back MR. SHAY by Megan Baltimore The refrigerator in my apartment, among other things, wasn’t working. It would get really cold, causing any vegetables inside to get frost on them and then just completely break down, making everything room temperature. The freezer would do the same, but it would get so frosted that I would have to pry the door open with a screw driver. When I felt like I could not take the surprise of spoiled food anymore, I called my apartment manager. He is an older man and should not be tending to anything other then his health. But he is cheap and controlling and will not face the reality of this building and himself as a very unhealthy, weak human. I’m not ragging on him for being old, that is all our fates. But I guess at some point you need to grasp your age and what it allows you to still do. We made a time for him to come over. I really hate even having him in my apartment because he is very dirty. My carpet is a cream color and I actually hate anyone walking on it. I like to vacuum and then leave right afterwards. I like to come home to the perfect lines on the carpet that the vacuum leaves. Mr. Shay breathes really hard, all the time. When he breathes, I think I see germs. He has some hearing problems but this doesn’t ever make him turn down the volume of the radio he carries in the breast pocket of his plaid shirt. He talks quite loud. The louder he speaks the quieter I try and remain. I have this theory that if I speak more quietly, he will follow suit and thus, exert less energy yelling and less germs will escape his mouth. He came over and I was standing in the kitchen, dreading him walking across my carpet. He finally reached the linoleum in the kitchen. I was so anxious from his shoes on the carpet that I had a little relief for a moment. He bent down and pulled the tray from under the fridge. I have tried several times to clean this tray out. I have used ammonia, rubbing alcohol, bleach. Nothing works. So as the tray comes out, my anxiety goes back to full tilt. I’ve had to operate with the “out of sight, out of mind” theory on this tray. I can’t get it clean, so it is a nagging failure. So I try to never look at it. I can’t remember the exact order of events. There was some talk about the “fridge not working too well.” But that doesn’t matter because what happened next... well, it happened next. Mr. Shay was using all his energy, mental and physical, to concentrate on standing back up from the tray. As he got into somewhat of an upward position, something fell out the leg of his pants. I thought at first it was a dryer sheet. That would have been nice. I would have re-evaluated him as a man. He wants his clothes fresh and soft and he’ll spend a little extra to get that. I like that. But it wasn’t a dryer sheet. It was a wadded up piece of toilet paper with crap and blood on it. Human crap and blood. Toilet paper with crap and blood on the kitchen floor that I wipe down with bleach every other day. I can’t remember what he said as he crossed the carpet to leave, I was having a panic attack. I thought I might faint and then I thought about fainting and falling and hitting some part of my body on the toilet paper. As soon as Mr. Shay closed the door behind him, I ran to the bedroom and then into the bathroom. I could not come up with a plan. I went back to my bedroom and dug out a t-shirt. I wrapped it around my face, cowboy bandit style. I grabbed another t-shirt that I would have to sacrifice and went back to the kitchen. From under the sink, I got rubber gloves that had never felt so difficult to get on. I was now crying. I put the second t-shirt over the toilet paper and tried to scoop it all up in one motion. Like catching a bug or something. In retrospect, this was a mistake and the error of my ways was clear once I lifted it all up. A streak of shit on my kitchen floor! Why did I use such a heavy t-shirt? I should have cut a piece of the t-shirt off, making a lighter scoop tool and not causing a skid. Full unfamiliar panic had set in at this point. I was trying to calm down because I thought the panic was effecting my survival. A vicious circle. I would calm down, then round the corner to full anxiety complete with perspiration each time I have to go over the fact that there was human crap on my floor. Man crap. Then, I went to the front door and panicked about whether or not to touch the door knob. I was so freaked out that I couldn’t remember if there was any possibility that the rubber gloves directly touched the crap. I opened the door and told myself I would wipe off the door knob with alcohol when I returned from the dumpster. I ran down the front stairs with the disaster in my hands. The t-shirt that was around my face was now around my neck as I ran to the back of my building. I wanted to scream with joy when I saw the lid of the dumpster was up—I actually thought my mind might vapor lock if the lid was down. I threw the t-shirt scooper and its contents into the bin. I then took my rubber gloves off and threw them in. I ran back up to my apartment. It smelled like crap. I think. I couldn’t tell in the insane panic. I put the t-shirt around my neck back into bandit position. I poured rubbing alcohol on the skid. I got an old beach towel and folded it over four times. I made a sort of wiping and scooping motion. I hardly wanted to look and when I did, it was gone. At least, I couldn’t see it. Mr. Shay never even knew he left something in my apartment that day. That was two years ago. I changed the locks so he can’t ever enter without me knowing. I’ve never, ever walked on that two square feet of my kitchen floor again. It has a mental outline around it. I hope and pray its only mental. This story originally appeared Wallride #2. ©2003 Megan Baltimore