Sometimes I feel narcissistic for believing that weirder things happen to me than to other people. Surely, we all have morose encounters of a nerd kind. Some of us are just more thin-skinned about them than others, yes?
“No,” my friends say. “More bizarre things happen to you and with FAR more frequency than what befalls most sentient beings.” It’s my freak pheromone, they tell me. Like a drag queen to Coty’s Emeraude All Over Body Spray, it attracts odd cosmic coincidences, general catastrophe, crazed stalkers, and the sort of items, left by previous apartment tenants, that no one should ever have to discover in one’s freezer.
My friend, JRo once promised to write a biography about me and my famed pheromone. She was to entitle it, “At least You’re not Svetx: The ‘I’m Okay, You’re Okay’ Book of the Nineties.”
At the time of the pot roast incident, I was getting a divorce. Our house was on the market, but I wanted to remain in my cozy, quirky berg by the river. There was a rental available, one of the original mill houses on the far side of “town.” There was no central heat or air, but there was a wood stove, a lovely back porch perfect for a hammock, and a retro charm that dwarfed the fact that little barrier separated home dweller from wilderness dweller, including some Rodentia but mostly exoskeleton bearing biting beasts — crunchy on the outside, gooey on the inside.
Several of my friends had lived there previously. Rugged pioneer, green-living sorts whom I immensely admired. “That’s a tough house,” one of them told me. “The bathroom’s the coldest indoor space I’ve ever experienced,” warned another, one accustomed to sleeping on the open ground at bus stations as a way to afford navigating the more travel advisory laden zones of South America. The house had loads of character, however, and terrific neighbors with good taste in beer. To live in a great place, one must make concessions.
I hadn’t known the previous tenant. I’d only heard distasteful rumors, but since there had been no recent abductions or disappearances reported, I had never suspected that my predecessor was the Blair Witch. Dust bunnies the size of pregnant hippos rolled across the floor like giant tumbleweeds. Black handprints and crayon scratches covered the walls. There was a used, stained mattress on the back porch. Three of the six windows were either outright broken or significantly cracked. You don’t want me to tell you what the bathroom was like.
In the backyard, I found half-buried action figures strewn randomly through what may have once been flower beds or vegetable gardens. Sticky, rotting trash littered the patchy expanse. Odiferous refuse floated on three feet of standing water held stagnant by a large blue garbage can.
I called the landlord and offered to paint, clean, and, of course, smudge the place if she’d reduce my rent for two months. I didn’t plan to move in for another three weeks, and this would keep my mind occupied as I avoided dwelling on my separation — the expanding sense of void that made me feel like I’d just lost an arm and was learning how to live without it.
She agreed, so I set to work. I went bold — reds, greens, and aquatic blue wall colors that relished the outdoor adventure theme the house exudes. Neighbors helped. I was contented until we finally decided to open the freezer. The power had been off for an entire month. What we found there topped all freak pheromone-induced encounters I’d experienced to date. It was a bleeding, rotting pot roast only loosely wrapped in thin plastic. My neighbor, Kerry, slammed the door closed. We simultaneously wretched at the lingering stench. She continued wretching for a full six minutes.
A nurse, she managed to keep her wits about her following her wretchcapade. Kerry walked to the counter and pulled out some rubber gloves and a new hefty, hefty cinch sack. “You wanna grab or hold the bag?” She queried. Acknowledging my weaker constitution we agreed that I should go with bag holding. Fortunately, I had a truck well-suited to hauling rotting pot roasts to the downtown dump.
After we returned, I was not yet ready to confront the freezer with Clorox. I didn’t think I would be ready for at least another 72 hours. I wrote to the landlord and informed her of the undesirable condition of her kitchen appliance. I apologized all over myself for not thinking to check the freezer sooner. I was so sorry that I had discovered a rotting pot roast in its cavernous depths. I just didn’t want her to think that I had been the one to do this to her freezer.
What I received in reply was forwarded from the previous tenant. It read (brace yourself. Really, be sure you’re seated with barf bag in ready reach): “DO NOT THROW AWAY THE POT ROAST! IT’S NOT A POT ROAST. It’s my five-year-old son’s placenta.” Her phone number followed. I refrained from calling.
There it had lain: an ephemeral human organ, a bio-hazard. Right there between the ice trays and the t.v. dinners. I thought recovery had been difficult when it was still just a pot roast. I tried to imagine what Jeffrey Dahmer would do. He’d probably wretch too. Then he’d say something like, “Oh yeah, Doll, you have GOT to get rid of that fridge. That’s too gross even for me.”
It’s a small town, and how could I not alert the neighbors? What would they do if I offered them ice for their sweet tea or mint juleps some humid summer afternoon?
It took me 5 hours of pacing and ranting to neighbors for me to formulate an emailable response explaining to the Blair Witch that it was too late for her to preserve her giant, rotting block of biomatter for the ol’ scrapbook. She had moved to DC. What? Did she want me to put the thing on ice and have it helicoptered up to her? And how does one keep moving one’s placenta from apartment to apartment over the span of half a decade and then just walk off and forget it one day?
Moreover, who the heck does this kind of thing happen to? I bet you don’t know ANYONE else who’s found a human placenta in their new freezer. The only thing weirder is when my friend, Mel got bitten by a bat at her Grandma’s house in Michigan.
My landlord claimed that the fridge was salvageable with a little disinfectant and elbow grease, but I wasn’t woman enough to handle it. I went to the nearest Habitat Home Store and purchased a replacement appliance. God knows what had lain dormant in that used contraption, but whatever it was, at least I hadn’t smelled it.