Senor Ben Gay

My Phew! post the other day prompted a friend to send me a quick note that her current seat-mate on the train reeked of Icy Hot. And that reminded me of Señor Ben Gay.

I've never been fond of striking up conversations with strangers, and that is definitely true of strangers on the bus. To avoid chatting, I tend to fix my face in as grumpy an expression as possible (not difficult), hoping that other passengers might get the idea that I bite. I also try to make sure I have a book with me so there's never a chance for eye contact.

One man was not deterred.

Señor Ben Gay would make sure to sit in front of me whenever he got on the bus. He'd turn and smile and try to make conversation, and I'd nod my head, smile vaguely, and then go back to my book. He'd interrupt my reading with a question, and I'd pretend I didn't understand, shrug, and go back to my book.

Ok, so I didn't have to pretend. Señor Ben Gay had absolutely no grasp of the English language other than "hello," and I don't speak Spanish, unless you count my knowledge of the words, "queso," "dulce de leche," "cerveza," "cucaracha," and "cojones." Oh, and "Javier Bardem." While I'm sure Señor Ben Gay was a perfectly nice guy, I was a newlywed and had absolutely no interest in being chatted up by some swarthy lothario, no matter what language was being spoken.

Ok. Maybe I would have made an exception for Javier Bardem.

Not only was there a language barrier (thankfully, actually), Señor Ben Gay stank. He smelled exactly as you probably think he did - of Ben Gay. Also of dirty clothes. Either he wore the stinking paste instead of after shave, or he had applied it some time ago before putting on his jacket...which smelled as if it hadn't been cleaned in years.

I spent much of my childhood in a fog of Ben Gay. It was my mother's favorite remedy for the sore throat, and she would slather it all over mine if I even suggested there might be a tiny bit of pain in the area. After covering my neck with an old kerchief so I wouldn't get Ben Gay in my hair (which happened anyway), she'd send me to bed, ignoring my protestations that the cream was burning my neck. I never understood the logic that something applied to the outside of my body would affect the inside of my body, but my mother was never big on logic, especially if it came from the mouth of an 8-year-old. She tortured my brother in the same way, and she also self-medicated, so if I had a cold, passed it to David, and he in turn gave it to mom, it could be weeks before we were rid of the hideous and constant stench of wintergreen and menthol.

So Señor Ben Gay had three strikes against him: I could not understand him; I could not stand the way he smelled; and he dared speak to me before I had my morning coffee. Eventually I stopped acknowledging his presence and he got the hint; when he did board the bus, he still sat in front of me and angled his head so he could see me, but he no longer tried to engage me in conversation.

After a while, he stopped taking the 8 Express. My nasal passages were grateful.

Posted by theminx on MTA Diaries.