Stench of the Rat Race

My glance slid across the walls of the interior of the evening commute, as I took brief glances of the passengers cladded in office-wear surrounding me. Their faces told it all; visible signs of fatigue, carved by the cruel daily cycle that they had succumbed to in the name of "making a living." The Rat Race, a cruel climb up the corporate ladder, a slow and treacherous process that leaves a daily count of weary feet and wrinkled faces, hung blatantly over and entirely overshadowing the supposedly-sharp shirts and blouses of the numerous men and women that lie victim to this painful dedication.

The train reached the interchange station, as the door opened and a new flood of victims turned into canned sardines, all forcing themselves to believe that they are the "one more person" that can squeeze into the already over-crowded commute, all in hope of getting home a little earlier to shake off the chains of the Rat Race.

He believed himself to be that "one" as well, as he insistently pushed his way in, ending up right in front of me. Dressed formally but hardly sharply, he was donned in a light blue long sleeve shirt that was probably from a forgettable departmental-store brand, his pants were black and tapered, and his shoes were black leather, but hardly shine-polished. Slightly over-weight and with a face that was instantly forgettable, he was probably the most archetypical example of the victim of the Rat Race. But the most telling sign that gave it all away was the haversack that he carried on his back over the entire office get-up, a sure-sign of the typical "office-loser;" one who probably worked really hard, but doesn't step too much out of his comfort zone, and would probably not ascend very much higher in his treacherous climb.

As the train accelerated, he lost balance and instinctively reached out for the nearest handlebar, which was just beside me. As he grabbed the vertical bar, I was fully exposed to the view of his armpit area, and immediately, I noticed a little damp patch at the crevice that was his armpit. Little beads of sweat dripped slowly down his forehead, as I noticed the expression of discomfort clearly written across his face.

Instinctively, I held my breath. The proximity between us and the sure-signs ominously hinted at a ravaging of my olfactory senses if I were to do otherwise.

One stop down, the doors opened as some sad faces alighted while a new throng of weary eyes boarded, maintaining the status-quo. He turned, facing his back towards me, to suit the new crowd configuration and also perhaps to seek a greater sense of comfort, even if it only meant a mere rotation.

I had a full frontal view of his back, as I noticed, in the areas not covered by the criss-crosses of his maroon haversack, was a total discolouration of the light blue hue of his shirt, a discolouration that hinted at exposure to something more liquid.

My eyes gawked in horror, as I could feel the capacity of my lungs being stretched and strained from the lack of air intake. I held it in, but the seconds ticked by slowly, too slowly. Finally, at its limit, my lungs bursts open, along with my nostrils. The stench, a sourish, and yet slightly bitter smell of a whole day's staleness utterly ravaged the better half of my more-than-keen olfactory senses, choking me with its pungent nature while I bit the bullet to try to hold my coughing in as to not create too much of a socially ill-fitting scene on the evening commute.

Yep, this was the stench of the Rat Race alright, in every sense of the word. Perhaps I will never figure out why is it that in a climate as tropical and humid as ours, where perspiration is a more than natural bodily reaction to the forces of the climate, the people still refuse to make perfume or cologne or even some form of deodorant a greater part of everyday life.

It would seem that perhaps I am 1 of the minority that was actually exposed to the use of such fragrances being a completely unsaid code of social etiquette, one where to not be offensive-smelling is a personal responsibility and is a personal reflection of one's personal hygiene and grooming.

Indeed, it shocked me that even in my University years, at the not-so-tender age of 19 (for the females) and 21 (for the males), I still discovered (by the worst of accidental means) that some supposed future-leaders of society are perfectly fine with leading the pack by their personal distinct scent (read: odour) more so than anything else.

Obviously, the trend doesn't really change even upon climbing a social level higher from academia into the Rat Race. As the formality of office wear still does nothing to some in their want of need to present themselves in a better light (or scent), being perfectly fine with spreading their joy with the rest of the evening commute, if their joy came in the form of little beads of sweat, that is.

The train reached halfway to my destination as a huge pack of sardines were unloaded, finally leaving me the comfort of a seat and more importantly a relief for my nostrils. I took the seat next to a middle-aged office lady, again, formally dressed but nothing near elegant or chic, probably enough to get by and more likely than not holding the position of a senior staff, but not a managerial one.

Her eyes were staring blankly in front, as a bout of expected fatigue came over her and she drew a long, deep yawn. Through the bad manners and the uncovered yawn, my overly-keen olfactory senses once again got more than it bargained for, as I inhaled the stench of soured-milk, mixed with the concentrated and yet hardly refreshing smell of hours upon hours of stale coffee-breath, perhaps an accumulation of the entire day's bulk of caffeine intake.

Again, it would seem that a large bulk of the bottom of the barrel of the Rat Race is perfectly fine with letting the entire world (or at least the people next to them on the evening commute), know the full entirety of the solid and fluids partaken throughout the entire course of the day, from the overbearing smell of the chilli-sauce in their carrot cake during lunch time, to the 12 cups of coffee needed to perk their smelly rat-asses up during the 8-hours And throughout all this, a simple thing like a breath-mint or the like perhaps doesn't even occur as a distant thought at the back of their minds.

When I finally arrived at my destination, exiting from the pipe-like structure of the train, a thought came upon me. While I have personally managed to evict myself from the constraints of the Rat Race proper, I cannot help but have to be flushed down the same pipes with the rest of the rats that is the evening commute. And with each flush of the daily evening commute, 1 poor Vampire peers through the manhole of society deep into the sewers of the Rat Race, cursing at the Stench that follows.