gotjenkins.com

In 1997, after I’d quit my job working and living at the cybercafe, I was living in this house in the Park Avenue Area of Rochester, with two other guys: Mike D and Allan. Mike D was slated to move out, and Allan was just real fucking lazy about it, neither one of them paying any rent.

Well, the landlord was super-pissed, and wanted us all out. So I offered him $150 a week if we could keep the joint. He relented, and said yes.

Let me describe the place. This is important. Third floor, no ventilation whatsoever, and it’s late July. There’s a fireplace. Two bedrooms, a living room. A kitchen. And HOT AS HELL IN THERE.

Well, it came to the point where it was just Allan and I living there, and he was still supposed to be moving his stuff out, and he hadn’t. I went away for a day or two, and hadn’t paid the rent, though I had it. The landlord was not sympathetic, and had left a note saying that he wanted us (and our shit) out in two days or he was calling the police.

Fair enough. This was a Tuesday.

Thursday at noon, all my shit was at my mom’s house, other than the last little carload out front. Allan was still poking around. “Yeah, don’t worry, my dad’s coming by later with the van.”

I figured, no prob, and I’d talk to him later, because we hung out from time to time, so no worries at that point.

Where does the vengeance part come in? Hoo boy. I found this out the following Monday.

Allan was highly pissed that the landlord wouldn’t relent and just take the money and shut up. I understood it, but Allan thought otherwise. SO.

There was this bag of frozen scallops in the freezer. Allan proceeded to open it and hide scallops ALL OVER THE APARTMENT. Under the sink. IN THE LIGHT FIXTURES. In the bathroom. Up inside the fireplace. Places that you’d really have to work (or tear out walls) to get to.

That was only half of it.

There was this cookie sheet in the oven.

Allan, true gourmand that he is, decides to disrobe from the waist down.

He turns the oven on to the lowest setting possible (200 degrees, I think).

He craps on the cookie sheet and puts it in the oven.

(At this point, I was like, WHAT, DUDE? But anyways….)

So Allan moved all his shit out that day. AND LEFT THE OVEN ON.

My guess was this:

It was hot in the apartment to begin with, and stagnant. Allan did this on Thursday. I figured the landlord didn’t come in until, say, the following Monday, especially since that weekend was the Park Avenue Arts Festival and he was probably getting together with friends.

So imagine it:

You walk in.

The place smells highly funky and stank.

You can’t figure out where it’s coming from, since it’s coming from EVERYWHERE (the scallops).

Then you walk into the kitchen, smell THAT, open the oven, don’t detect the heat, and absentmindedly pull the cookie sheet out, burning your hand. And THEN realize someone took a dump.

THAT, my friends, is vengeance.

Three cheers for creativity.

many thanks to r.w.shepard, web presence unknown, for letting me reproduce this story here.