THE SNIFFER
It’s 3 in the morning. I need a sniff, so I go find a date. I’m fresh out of oven cleaner.
Tammy Faye face, dollar store wig, she smokes Camels on the chaise while I root through her kitchen.
“Come, give Mommy a kiss,” she teases.
I’m looking for oven cleaner but only finding rat traps. Big ones. Kind could take off a finger, a toe.
“Come see Mommy,” she snaps.
I’m toppling Green Gobbler, Draino, and Liquid Plumr bottles. Lady must have a problem with her pipes. Maybe it’s the rats.
“What are you doing in there?”
I need a sniff but can’t find the oven cleaner.
In the doorway, I stand.
“Where’s your oven cleaner?”
“Oven cleaner? Honey, I don’t cook. I’ve never once touched a stove, ghastly things.”
I grab my coat.
“Where are you going? Aren’t we gonna smooch?”
“I’m not looking for anything serious,” I say. “I’m looking for oven cleaner.”
I’m out the door.
Guy seems nice. Pastel walls. Anime dolls. On the couch, he’s hunched over knees, anticipating, already tongue to lips licking.
I walk into his kitchen and on my knees, I comb through his cabinet. I need one hit. A single sniff will do. Man’s got to have oven cleaner.
“Jeremy? Your name is Jeremy, right? What are you doing in there?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “It’s a surprise. A real big surprise.”
But I’m the one surprised. His cabinet is all candles. Chocolate Pumpkin. Citrus Sunflower. Cactus Pine. Dozens of them. Scent combos that don’t make sense.
I’m not looking for a long time or even a good time. I’m only looking for oven cleaner. It can’t be this hard.
“Jeffrey? Your name is Jeffrey, right?” I say. “Where the fuck is the oven cleaner, Jeffrey?”
“Pardon?”
In the doorway, I stand.
“I think you heard me. Your oven cleaner?” I say. “Where is it?”
His eyes dance around his face. I can’t tell if he’s thinking or reliving an episode.
“What if I say I don’t have any? What if I say I’m all out? What happens then? What will you do to me?”
I grab my coat.
“Was that all this was? You only wanted me for my oven cleaner, Jeremy?”
I’m out the door.
At first, I forgot. She’s lived in the building longer than me, longer than anyone. She was born in the building, and she will die here. She has clients in the city, some on the Upper West Side. I know Yordanka the maid must be holding.
I knock.
“I know it’s late,” I say. “But it’s your neighbor, Jeremy.”
There’s rustling behind the door.
“What is it?” she says.
“I need to borrow something. It’s an emergency.”
“What is emergency? What do you need?”
Afraid I’m going to blow my shot, I think of something to say.
“Open up, and I’ll tell you, Mrs. Ivkov.”
“No—you say now, or I go to bed.”
“I need oven cleaner. It’s an emergency. A cleaning emergency.”
The lock clicks. The door opens, and Yordanka Ivkov stands before me in her pink faux rabbit fur robe.
“Yes, this is emergency I understand. Come in.”
I stop in her living room. It’s hard to believe.
There is no furniture. The floor is covered in drop cloth, and the windows are draped in tin foil. No way to see in or out. But it’s the corner of the room that is most unexpected. There are two industrial pallets of oven cleaner, straight from the factory floor. Mrs. Ivkov is hoarding all the oven cleaner in lower New Jersey.
I can’t speak.
“Here, will be better.” she says.
She hands me a brand-new can of oven cleaner and a brown paper bag.
“You see this is emergency I am planned for, Mr. Jeremy.”
I spray the can into the bag, wrap it around my muzzle, and sniff.
Carpal BoSS
I punched walls for the sound, the shudder, the sting. Said it was better than faces, right?
Nobody laughed.
The ridge came later, a knob swelling on the back of my hand—orthopedics called it a carpal boss.
I called it proof.
Some walls give a little, some walls give a lot, but drywall feels like nothing until your fist hits what just won’t give, and you realize it’s you who breaks.
