Occasionally, train cars smell.  The cause of the smell varies for every occasion, but invariably it’s never a pleasant cause.  Vomit, homeless man or in the most recent case, Ketchup.

On my way to work one early, gorgeous Sunday morning, I stepped onto the train ready to enjoy my coffee and bagel, whence I was floored by a repugnant stench.  Other passengers drew in the dreadful smell which beckoned their darting eyes, followed by swift movements away from the source.  Smeared across three seats was thick, red ketchup. 

To begin with, I don’t like ketchup.  Fries, pancakes or hamburgers, I despise it.  The flavor is overpowering, encroaching and demolishes any possible sense of enjoyment.  The same is applicable to its smell.  The odor of Ketchup is akin to that of rotting leftovers.  Does this sound a little extreme?  Probably, but seriously, I hate ketchup.

I’m sitting on the subway car.  Breakfast is ruined thanks to ketchup beseeching of my senses and peevishly churning my stomach to ill feeling.  The ketchup is reminiscent of a murder scene or bad graffiti.  As the train nears Manhattan it becomes more crowded forcing people to occupy less desirable seating space, across or near the sloppy paste.  Each new passenger becomes more irritated.

Here comes the painful part.  At Queensboro Plaza (4 stops after mine) the train was crowded, even near the ketchup covered seats.  An elderly lady waltzes in engrossed in her New York Times.  She was so engrossed in what she was reading - as people often are - that she blocked out her environment, darting for the ketchup bench.  From the moment I saw her I knew this unfortunate lady was going to sit in the ketchup.  But it was one of those things that happened so quickly there was no time for action, I could only watch as what I anticipated indeed came true. 

Play-by-play:  Slow-motion.  Doors open, passengers exit, she enters. Still reading, she heads for the open seat and... plop.  Down she goes.  She rubs it in a little, proud that she’s snagged a spot on the crowded subway.  And the sad (ok, crudely humorous) part is that no one said a thing. 

It would have been awkward, you know?  What could we say?  “Excuse me mam’, you just sat in ketchup.  Instead of stopping you from ruining your morning and staining your clothes, I decided to watch it happen.”  No, that wouldn’t work.  We were too late.  Hopes of doing a good deed were dashed.  If we spoke up now, the whole scenario would back fire.  She'd become enraged that a car full of cold-hearted New Yorkers watched her sit in ketchup.

Most riders shared my feeling of guilt.  Our embarrassment for her was palpable.  Still, a few snickered.

I'm just glad I wasn't there when she discovered the ketchup.