It was too hot outside—even for the rats, who are subject to heat stroke at temperatures over 95 degrees. Yet there was she, trudging along the sidewalk to her boyfriend’s downtown apartment, ready for the home-cooked meal he had promised her weeks ago. She knew his place was only a few blocks away, but the oppressive July heat was starting to make her feel ugly.
She let out a deep, frustrated sigh. After twenty minutes of walking, no part of her body had been spared from the blaze. The humidity had turned her normally cute and composed hair into a tangled, frizzy mess; and despite coating her underarms with lavender speed stick, she had sweat right through her white tank top. Her arms were sticky and moist and reminded her of undercooked chicken wings, and her crotch had already started to chafe. Did she even remember to bring an extra pair of underwear?
But it wasn’t the scorching temperature driving her insane, nor was it the salty droplets of perspiration dribbling down her ass crack.
It was the smell.
Every street, every curb, every crosswalk of the city had its own distinctly foul odor, and with every turn her nose stumbled across a stench more repulsive than the one before it. For two blocks she was stuck behind a group of chain-smoking tourists who waddled down the sidewalk in their flip flops and matching muumuus holding hot dogs and Big Gulps. Next, it was the food cart idling on corner, spewing clouds of diesel fumes and curried lamb all around her. As she waited for the next light to turn, she looked down at her feet and noticed her new shoes were stuck in a puddle of black goo that smelled as if a dairy cow had slit its throat and was fermenting in a pool of its own sour milk. And lining the edge of every sidewalk were piles of trash bags, rotting away in the sunshine, their insides spilling like entrails out onto the street.
But she pushed onward. After another ten minutes of walking, she finally reached her boyfriend’s block, equal parts frustrated and overjoyed. Halfway down the street she was told to wait by a stern-looking lady in a hard hat. They were doing construction. As she stood patiently, a disheveled man saddled up next to her and started to stare. She looked away immediately, but she couldn’t help notice the raw, red lesions covering his arms and legs. She tried stepping away, but it was too late; she got a whiff of something sickly, and to her dismay realized that it was not the smell of the man’s sores, but rather whatever was going on in his underwear. She darted down the street.
Dripping with sweat and effectively desensitized to the world around her, she trudged up the steps and buzzed her boyfriend’s fourth-floor apartment. But before he could answer, a friendly neighbor opened the door for her. He was holding his shirt over his nose. She said thank you and put on her best smile before entering the pre-war walkup. Ascending the stairs, she passed by another tenant who was also holding her shirt over her nose. What is going on? Do I smell, she wondered to herself? She gave her armpits a quick sniff and was pretty satisfied at the result. After dragging her body up the few final steps, she staggered to her boyfriend’s apartment and knocked the door weakly. She heard some shuffling. Finally he answered.
“Hey,” he said, giving her an unenthusiastic hug and kiss. He looked uncomfortable. “I’m really sorry about the smell in this place. I know you just trekked all the way out here.”
She stared back, confused.
“What smell?” She looked over his shoulder at the pan sizzling away on the stovetop.
“The garlic? I love cooked garlic.”
Now he looked confused.
“Garlic? Wait…you don’t smell it?
She stopped taking off her shoes and looked around the lobby curiously.
“Smell what?” she asked. “Two minutes ago, I was standing next to a homeless guy who shit his pants. I can’t smell anything right now.”
“You didn’t read the sign?” He pointed to a neon green poster stuck on the neighbor’s door.
"No..." Now she was getting nervous.
"Jesus." He wiped his brow. "Maybe we should eat first."
"Um, no. How about you tell me what is going on and why everyone in your building is treating me like a leper.
"But I know you've been waiting so long for this dinner. And I think the Bolognese came out really good."
She was too hot to deal with this and walked over to the sign. Her boyfriend followed her into the hall, his shirt over his nose. The two of them stared at the door.
“Apparently, the guy was a hoarder. One night while he was sleeping, his bookcase toppled over and crushed him. At least that’s what the cop told me. He had been dead for over a week before anyone found him. Just rotting away in the heat. That’s the smell.”