the bog of stench
First entry in so very long. I still cater at the hotel. Something that I find both embarrassing (aren't I getting too old for this shit)..and comforting. I like small tasks. A wedding. Set the music, the lights, set out the food, the coffee for dessert, move the chairs to the right places, smile at the bride, and so on.
Yesterday, we had a very large breakfast buffet at 8:00. At 7:55, a co-worker set down one of our final plates of food. The square plate tapped a large vase full of decorative twigs. Sadly, and for no understandable reason, these twigs were in water, that was now foul and stagnant. (This is an understatement, but I will get to that later.)
At first, she thought it was juices from the tomato leaking onto her. "I've broken something. And it...." She froze in place, her face slowly turning green. Time slowed as the worst smell in the world, in liquid form, tidal waved over her inert form. "Ittttttt smmmmmeeeeeeeeeeellllllllllssssss bbaaaaaaaaddddddddddd."
Our captain moves her, hands me the drenched and vile place. We all stare, then I start gagging, and we run to housekeeping for assistance and a mop. I push past the first few guests as they start arriving.
"Dear God!" says one man.
For this is the worst smell I've ever smelled. Worse than the rank man on the subway or a dumpster full of hot garbage on a summer day. This malordorous atrocity smelled like a thousand dead babies who had pooped in their diapers had burst fourth. That smell, mixed with hot food smells, that moments before, smelled comforting and savory (egggs and pancakes, sausage, and such), and then on top, the sharp smell of bleach and the floral mistake of air freshener.
Oh horror, oh horror. When will my nose ever unknow these smells?
My coworker was still in shock. I gave her my backup pair of shoes, and we sent her to a vacated hotel room to shower and a new dress. She came back shakey but somewhat restored. I went to the kitchen and asked for tomato juice, since my hands still smelled like The Smell That Cannot Be Named.
"Whatchu want that for?" said the suspicious Trinidadian line cook. She always thinks I'm up to something, which I find so flattering.
"Well, what do you do for skunk smell?"
"Skunk? Oh. Is this about dat horror downstairs?"
"Yes."
She tosses me a few lemons. "Wash your hands with hot soap and water. You can also use Clorox. Den rub everything dat smells with lemons, dat will take away de smell."
And now my hands smell of lemon trees and invoke summer afternoons. But our hallway, after all of that cleaning, now smells like a 100 dead babies and warm urine.
"The smell has shifted from number two to number one," commented my boss, puzzled.
The clients were inexplicably accommodating. We shuffled them into their room and closed the door, dealt with the vile potation, opened all windows and doors, until the hallway gave off faint but offensive emanations. But if you didn't linger, it wasn't soooo bad.
Then the Flower Girl came (I don't know her name, we just call her the Flower Girl.) Poor dear. Yes, she didn't need to put a bunch of huge tree branches in water and let it turn into the devil incarnate, but half way into the entrance of the hotel with a large potted palm in her arms, a mob of the olfactory incensed, included the president of the hotel, had gathered around her in outrage.
"Oh come on," she said. "It was just some sticks in water it couldn't have been that bad."
And then she was torn apart like beef chuck, and pieces of her scattered to the hungry jackals.
No...not really. But she was made to smell a towel that had martyred itself in the cleaning process.
The Flower Girl turned greenish. "OMGTHATSTHEWORSTSMELLEVER."
We concur.
Yesterday, we had a very large breakfast buffet at 8:00. At 7:55, a co-worker set down one of our final plates of food. The square plate tapped a large vase full of decorative twigs. Sadly, and for no understandable reason, these twigs were in water, that was now foul and stagnant. (This is an understatement, but I will get to that later.)
At first, she thought it was juices from the tomato leaking onto her. "I've broken something. And it...." She froze in place, her face slowly turning green. Time slowed as the worst smell in the world, in liquid form, tidal waved over her inert form. "Ittttttt smmmmmeeeeeeeeeeellllllllllssssss bbaaaaaaaaddddddddddd."
Our captain moves her, hands me the drenched and vile place. We all stare, then I start gagging, and we run to housekeeping for assistance and a mop. I push past the first few guests as they start arriving.
"Dear God!" says one man.
For this is the worst smell I've ever smelled. Worse than the rank man on the subway or a dumpster full of hot garbage on a summer day. This malordorous atrocity smelled like a thousand dead babies who had pooped in their diapers had burst fourth. That smell, mixed with hot food smells, that moments before, smelled comforting and savory (egggs and pancakes, sausage, and such), and then on top, the sharp smell of bleach and the floral mistake of air freshener.
Oh horror, oh horror. When will my nose ever unknow these smells?
My coworker was still in shock. I gave her my backup pair of shoes, and we sent her to a vacated hotel room to shower and a new dress. She came back shakey but somewhat restored. I went to the kitchen and asked for tomato juice, since my hands still smelled like The Smell That Cannot Be Named.
"Whatchu want that for?" said the suspicious Trinidadian line cook. She always thinks I'm up to something, which I find so flattering.
"Well, what do you do for skunk smell?"
"Skunk? Oh. Is this about dat horror downstairs?"
"Yes."
She tosses me a few lemons. "Wash your hands with hot soap and water. You can also use Clorox. Den rub everything dat smells with lemons, dat will take away de smell."
And now my hands smell of lemon trees and invoke summer afternoons. But our hallway, after all of that cleaning, now smells like a 100 dead babies and warm urine.
"The smell has shifted from number two to number one," commented my boss, puzzled.
The clients were inexplicably accommodating. We shuffled them into their room and closed the door, dealt with the vile potation, opened all windows and doors, until the hallway gave off faint but offensive emanations. But if you didn't linger, it wasn't soooo bad.
Then the Flower Girl came (I don't know her name, we just call her the Flower Girl.) Poor dear. Yes, she didn't need to put a bunch of huge tree branches in water and let it turn into the devil incarnate, but half way into the entrance of the hotel with a large potted palm in her arms, a mob of the olfactory incensed, included the president of the hotel, had gathered around her in outrage.
"Oh come on," she said. "It was just some sticks in water it couldn't have been that bad."
And then she was torn apart like beef chuck, and pieces of her scattered to the hungry jackals.
No...not really. But she was made to smell a towel that had martyred itself in the cleaning process.
The Flower Girl turned greenish. "OMGTHATSTHEWORSTSMELLEVER."
We concur.