The Slob

As I traveled down the road for the first few minutes, I didn’t notice a single house. Sure, it was rural out there, but after five minutes, you’d expect to see something. The concrete turned to dirt and the trek got a bit more rigid. The bouncing suspension in my Chevy Spectrum was on the fritz; it was far from an all-terrain vehicle. I slowed my speed, starting to wonder if this drive was even going to be worth it. As I began looking for somewhere to turn around, I noticed a chipped russet roof further off in the distance.

“Finally,” I said aloud in the car to myself. I was really in the sticks now; the house was encompassed by a mixture of oaks and pines. The land surrounding me had become raw and unmaintained—the ruggedness of a road less traveled. The trees were not in their infancy by any means and towered over the front of the property, isolating it from any hope of outside contact.

Pulling into the driveway almost felt like it did when you arrived at a park campsite. After finally making it to the end, I noticed a big red pickup truck parked out in front of the house. I could also hear some pheasants clucking frantically in the barn to the right of the property, this was clearly country living.

The house itself was monstrous, the wood siding looked beat to hell and the shades that hung in the windows were yellowed from ages of sun-blocking. One of the odd features of the house was the barred windows, this was more of a style that you’d notice in the inner-city, not out in the boonies. So far, during my relatively brief travels, I’d yet to see it in that setting. Some people can be overly precautious, I rationalized.

One thing seemed certain, a massive house like the one I was faced with was a real pain in the ass to keep clean. The place had a lot of potential to be an easy sell. I’d come so far out of my way at this point, I was going to be pretty pissed if I couldn’t get a bite out of the interaction. I was hungry to finish my last run with a big payday and this next sale would be worth double. It was time to wrap things up on a high note.

I pulled the Bissell up to the front door beside me, envisioning the sale before I even pitched it. When I pressed the front button, it buzzed, sounding more like a telephone from the 60s than a doorbell. I could see one of the blinds behind the set of four windows in the half-hexagon design getting pulled sideways.

It was hard to see who was looking out due to the glare but it was good to know they were home. I could hear someone closing in on the door, and once they got near, a short series of unlocking noises.

I pulled the screen door toward me ready to meet the owner face to face and sell them the dream. As the flaking black door came ajar, the sunlight crept into the darker background. It was hard to make out initially but as it continued to further extend, the owner’s presence became more apparent.

The smell made its way out well before the owner; a pungent odor a million times worse than the disheveled salesman. As repulsive as it was to me, in the cleaning business, that was the smell of success. The smell of double-payout.

My sense of smell had evolved into something unique. It wasn’t the run of the mill, straightforward type that the majority of people took for granted without thanks. I’d had an unfortunate accident when I was younger that changed me and how I picked up on scents.

I wasn’t sure if I was able to still smell everything (although I liked to believe I could) but to what degree, and the potency seemed to be the major variance. Usually, I could at least pick up on most fragrances in the air, but on more than one occasion, people have pointed out odors that I’d been oblivious to. So, when a house’s aroma was too funky for me, I knew the situation must have been dire. But that just threw up more dollar signs and raised an extra calculated awareness within me. It let me know that the client, no matter how repugnant, had a high probability of being profitable.

The first thing I saw was his teeth. They reminded me of a bumblebee because they were mostly yellow and black. They were caked with plaque that looked like something you’d scrape off the bottom of an aquarium. There was also a buildup, possibly of food in the corners of his mouth. The leftovers were both crusty and wet in some areas. His gray jogging pants looked as if they were the only pair he’d ever put on. They were worn-out at the knees and frayed in other random areas.

The girth of his gut stretched the limits of his elastic waistband. It didn’t just hang over it, the ball of fat was so large that it had grown in both directions, taking both the over and under like a bet that didn’t make sense.

Not that I believed that the bizarre man was having sex, but if he was, it would be a serious challenge to find his manhood. It would be an equally serious challenge to clean himself in the shower… again, not that he appeared to be targeting that…

One of his shoelaces was untied and the other was missing completely. He was like a child that had tried dressing himself for the first time without Mommy. The boots he wore certainly had some miles on them. The steel-toe tip of his left boot was partially exposed while the other was missing completely. This left his foot open to the public. By the looks of it, his sickening stilt could use some fresh air but this would be at humanity’s expense.

His big toe was missing the nail like it’d been savagely ripped off. The skin had regrown over the torn area and still looked fresh with wrinkles and a rawness that was painful to look at. After examining the two toes beside it, the nail’s absence might’ve been for the best.

There was a marbled combination of beige and purple that he exhibited running through the base underneath the remaining cracked toenails. All of these areas were surrounded by a thick lip of dead skin. This wasn’t your typical case of athlete’s foot—this man was sure as hell no athlete. The man displayed a special level of bodily negligence that didn’t stop there.

The “white” undershirt he was wearing had lost any resemblance to the initial product it had been on the shelf. The discoloration was bleeding out from his skin; grime layered upon grime. His permanent armpit stains had stretched so far out that it felt like there was a possibility that they might get to meet someday. Curls of hair and flakes of dried skin overgrew out of his pits and sternum.

The man’s face was by far the most stomach-rumbling aspect of his presence. The dirt matted on his skin could be seen visibly clogging his pores, and an oil forest of irritation marched around his pancake cheeks. Many of the whiteheads and blackheads had hairs emerging out from them. Other parts of his face appeared as if he’d been clawing at them like a dog. They were scabby and leaking a mishmash of clear and red fluid while mostly absent of stubble.

He looked relatively young, but his many rows of crinkles were created from the massive amounts of lard insulating his surface. The blubber was distributed unevenly, so some areas mushroomed out more than others. His nose protruded outward, each nostril ejecting two crusted sprouting lengths of hair and a large bone at the halfway point, which almost curved a bit like a triangle.

His hair truly resembled a mop, stretching down behind his head to the back of his kneecaps. People seem to use that description often but I’d never met someone who it applied to more. Large clumps of his follicles found themselves clinging together by a self-generated hair gel that used his own ingredients as a secret formula. A mixture of grease, oil, and dried skin amongst other indescribable fluids that I could only speculate had joined together to birth the gross but effective adhesive.

I’d never seen hair that long on a man before, not to mention most larger guys I knew seemed to keep it cut shorter than the curious styling he’d chosen. Actually, it didn’t seem to be so much a choice as it was the avoidance of one. After taking in most of his appearance, I returned to where every good salesperson should be looking when they make their pitch; the eyes. Still, I couldn’t quite focus yet…

His unibrow connected above a pair of glassy, crooked pupils. He was so cockeyed that it was difficult to tell if he could see me. The left eye was pulled in the opposite direction and it seemed like his nose bone might be blocking its line of vision to some extent. The right one was completely kicked out and simmering in a warm white deadness like it was comprised of curdled milk. It was sickening to have to stare at. The guy was a total fucking slob.

Initially, I was apprehensive when looking around the house. It reminded me very much of my own house growing up, a flood of vile snapshots lacquered my mind. I forced them out, instead, thinking about Daniel and the baby. I left all of that behind me, we’d begun living a different way that was separated from those trying early years. If I wanted to keep that up, I was going to have to deal with situations like this. Nasty people living in nasty places were the ones who needed my help.

Sure, just stepping foot into the place skeeved me out and so did the disgusting man, but he seemed harmless. He was just nauseating more than anything. The Slob didn’t strike me as much of a talker, so I decided to cut right to the chase. This guy obviously doesn’t care too much about cleaning but if I could just show him how it works, how easy it is, I’d have a chance to close the deal. I decided to skip all the minor chit-chat and go for the kill instead.

“Hello, sir, my name is Mrs. Vera Harlow, and I’m a representative for Doorway Sales Group. We’re running a promotion right now where we can offer you a complimentary demonstration of this Bissell self-contained 1632 model. This is the first of its kind, made specifically to cater to the consumer. No tether hose required, no hassle on your part. Believe me, because I believe in my products. I would not be representing this one otherwise. I sure would love to give you a short demonstration and make you a believer too. May I ask you, is there a rug or carpet in the house that has some build-up? I mean it, the dirtiest carpet in the house, bring it on. If you give me just a moment of your time, I can show you something that will make your life ten times easier. Would that be possible, mister?”

I said mister in a manner where I was waiting for him to respond and tell me his name. He didn’t. Instead, he just nodded his head slightly and gave a big cheesy smile like fate was on his side. He stepped aside, allowing me to enter and lift the Bissell into the house.

I walked a few paces inside and turned back toward him. He shut the door and began to lock it. Strangely, all the locks inside the door were key-operated. No wonder why it took him so long to open it up, I thought. It struck me as odd since I had never seen keyhole locks on the inside of the front door before.

At the time, I understood I was confined but I still wasn’t uncomfortable. The more I thought about it, I actually started to feel terrible about the way I’d been referring to him internally. Calling him disgusting and a slob was inappropriate. What if it’s out of his control?

Something about him struck me as gentle and kind, I pitied him more than anything. Like the homeless people I gave plates out to on Thanksgiving or the sad salesman whose life was clearly in shambles. These were people that needed the help because they surely couldn’t help themselves.

It began to dawn on me that he might be a little slow. I had a mentally challenged cousin, Benji, and knew many basic things could quickly morph into exceedingly problematic tasks for him. He was fortunate to have my Aunt Hilda there for support. Maybe this man wasn’t so fortunate.

His hygiene issues could have been avoided depending on who was there for him. He seemed a little older, maybe his folks had passed on or were not getting around as easily anymore. I always wished that more people would be willing to help and get involved with the mentally challenged, but usually, the people I encountered were more likely to poke fun and mock them before they offered a hand.

He continued without speaking, ascending the stairs while I trailed behind him. The rug that covered the steps was filthy enough to warrant a demonstration. I considered stopping and just asking to do that one, but I did challenge him to bring me to the dirtiest carpet in the house…

The old wooden boards creaked with each touch as our feet kicked up dust that was highly visible even without a strong light source. When we reached the top, we rounded the railing down the hallway which held a lone door toward the end.

I figured it would have probably been his bedroom. Shaggy carpets were pretty popular at the moment and if that was what he had, there was no telling how black the water in the vacuum might turn. The back of his legs continued to jump in and out of the curtain of hair behind him. I noticed a bald spot starting to show through the top of his skull. His long hair might be headed out of style in the near future. It might’ve been for the best with a mane that ridiculous-looking.

As we approached the door, he was still palming the bulky, circular key ring. The metal clinked together as he located the key and inserted it into the door. The lock clicked and he gestured for me to enter in what felt like a gentlemanly fashion. The room was dim and only slightly illuminated by the sun that was leaking in from the edges of the shades.

When I stepped in, he swatted the light switch on, bringing visibility to the entire room. The room itself seemed quite dated, old wallpaper with a variety of bicycle types was stuck to the walls. Many areas had tears that exposed the white chalkiness underneath. The bedsheets appeared ruffled and slept in. Some female clothing was strewn over the dresser with jewelry and make-up on each side.

What was peculiar about this room was that it didn’t have a particularly nasty carpet. It wasn’t deeply clean or anything of that nature, but it looked a lot better than the other fabrics he traced over already. I glanced at him a bit confused before confirming.

“You sure this is the one? You wouldn’t prefer I maybe do your stairs? There is usually quite a bit of traffic in those areas.”

Again, he didn’t reply. Instead, he aimed his finger over to the other side of the raised bed. I wasn’t sure why only one area would be dirty and the rest wouldn’t, but I politely obliged him. If I could just show him how the damn vacuum worked, I could score the sale and be done with the man and his offensive household.

I was there to help, but with each growing minute I stayed, I felt more uneasy. My anxious vibe was about to be amplified to an unprecedented scope. Once I reached the other side of the bed, my life would be altered forever.