the other of us being asphyxiated, and newspaper headlines the next day reading, "Overweight bus passengers in freak squashing accident: Doctors estimate 1/1000 000 chance of ever happening again". So, I hedged my bets and at the last minute grabbed the only other vacant seat. Of course, by the time it dawned on me what exactly it was I'd got myself into, the aisles were full of bodies, and I was trapped.

It was just as the harbour was coming into view that I first noticed the stench. I surely went beet-red as the awareness crept up on me that this odour in my nostrils was indeed urine, or rather, to better describe the intensity, piss. It was not immediately apparent that it was the fellow next to me, whom I hadn't really had the opportunity to have a good look at, so his personal hygiene was not yet in question. (After all, my primary concern had been to find somewhere to sit; my company was only a secondary consideration.) The first thought to occur was the fleeting and horrifying possibility that the smell might be emanating from my own body. This is always the first instinct in such situations, but is quickly dismissed, as it was in my case: No matter how much of a rush I am in to get out in the morning, there is never more than an outside chance that I will be the man who stinks of piss. The second thought always takes the form of a kind of flashback to an imagined scene the night before: Some loutish twenty-something reeling out of a bar at one in the morning, totally inebriated, and suddenly finding his faculties so diminished that he cannot distinguish between a public convenience and a public transit vehicle. I glanced around my feet to see, as best I could, whether any evidence remained, but there were no visible clues.

Realizing I had rather a mystery to solve, and by this time feeling quite nauseated, too, I undertook a discreet investigation to determine the likely perpetrator of this vile stench. I was able first, naturally, to rule out the gentleman in the seat opposite me, whose briefcase and smart suit told me straight away that this was not someone given to producing such foul smells. The lady in front of me looked far too prim and proper for me even to consider her a likely culprit; which left only the chap sitting on my right, the investigation of whom posed something of a problem for me. Turning my head ninety degrees suddenly to assess his culpability would be far too obvious, and would probably embarrass us both. On the other hand, a subtle cranking of the head, spaced out over about thirty seconds, can too easily look unnatural and stiff, and I did not want to draw attention to myself. I decided that if I aimed at a speed somewhere between the swift turn and the discreet crank, and made it look as if something outside the window caught my eye, I might be able to get away with it.

Luckily, a billboard provided just the occasion for the brief inspection I was hoping for. My suspicions were immediately confirmed. His alarmingly bad taste in clothes was by no means his worst crime (though the vermilion kipper tie was ghastly, even seen out of the corner of my eye): He was unshaven, dishevelled, and had a strange manner of breathing which I thought at first to be the whirring of the engine, but soon discovered was actually more of a combination of a throaty tick-tocking and a nasal snore coming from the man who stank of piss. Having identified him as such, I immediately started ruefully running through the possibilities had I not been in such a hurry to find a seat. I couldn't decide whether sitting next to the man who stank of piss would be preferable to suffocating at the bosom of the fat lady; in any case, I was sure that standing in the aisle would be far more pleasant than either, if a little tiring on the feet.

This train of thought did not last, for all of a sudden I was struck by the terrifying realization that everyone else on my part of the bus could smell it too, and what if they thought I was the source? I tried to comfort myself with the knowledge that I was better-dressed than the man who stank of piss, and so would probably be written off as unlikely; but I couldn't escape the nagging feeling that people were starting to realize where the odour was coming from, and I could sense the wandering eyes peering over incredulously in my direction.

Should anyone catch my eye, I speculated, could I gesture in my neighbour's general direction, give a knowing wink and shifty sort of tip of the head, just so they knew it wasn't me? At once the prim and proper lady turned round. I managed a forced expression that was halfway between a friendly smile and a disapproving frown, and cleared my throat nervously. I couldn't quite tell whether she was looking at me or through me to someone else, but she quickly turned round again. Unfortunately, the cough was rather conspicuous, and attracted the attention of the man with the briefcase, whereupon I only managed to further arouse his suspicions by repeating the strained throat-clearing and muttering some unidentifiable attempt at a pleasantry. By then, my ill-conceived scheme to divert attention had become a minor coughing fit, prompting the man who stank of piss to reach into his pocket and produce, after a short spell of rummaging around, what looked like a very old and sticky cough drop.

I dared not look in the man's eyes, but in my embarrassment, murmured rather rapidly and unevenly, "Thank you! I think this is my stop!" Ironically, in my rush to get to the doors, I almost did end up in the fat lady's bosom. I was relieved to find myself out on the sidewalk no less than thirty seconds later, the bus disappearing off down the road. I didn't look back until I was sure the bus was a safe distance away, but I swear all eyes were on me as I leapt out onto the street with unusual enthusiasm, barely giving the bus time to pull into the stop.

I had to walk the extra half a mile or so to my destination, but it was a small price to pay for a breath of fresh air. Looking back, I feel a certain sense of pride about having completed this strange initiation ceremony into the deeper aspects of public transportation. Of course, the fact that I bottled out before I reached my destination will always colour the episode somewhat, and perhaps cast doubt on whether I can truly be regarded as having seen it through to the finish. I comfort myself with the thought that probably not one of those fellow passengers who sneered at me has ever had to sit next to a man who stank of piss. I, on the other hand, have the benefit of an experience that will enable me to face all the other perils of travelling with a new kind of confidence. No matter whom I meet, what eccentricities I encounter, or what unfortunate events befall me on my journeying, from now on I shall be able to say resolutely: "All in a day's work; I sat next to a man who stank of piss, you know."

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 © Copyright, David L Rattigan 2003