Locker Room Exploits

Locker Room Exploits
(I'll save you the suspense...it's not sexually driven in any way; unless you are particularly fond of looking for your twinkie under steaming rolls of searing flesh. Interested?In that case Read on.)

Some say death carries a distinct smell; appalling, inviting, repulsive all wrapped up into one warm waft. It wasn't until I walked into the locker room at the Y today that I remembered that reek. I remembered as a child, watching my grandfather slaughter a goat for Easter. The smell that circled the yard that very morning was the same I found in the locker room thousands of miles away in the middle of New Jersey.
The lady who loiters in the locker room at the Y whose odor trails not far behind, actually it exhumes from her body, from every pore in her body to every nasal receptor in mine, reminds me of that smell.
I walk into the locker room shortly after school, ready to pump some iron. Normal OCD routine: walk to the back of the locker room,towards the left, same locker, place my coat and clothes in there. I change and my yogurt and check my cell for text messages. When I am ready to go, I snap my I-pod on to my pants and feed the headphone wire under my shirt, curling around my ears like chandeliers. I walk towards the bathroom and notice both stalls were taken. As I decide to wash my hands in the meantime, my nose, bombarded by this wicked smell makes me search for the words to describe the rancid odor. I know I tell my students to show and not tell in their descriptive writing, but quite simply it smells like something died. It smells like something died and was then left in the steamroom for a few days to get nice and mushy, moist and putrid. I figure it is someone taking a super dump, (they'll have to flush soon) and just as I am going to go upstairs to use the potty, the lady using the handi-bathroom steps out. I enter after her and use the facilities, flushing before and after my usage. The entire time I am plagued by this foul stench that had practically all of a sudden grown the majestic proportions.
Of course I can't just run out, not with my pants around my ankles and my I-Pod now in hand. I step out of the stall and look around in the shower, in the wastebasket, maybe it's something else? I wash my hands again, removing my right headphone in order to try to distinguish the smell. I am rinsing the last suds off my palms when she exits. A shaggy mountain woman who I have dubbed Captain Stinkalot. I've told Cassandra about her, Doug too. Well it's her and she walks about in an oversized orange t-shirts (fat people should consider not wearing bright colors that draw attention to their backs-- a landing ground for small choppers) that recreate an image of a life-size orange about to attack me. She breathes heavily as she shuffles past me, a waterbed mattress in her ass swooshing and wooshing with every step. I hold my breath, but it's too late, the nasty smelling particles are already trapped in my nose. I grab a paper towel and make a run for the door, wiping my hands dry when I exit the locker room.
I try with all my might to maintain my posture, in fear that I will not be able to reclaim my bearings. Her smell and the resemblance to a refrigerator complete with spoiled milk and expired hamburger patties lingers in my nasal cavity even as I walk into the gym.
I finish my work out, an hour and ten minutes, my back damp and I can feel the sweat form tiny pools in the middle of my forehead. I return to the locker room to gather my belongings from my trusty corner locker. Upon entering I am greeted with a swift reminder of that last whiff of foulness, one that could have knocked me back into last Tuesday(which sucked by the way). She is lollygagging in the locker room reading a book, her legs stretched out before her, her ass a soggy bag full of soup, draping off the edge of a thin plank of wood under her ass. I want to poke it with my water bottle, see if all spills on the floor; fat and curd, and puss and blood, all flooding the locker room until they have to evacuate the entire building. I don't. Instead I walk to the sink, scrub my hands with soap and tepid water, drying them with a brittle paper towel. I inhale several times preparing myself for the remote walk to the back of the room. I curse my decision to choose a locker that far now. How could a smell persevere in such an intense way? I hold my breath, not caring if my bulging cheeks make it obvious. I grow red with despair, a non-swimmer's lungs at capacity for several seconds, then --"Bahh" exhale. My tongue tingles with a repulsive delight that creates a desire to suck it back in or expunge it onto the floor. My nose burns, my head buried in my coat and pants and scarf all hanging, like swings dangling from a tree limb. As intolerable as it is, I can not bring myself to tear my clothes off the hooks and shove then fiercely into the bag. I am clenched by the hands of routine and obsessive behavior. I imagine myself sprinting for the door, arms full of shoes, water bottle, towel, coat, scarf and I-pod. Any normal person would do that, but not me. You see I sit there carefully rolling my pants so as to not wrinkle them, cringing with every whiff of musty staleness that comes my way. I fold my socks and tuck them into my shoes, placing them in my bag first. I resume the drill--head in locker, deep long breaths, hold, ok, fold tuck, put away, until I am ready to go. Coat on, keys in one hand and one last breath before -what feels like-my evacuation. Like a soldier with my gear, I am ready to haul ass and get out of that hell hole. I suck in one last eupnea and at a quick, steady pace blow that locker room, taking with me the faint trace of unwashed chlorinated hair, a vomiter's breath, methol smoke and orange juice. My last few steps, a giant's strides, past the hamper and out into the hall way that smells of kiddies playing with dirty hands and a distant hint of rubber balls.