I handed him his coffee and he was disappointed it wasn\u2019t in his favorite Saturday morning mug. He didn\u2019t say anything, but I could see it in his eyes.<\/p>\n
I went outside to get the mail to find wet, runny human feces under our mailbox. That was the third time in a year that someone had smeared his waste up against our apartment building, directly under our mailbox. A newspaper sat beside it with a streak on it, slightly bloody.<\/p>\n
I stood there staring at it, daring myself to be less shocked and grossed out this time, but it didn\u2019t work. I leaned over it and got the mail from the box, careful not to drop any bills in the pile. It was the feces of a sick man: watery, light of color with globs of blood. Someone coming down from a heroin high, maybe. It was intense.<\/p>\n
I brought the mail inside, which consisted of an ASPCA postcard, my Victoria\u2019s Secret catalogue and my husband\u2019s Verizon bill. I tried to imagine what the man might have looked like. I pictured a big man with a beard in brown raggedy pants and a dumpster coat. For some reason, I didn\u2019t think a woman could create a thing like that.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
My husband came down to refill his coffee and he still wasn\u2019t happy about his mug.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s bum shit under our mailbox again.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you sure it\u2019s bum shit? Could be dog.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know the difference between dog and human poop.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou should put that on your resume.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m serious.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, I\u2019m not cleaning it up.\u201d<\/p>\n
There\u2019s nothing like waking up to human shit and knowing no one was going to clean it up. Once, we cleaned it up with gloves, plastic bags and a snow shovel and it was one of the worst experiences of my life, no doubt for him as well. After that we pledged that we would never again deal with it ourselves. Unfortunately it also meant we wouldn\u2019t deal with it at all. It\u2019s not like you can call the cops. You could put a sign up reading: DO NOT SHIT HERE, but that would probably just encourage them.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t you want to go look at it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy would I want to look at it?\u201d
\n \u201cBecause it\u2019s disgusting.\u201d<\/p>\n
He kissed my forehead. \u201cRelax. Let nature run its course.\u201d<\/p>\n
And this was supposed to be a nice Saturday.<\/p>\n
He went to the sink and replaced the mug I gave him with his favorite handmade mug that he\u2019d bought from hippies in Upstate New York. He filled that and turned to me.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou just dirtied two mugs.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know I like this one on Saturdays. It throws off my whole day if I don\u2019t use it.\u201d<\/p>\n
He went upstairs. I thought about the shit. He would ignore it while I thought about it every day, monitoring its minor changes as I came home from work: a little drier, a little more congealed, then a solid cake, until it was nothing but a brown ring on the pavement, and that\u2019s just the way it worked.<\/p>\n
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\n\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013<\/p>\n