Flatula

His super power was flatulence, and he wasn’t afraid to use it. On the nine thirty seven train, particularly, he used it to cut a wide swath of space round him, leaving him free to rest his dirty sneakers on the opposite seat, or to lie down with his long legs stretched across the aisle, hogging several benches. His record was seven rows cleared in three minutes and seventeen seconds, but he believed that with diligence and a good, fiber free diet rich in fried cheese and food truck curry he could bring that number down to under two. 

The trick to improving his number was that it had to be made clear, and fast, that this was not a one time thing. Most people sitting nasally adjacent would tolerate one blast, but would quickly relocate when it became apparent that he was some sort of human Glade mister who spritzed the air approximately every fifty one seconds or so. 

He loved the recognition in their eyes best. First the delicate sniff, and the surreptitious glance round the room, then the relief as the initial assault dissipated. He loved watching the glaze return to their eyes as their gazes fell back to their phones. How quickly they forgot. Well, they would not forget him. And he would fire again. 

Fate stepped in one fateful morning in July. He had mixed orange juice with his glass of milk that morning, a surefire cocktail that never failed to get the ball rolling. He was seated on his favorite bench when the woman who would change his life boarded the train. Her name was Eunice and she normally took the nine oh five, but had binge watched “Breaking Bad” the previous night, which had resulted in a poor night of sleep compounded by her chronic sinus condition. Now she nervously took the seat opposite him and checked her texts. Two messages already from her pimply faced boss, demanding to know why she was late for her shift at the toll booth. 

He was instantly enchanted. There was just something about the way her eyes squinched up as she searched the tiny keyboard, the way she bit her lip. The boxy cut of her uniform promised hidden delights (although Eunice was built like a tank and the polyester shirt accurately outlined her figure). He was just imagining unbuttoning that top button, the one that made her third chin dimple so fetchingly, when in his stomach the orange juice rolled over and start talking to the milk. Frantically he clenched his cheeks and managed to reabsorb the threat somehow. Whew. He took a deep breath of the clear, unsullied train air and at that moment Eunice glanced up. 

As their eyes met he felt a shiver of some ancient awakening. He was not a spiritual man, but Eunice, who had read every metaphysical book on soul mates available at her library, thought she recognized in him her mate of several lifetimes, including the Cleopatra one, the Spongebob one (he was Patrick) and a parallel lifetime, seventeen lightyears away, where they ate mostly beans and grubs. Not one to waste time, she delicately opened the lines of communication.

“Hey,” she said gruffly in her adenoidal tones, and her voice ran its fingers through every fiber of his fiber-depleted being. He shivered, and again, suddenly felt his colon preparing to unkink. By neglecting to answer her and squeezing every muscle south of Taos, again he managed to stave off disaster. He’d have to wait till he got off at his stop. He couldn’t burn the crops before this angel of mercy. When he opened his eyes and sighed with relief he noticed her looking at him weirdly and he realized he hadn't responded to her. 

“Uh, hi,” he said, and then it was as though a dam broke. Their small talk rivaled the great ramblings of a Will Shakespeare or a Ben Jonson, covering everything from current Facebook memes to the changing of the fish stick batter at the local pub.

As his stop grew near, so did his apprehension. How could he ensure that he see her again? For this was clearly The One. At the same time, the fart baby burgeoning in his lower colon was demanding birthing, and any second now. He was preparing to ask for her number when he realized she was gathering her belongings and was getting off at the same stop. If he could just hold it in for a few seconds more, they could exchange digits, she’d be on her way and he could unleash his farty fury in a safe, secluded area.

He clenched his bum and minced off the train as she lumbered off behind him. “Oh, crap,” she bellowed daintily, as, juggling her cigarette and lighter, she lost her grip on her phone. It skittered past him and came to a stop. 

“Allow me,” he said gallantly, and forgetting that the release valve was unfortunately positioned in direct nasal range, he bent to retrieve it. In that fateful moment he felt his muscles give way and a mighty stream rushed from his nether region, accompanied by a haunting butt trumpet solo. Several passersby, catching a surprised whiff, collapsed in heaps on the ground, thus ensuring their physical safety by falling below the line of fire, which erupted in a blinding flash as the simultaneous flare from her lighter ignited the jet stream, and that was the last thing either of them knew.

Epilogue

Seventeen light years away, in a parallel universe on the planet Girth, a square shaped woman with three chins is sitting down to supper with her man.

“Anyway, my horoscope said that I need to makes some serious changes, or face some extremely negative consequences,” she says, lighting up a Lucky.

“Uh huh,” he says, absentmindedly, eyes on the neckline of her muumuu where her third chin swung delicately over the lace. 

She leans over to uncover a dish when suddenly she feels a ripple in the force, as would be caused by a massive explosion far, far away. As the matrix realigns itself and her mind clears, she sees him reaching for the dish.

“NO!” she screams, and lunging forward, she knocks the plate of beans from his surprised hand. “I think we should switch to kale,” she explains apologetically, kicking the spilled beans under the table and handing him a plate of greens.