I awoke the next morning with a searing pain in my nostrils. Recalling back to the sepia toned childhood memories of sunny days, ants skittering about on a sidewalk, and Dad’s magnifying glass, I detected the faint aroma of burning insects. It's most likely my sexagenarian neighbor, cooking what I could only guess was some form of meat. Rancid bacon perhaps? Even when he’s burned it at it’s worst, bacon still retains some pleasant aroma that reminds you of songwriter Jimmy Dean, strumming a guitar with a devilishly sinister grin. The stink, however, was unbearable.
I threw on some shorts and a T-shirt and lumbered across to the apartment where the stink was. The sun was out with a few clouds, not a bad morning, but a hell of a way to wake up. As I made my way down the stairwell I noticed that the smell had attracted a few other annoyed neighbors. I’ve never seen such a motley collection of humanity. A couple of kids were running around squealing and chasing each other with loaded cap guns. Older gentlemen were standing around in their stained undershirts and black socks. Why is that such a popular fashion combination indigenous to older generations? Some of the more obese women were wearing discolored and worn out bathrobes with holes just big enough for you to catch a glimpse of their pasty, dimpled thighs as they complained about one thing or another. Each of their faces were painted in grimaces of disgust. A fitting visual image for such a wretched odor.
The tenants made a few more attempts to get the attention of their elder neighbor, of whom to this day they hadn’t seen anyone pay the old man a visit.
Bernard had lived a very quiet life, in that apartment for well over 20 years. He lived alone, never had any parties, never said as much as "hello" if you passed him by on the stairs. He’d just give you a crooked smile and quick, gravelly grunt. It was said that he lived in New York for a number of years with his late wife. She was the daughter of an oil tycoon and upon the death of her father, she stood to inherit over a million dollars after taxes. Bernie didn’t want any part of his wife’s inheritance due to some disagreement he had with her father. One night, in a heated argument, his wife got in their car and drove off. The police found her car the next day on a country road wrapped around a tree with part of her lifeless body still inside. It seems she lost control of the vehicle on a sharp turn and spun out, or so they thought. I’m always a skeptic. He truly loved his wife and nothing else. All he ever wanted was her, not her money. It is unclear as to what Bernie did with the money. According to local legend, it's said that he burned it all in an attempt to exorcise the ghost of his late wife. Since then, he had led a very lonely and squalid life.
This morning, all attempts to get his attention were to no avail.
Rumors of what was happening in his apartment were spreading like wildfire. People were saying that he was cooking “Vietnamese Style”, others were implying that he just fell asleep and left the stove on. Some were voicing concerns about having their apartments burned down because of his carelessness. A few neighbors were whipped into such a frenzy that they ended up calling the cops.
By the time the cops showed up, there were visible signs of some type of smoke coming from the cracks of his door. Immediately, the cops called in to the fire department for backup. Within moments, the fire engines arrived and firefighters were unfurling their hoses to douse the possible fire. With the entire apartment complex as audience, the fire fighters kicked down Bernie's door as clouds of stench visibly billowed forth. Everyone cupped their hands over their mouth's as the fire crew cautiously pressed in.
A few tense moments later, they came back out, faces forlorn, some retching on the porch.
Everyone squealed in horror by what happened next...
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