Smelly Old Man

There’s this one place I hate to go. It’s a triplex on a cul-de-sac in Arlanza. Actually, it’s a trailer behind a triplex, occupied by a smelly motherfucker with a big, old-man-of-the-mountain beard and hunched posture. Know that scene from Indiana Jones when the Angel of Death comes out of the Ark of the Covenant in and melts all the Nazis? That’s what happens to you when you smell this guy’s living space.

I wish you could hear my impression of the way this guy talks. Just imagine Gollum’s hiss when he inhales, Popeye’s growl when he flexes his vocal chords, and when he’s relieving his lungs of the excess air, a horse flapping its lips. In fact, he does that every single time he exhales, often to saliva-spattering effects.

He always has his fly down and doesn’t seem to have a pair of underwear to his name. I’ve only ever seen the bare skin of his leg, and luckily not any part of him I wouldn’t want to see (but then, I really don’t wanna see him in the first place). So as not to catch a glimpse of any shriveled sex organs, I have to focus on his face, which isn’t much better with the beard and the missing teeth and the nasal secretion and the O2 tubes strung around his chin and behind his ears.

His favorite item on the menu? Sandwiches. He always orders 40 or 50 dollars worth of sandwiches, usually with an armload of sodas, and despite the fact that he always pays with a 100 dollar bill, he never fucking tips.

I understand if someone is poor. I understand this guy is old and feeble and may not be able to drive. But there are public transportation methods here. There’s “Dial a Ride.” Heck, he probably lives close enough to one of the grocery stores that offers shuttle services. 50 dollars can buy so much more food at a market than at a restaurant.

But this motherfucker orders 12 diet Pepsis. Almost cleans out our fridge. Seriously, there’s only one left. I can only bag them four 2-liter bottles at a time, using two liners so they don’t break and spill all over the place. It takes three trips to and from my car, it’s not a short walk (because triplexes are somewhat deep), and it’s fucking heavy.

Even though I may profess to the world that you do not fuck with anyone who handles your food, I’m still not the type to spit in a drink or jizz in the dough. That’s just gross. But you better believe I give each and every one of these 2-liter bottles a shake. I can just imagine them exploding in the old fucker’s face.

You know, I hate to say these things, because I don’t wanna be in this guy’s situation. I don’t wanna be old and lonely, dying in a trailer with oxygen tubes sticking out of my nose. I know I’m gonna get old, too. I want a family (or someone) to take care of me.

But if I pay the delivery driver with a 100 dollar bill every fucking time, I’m gonna at least spare a buck. Maybe two or three.