The Hobo Poop Situation

Last week was not the most delightful of my time in New York so far. I had the flu and one meeellion things to do, so I was basically hunched over my computer most of the week, in bed, feeling alternately like I was stuck in a freezer or roasting over coals, and perhaps, as I’ve mentioned, I also had a not-so-great attitude.

However, Friday was the kicker, because when I stepped outside of my apartment in the morning, a horrid smell assaulted my nostrils. It was shit, not to put too fine a point on it, and not that of a healthy person who eats their greens and drinks tea and meditates, either. It was sick people shit, which I think we can agree is the very worst kind.

I made my way cautiously down the stairs, the smell getting worse and worse with each step. I kept checking my shoes, peering into corners, trying my best to beware, but the trouble with bad smells is that you feel like they’re getting at you anyway, even if you don’t step in their source. It’s like they’re creeping into your pores, and also, like you’re eating them.

When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I discovered the source of the problem. Some stank-ass hobo (tm the Mouse) had let himself (or herself, I suppose) into my front hall, via the broken front door, and taken a copious, corn-filled dump all over the tile. They then removed their shirt, wiped their hiney, and left it, like a filthy flag, in a crumpled heap beside the poo. Oh, and also? When they left? This person dragged the front door through their crap, leaving a FAN OF EXCREMENT behind them. I don’t like to shout, but you’ll have to forgive me, because it was really almost more than I could stand. I nearly turned around and went back upstairs, but I couldn’t imagine calling my boss and telling her that I would have to work from home today, because of the hobo poop situation. Some people find that unprofessional, go figure.

It took me a full two and a half minutes to get around the poo and out my front door. This involved balletic leaps and leans and sidles, and a lot of barely suppressed retching. When I got outside, I checked my shoes and cuffs and pant-legs for crap, and found everything clean, but I still felt vaguely soiled for the rest of the day.

Now that, ladies and gents, is how you finish a crappy week. Ta-da!

Published by Jen Hubley Luckwaldt

I'm a freelance writer and editor.

10 thoughts on “The Hobo Poop Situation

  1. Thank god you didn’t slip in the middle of trying to turn a ballonné into a ballotté, that’s all I can say.

    “and also, like you’re eating them.” Best. Quote. Ever.

  2. Can me and Stu use “Fan of Excrement” as the name of our band. That rocks. so. hard.

    Seriously. Think of the colours.

  3. god.all.mighty. Who do you get to clean up crap like that after you’ve discovered it? Is your land lord that nice?? Blech, and I thought shopping carts leaning against your door was a bad thing…..

  4. Hells yeah it’s the landlord’s job to clean up that mess. If he can’t fix the frigging outer door so that people can’t come in and shit all over the place, then he should at least be responsible for cleaning up said shit.

  5. When I had a store on Boylston St. in Boston, one of the street people used to make a cardboard house in the alley doorway out back. This was annoying, because the city required all deliveries be made from the alley, and sometimes things arrived before the 1 PM our squatter would vacate the premisis to hang out on the Common. Usually, truckers or UPS drivers would just pass us by, putting a delivery note in the mail saying things like, “YO mu-fuh kiddin’, sookarr, don has’le dis tooky (sic) no flop, sookarr.” My assistant manager translated this to me as, “delivery was refused.”

    So I had to drive to South Boston, or some uncultured land adjacent to our toney Back Bay address, and pick up my stuff from the depot.

    Bad enough. But one day some hooligan driver from Maine simply tore down the cardboard house, pulling it down into the alley and drove his straight truck over it, smushing our squatter’s elegant salon into puddles of reconstituted pulp.

    Sometime later that night, expressing his chagrin for this rude reawakening to the homeless status, our squatter did just that: squatted on the ancient granite threshold, loosing what only a junkie’s decending colon could manufacture.

    It’s been more than 25 years, but every time I walk the block of Boylston South of Arlington, I swear I can still smell it.

    My condolances, pookie, such a memory is lastingly shitty.

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