“No fucking way, no way I’m living there,” Drew whined. And at the time, his concern, his hostility, even his disdain, towards what would serve as his abode during this final year of college, seemed warranted…
I pulled away from 234 Dale Street without saying goodbye to Morely Benson, the old man living underneath me in the basement of his own house for the last 15 months. And sadly, I doubt he will ever see this—
“You know I’ve lost 80 percent of the vision in my left eye,” Morely said when I returned from Thanksgiving break. And with pasty lips he apologized, “Sorry, I ate some of your flour, I was just so hungry.”
(Now admittedly, he was not charging a lot, my monthly rent was $150, and that included utilities, cable and landscaping service. But, he didn’t have many expenses either–a minor pot habit and a taste for eight different types of exotic fruit juice, oh, and a little bit of dog food.)
“No problem,” I said (I guess I said that, what the fuck else could you say). Then he promised to replace it and went back down to his dungeon. Now it was time to get ready for the weekly weekend’s party.
For some reason, I locked the back door, which was our front door, on the way out to the liquor store. This wouldn’t normally be a big deal, we kept the key right under an old keg on the screened in back porch, but upon my return, hands full, I tilted the keg with one leg and with the other foot started to slide the key out from under…now imagine this part in slow motion:
That little piece of metal teetering between two wooden slats, it starts to stabilize–shew–I point my toes and press firmly down–shit–its delicate balance upset as it disappears through the porch down to the damp dark earth.
No big deal, you say. Just climb under and retrieve it. Not so fast…did I mention the house’s most endearing trait? Morely was the proud owner of eight or maybe nine of the most decrepit, dirty, disease-ridden dogs roaming Wise County. And while I may not be the world’s biggest dog lover, I don’t mind an occasional run in with man’s best friend. But these mutts were absolutely mangy. One had a hernia the size of a waterlogged softball, one had spots of hair on it’s skin coat, we found one coughing up blood after a chicken bone eviscerated its stomach, and one was relatively healthy looking but barked all the fucking time. Under the porch, where all the rainwater and spilled beer collected, they resided.
So I weighed my options: go in through Morely’s portion of the house, but we locked the door to his staircase from our side, so that was out, climb in my roommates window which was only a few feet off the ground, that could work, or, close my eyes and marine crawl right into the heart of their lair. Unfortunately, I didn’t really have much of a choice–any option I came up with would just delay the inevitable–because this was the only key, Morely didn’t even have one.
Darkness. The location of the key was actually relatively close to one edge of the porch. However, getting underneath was impossible from that side so I had to enter from the far end. I was in luck, only one sleeping beast lied in the frothy cesspool. And since birth I have been afflicted with sub-par olfaction. “Don’t these lilacs smell wonderful,” my mom would say. Sometimes I would humor her and other times I would tell the truth.
“I don’t really smell anything.”
But now my nostrils were flooded with sensation–making up for a twenty plus year aromatic deficiency with the pungent metallic aroma of dog piss. Not the clean urine smell that results from a well hydrated evacuation of the bladder, but the vile odor of the deep orange fluid that comes out after days of water deprivation. Right then I understood why they say smell is so importantly tied to taste. Because not only could I taste dog piss and beer that had been pissed, but I started to taste hair. My tongue twitched and I made the mistake of swallowing the saliva pooling in my mouth. The gagging caused my elbows to plunge deeper into the sludge and awaken the sleeping dog. Hernia dog. One of the friendly ones. He wiggled over and salivating worse than me, ran his slippery tongue across my nape (that’s the back of my fucking neck, in case I wasn’t clear).
About halfway to the target, to far to turn back, I accelerated. No longer just moving my elbows, I was enlisting my entire body. Humping up and down like an inch worm. But, it was too late, Hernia dog barked with excitement alerting the others of my infiltration. Hunched down they filed in one by one, until there were ten of us.
As I reached the key, they were on me. Rubbing and barking and coughing and drooling. I entered the fetal position and closed my eyes like I do when I’m having a bad dream. But it didn’t work, I didn’t even need to reopen them to know that the wet breath–reeking of old chicken–beating down on my face belonged to them. Paralyzed.
“Heeeyyyy, dinner time,” I faintly heard Morely or maybe god yelling. All hell…as they scrambled to evacuate, at once. Their paws dug and kicked up soiled soil, onto my face, up my nose, over my eyelids and later staining my q-tips. But at least they were gone.
I got out. Obviously. And we never locked the door again.