We dreaded getting calls like this: "We haven't see 'ol so and so in a day or two. Wonder if you'd check to see if they're okay."We especially hated to get these calls in hot weather. Why? Many times ol' so and so had come to an untimely demise and was rotting on the premises.
The worse place to answer these calls was McDonald's Quarters, Naples' shameful ghetto. The shacks, none better than a tool shed, had no air conditioning and on hot days were an oven, hastening the decay. On such a day we responded to a call. Big Bertha, it seems, hadn't been seen by her neighbors in about a week. Bertha would sometimes hole up in her shack for a few days, drunk as a rock star, but never for a week.
Checking out the shack, the window glass seemed to be moving. A terrible sign. That was a thousand flies trying to get in so they could contribute to the putrefaction chain. When we opened the door, a vile eruption that can't be described assailed our noses. It was the kind of instant retching, eye-watering, knee-buckling, foulness that permeates your clothes and can't be washed out. We would've paid a thousand bucks for an oxygen mast but the City didn't see fit to buy them at the time.
Bertha was on her back on the floor, swarming with maggots, and bloated and ruptured around the stomach. We slammed the door and called "Mr. Sears." Mr. Sears was the black undertaker in Ft. Myers that all blacks used. He was quick to respond.
He parked his hearse, opened the back door and took out a coffee can and a frying pan. He greeted us, walked by and set the pan on the stove, turned it on, and poured in about a cup of ground coffee. He came back outside, passed the time of day with us for about fifteen-minutes, then opened the door and sniffed. "Ah," he said, "that'll do." We, reluctantly, followed him inside. Miraculously, the toasted coffee smell had made the air now, at least, bearable. We were able to do our work. A grisly trick of the trade I've always remembered.
So our Helpful Household Hint. Left those steaks in the fridge a week too long? Toilet back up on you? Got a fat dog that leaks more methane than the city dump? Or maybe it's just your fat dog husband, vegetating in front of the TV, starting to smell like a warthog.
Fear not. Get out that ol' fryin' pan, dump in some ground coffee, heat it up and shortly Juan Valdez will've saved the day.
The worse place to answer these calls was McDonald's Quarters, Naples' shameful ghetto. The shacks, none better than a tool shed, had no air conditioning and on hot days were an oven, hastening the decay. On such a day we responded to a call. Big Bertha, it seems, hadn't been seen by her neighbors in about a week. Bertha would sometimes hole up in her shack for a few days, drunk as a rock star, but never for a week.
Checking out the shack, the window glass seemed to be moving. A terrible sign. That was a thousand flies trying to get in so they could contribute to the putrefaction chain. When we opened the door, a vile eruption that can't be described assailed our noses. It was the kind of instant retching, eye-watering, knee-buckling, foulness that permeates your clothes and can't be washed out. We would've paid a thousand bucks for an oxygen mast but the City didn't see fit to buy them at the time.
Bertha was on her back on the floor, swarming with maggots, and bloated and ruptured around the stomach. We slammed the door and called "Mr. Sears." Mr. Sears was the black undertaker in Ft. Myers that all blacks used. He was quick to respond.
He parked his hearse, opened the back door and took out a coffee can and a frying pan. He greeted us, walked by and set the pan on the stove, turned it on, and poured in about a cup of ground coffee. He came back outside, passed the time of day with us for about fifteen-minutes, then opened the door and sniffed. "Ah," he said, "that'll do." We, reluctantly, followed him inside. Miraculously, the toasted coffee smell had made the air now, at least, bearable. We were able to do our work. A grisly trick of the trade I've always remembered.
So our Helpful Household Hint. Left those steaks in the fridge a week too long? Toilet back up on you? Got a fat dog that leaks more methane than the city dump? Or maybe it's just your fat dog husband, vegetating in front of the TV, starting to smell like a warthog.
Fear not. Get out that ol' fryin' pan, dump in some ground coffee, heat it up and shortly Juan Valdez will've saved the day.
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