There was a gym member, a man in his seventies who, as far as I could tell, suffered from “fish-odor syndrome,” scientifically known as trimethylaminuria, which means he lacked the enzyme, flavin monoxygenase 3, responsible for breaking down fishy-smelling intestinal bacteria. In the absence of this enzyme, the human body, no matter how squeaky clean and perfumed, continuously wafts the odor of rotten fish and decomposing garbage so that anyone within a few yards will be overwhelmed by the stench. What made this man’s condition particularly noxious was his ornery disposition. Sometimes I saw him looking at people with a defiant glare, as if to say, “That’s right. I smell like shit. So what are you gonna do about it? You gonna kick my butt? Go ahead. I’m a miserable old son of a bitch with nothing to live for. Knock my lights out and see if I care.” I sensed that the lonely little man felt empowered from his being able to repel the other members who could not in the slightest tolerate the unbearable reek of rotten fish that emanated from every pore of his body.
The only person who could keep the smelly man off the treadmills was me, with my
hailstorm of sweat, which eventually blinded his eyes and drove him away so
that he walked to some other cardio machine where he could nauseate some other poor
gym member. In the war between stink and sweat, I was the victor.
Comments