King Sheep Productions

I now ride the bus to and from work five (occasionally six) days a week.  I’ve heard horror stories from other bus-wrangling amigos about all sorts of ghastly things.  I hear about the unwashed sits-too-close rider, the freaky bag lady who pulls the “stop” chain ten times and doesn’t get off, and the nutjob who stares at you and shakes but won’t stop grinning.

I haven’t seen a single one of these folks.

I’ve smelled some smells, I’ve seen some eccentrics, but these are things that I see any time I go to the Crossroads Mall.  This is not new, and barely noteworthy to someone who spent most of his college career either sharing a classroom with younger versions of these folks, or being counted in their number.  The art department at WSU is nothing if not a haven for non-conformist personalities.  That, plus five quarters sharing a poorly-ventilated room with hardcore gamers leaves my sense of smell obnoxiously forgiving.  That doesn’t mean I don’t cringe at the idea of going to Uncle’s Games on Saturday, just….I have a broad interpretation of what’s acceptable in terms of odors.

Just a scant two weeks ago, I was revisiting my old haunt in the Spokane Valley, hung out with the old Boy Scout crew, drove by the old homestead, and even stopped at a DQ for a late night blizzard.  Before arriving at the DQ, my father at the wheel, we drove through the most rank cloud of skunk stink that I have ever inhaled.  It stung.  It was the kind of thing that made your eyes water; the kind of thing you could taste and feel on your tongue.  After escaping into the ice cream joint, we dined in relative pleasure and did our best to erase the pervasive stinging acid from our tongues.

Upon emerging, we were once again confronted by noxious smells.  This time, it was (to my best estimation) raw sewage.   So pungent was the smell that I was force to wrap my entire coat around my face and shove my nose into one of its pockets just to keep from gagging.  It was the smell of a thousand unkempt port-a-potties at a week-long Battle of the Bands.  It was the ghosts of every city waste disaster in history gathered together.  It was epic hell.

We scrambled into the car, my dad fighting the tears in his eyes to get the key into the ignition, willing his dying muscles to stomp on the gas and get us out of there.  We escaped once again.

Only to drive into yet another noxious cloud.  This time, it was fish smell.  As I was once again forced to cover my face, using the seat belt as an air filter, my mind was filled with images of Alaskan canneries where fish guts fall like rain from the rafters.  I began to wonder if we really were in hell, if we had all died in a tragic accident 30 minutes earlier and were simply unaware of our lifelessness, wandering through nightmarish assaults on our senses for all eternity.  Would it ever end?  If not, what was next?

But it did end.  We found the highway and got right out of Dodge.  By the time we got home, most of us were breathing normally.

So, riders of King County Metro Transit, do your worst.  Bring your paltry B.O. and day-old Taco Bell.  I’ve been through worse.  I’ve been through Spokane Valley.