Reads: 34  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: DOWN-HOME

He can't help it, he stinks, his wife, relatives, neighbors - heck, the whole of Gilmer Country, Georgia enduring his natural rank condition in their presence. After working years at jobs suited
his stinky condition, he is invited by a friend of an in-law to undertake a special job coming to North Georgia that will change his life, and that of others, forever. The happiest of all is his
presevering wife.

Submitted: August 09, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 09, 2018




Painting & Story by: Virgil Dube’ - Copyright 2018

“Pee-u-wee!” Gordy Winfield received the same greeting from his wife Beulah each day he returned home from his daily job. More relevantly, his natural aroma fitted with his smelly jobs.

Reputed the smelliest man in Gilmer County, Georgia; people reacted to Gordy every time he wandered near them, usually to pinch their noses and dart the other way. To address Gordy in conversation, they risked staying too long amidst his powerful whiff and it rubbing off on them. Good reason, out of necessity, and survival, he picked jobs that coincided with his natural smelliness that wreaked his immediate perimeter - normally. When mangy mongrels wandered too close and took flight, one knew Gordy’s pores were extra active and he was having a reeking day. Even pigs on farms he sometimes frequented to visit with friend or family squealed at him when he neared their pens, they guardedly protecting their slops. The only individual attracted to him was a buzzard he became attached to on his homestead and named Bubba. Most any day Bubba could be spotted hanging around the Winfield expansive yard, even though his and Gordy’s relationship was mostly repelling and for obvious reasons had to remain distant, their magnetism depending on the prevailing wind either directional or off and on.

A 1960 high school graduate, Gordy chose blue-collar over white-collar jobs. What real choice did he have?  Initially, he worked as a sanitation employee in a hog slaughterhouse near Atlanta. Then he changed to a lumberyard job whereby he treated railroad timbers with creosote, fellow workers satisfied his workstation was relocated apart from them after his employment. Gas masks became an option for workers on this job. That fetid labor often resulted in his wife Beulah torching his clothes rather than washing them, frequently resulting in he having to purchase second-hand replacements in local bargain stores he often roamed alone. The mounting expense forced him to quit low-paying creosote treatment after three months. He labored several years at the area sewage plant attached to the County Industrial Facility, where June 1984 and two years ago, he contracted some creepy stomach protozoan parasite that had him hustling at the most inappropriate times to any convenient port-o-let, too often diving or clawing his way into dense brush close by if the facility was occupied, or, he simply couldn’t make it to the port-o-let in time. Doc Tolerance Edwards out of Ellijay suggested Gordy look for less hazardous and self-inflammatory work, also to decrease his garlic and spicy food intake and slow down eating cans of his favorite food, pork and beans. Consequently, Gordy switched to cleaning barn floors for local dairy farmers and increased his peanut butter intake. Nevertheless, his stomach ailment worsened. His latest and perhaps most stable job was working at the local chicken processing plant. There, he started low man on the chicken pluckin’-pole. The worse plant job, he would grasp doomed and fiercely clucking wide-eyed chickens from transport crates right off the delivery trucks, and place each critter fighting-mad and pooping on him onto processing lines for the initial gory preparation. Beginning with the automated chicken guillotine, each bird would undergo serious feather plucking, ultimately, dismemberment into parts ready for the skillet, pot, or to be barbequed, then eaten by their benefactors. By the day’s end Gordy was a whiff contaminating a two-mile outdoor radius. His only consolation going home was the chickens departed were clucking and eating all the corn they wanted in chicken paradise in the Great Beyond.

After a period, Gordy’s compassionate supervisor Chuck Reginald Cluck recognized him as proficient and a reliable worker that was fundamentally fitting the level of gore he produced. Consequently, higher-up labeled him the highest plant award ‘Irreplaceable Line Processor’. Accordingly, Cluck promoted him to ‘big bird’ sorting line, where to various degrees of cuts, he selected meat by weight and look for proper packaging and shipping to either supermarkets or fast-food stores. Something about Gordy made his co-workers on the assembly line work ever faster, and supervision became increasingly aware and enchanted with him. Was it the speed he processed chickens that motivated them? Was it his obvious charm? Was it his special aurora heightened by his personal scent nullifying the stench about them, perhaps putting some kind of physcological-enducing pheromone into the air? Whatever it was, suddenly, he became a big asset to the processing enterprise. Hence, the supermarket and fast-food market place was ever more prosperous for his efforts.

Oddly in this environment, the protozoan parasite vanished and his gastrointestinal tract returned to regularity. However, foul gas arose as a byproduct and persisted. Uncontrollable violent discharges were especially embarrassing in crowded situations, more so on the chicken processing assembly line where disfavor replaced admiration at all employee levels and Gordy soon found himself looking for another job. After all, sacrificial chickens were in truth not sacrificial when it came to expediency in the marketplace.

The smelly jobs were one thing. Making smelly matters worse for his close friends, wife, and family, was that Gordy had returned to his affinity for spicy foods he hoped would lessen the gaseous episodes. He craved garlic at every chance since it may have remedied his stomach ailment, and was as Doc Tolerance Edwards admitted reluctantly, definitely a health necessity. For many close to him and tolerating the subsequent stenches he expelled, his newfound Cuban cigar smoking habit topped their list of disfavorment and complaint. In their opinions, Gordy was definitely headed for some kind of Guinness World Record in the ‘All-Around Smelly Category’.

*  *  *

One day at the Fat Bacon & Greasy Burger Restaurant in Jasper, Georgia, Gordy sat down over a cup of coffee with his brother-in-law Dooly Done Fender, and a fellow named Robby Pendergrassius, who was Dooly’s old high school friend now residing in Boston, Massachusetts. Robby was not only a representative but also a lawyer and expansion officer for some big business outfit out of Paris, France.

Dooly had prepared his friend for the consultation, and Robby made aware, had agreed after some stink training, lots of it barebones psychology to ward off the wall of fumes. Nevertheless, both men beforehand applied Vaseline and peppermint salve under their noses. Looking about the Main Street premises many years ago a hardware store, Dooly understood the typical reaction of restaurant customers. No nearby table had a person seated at it; everybody had moved as close to the opposite wall as possible, many throwing down their napkins and leaving early without finishing their meals, several barfing at the street curb in front of the restaurant and making a challenge for City Cleanup. Of the brave staying on occasion and holding table napkins over their noses, they whispered between them, giving sly glances of puzzlement at the three men enveloped in the stench visibly encircling them at their table – every excited fly in the house keeping them company.

“Well, Gordy,” Robby said after the twenty-minute meeting closed, for which Dooly had earlier risked so much personally to arrange. “Congratulations. I like you, and stink – ‘er, excuse me, I mean ‘think’ after some adaptations, you will do fine. We are looking forward to our professional affiliation with you onboard.” Then gingerly, he held out his hand that Gordy took and briskly shook. The meeting over, Robby exited preferring no small-town chitchat since the salve was beginning to dissolve from nose-run and wane of its effectiveness.

Later at the restaurant door, Dooly said, “Sorry Gordy, I had to speak up for everybody … do something. Beulah especially has about exhausted her tolerance.”

“I understand, Dooly. Though I smelled a rat early on, I take no offense. Heck, I truly appreciate what you’ve done for me, especially thinking so kindly for my wonderful Beulah.”

*  *  *

Minutes later Gordy drove his rusting Dodge pickup truck into the weedy front yard at his wood-frame house in the boonies. He stopped the engine and got out. A smile covered his face before a rumble in his stomach diverted his pleasant thought to one of uneasiness. Has that awful protozoan parasite returned?

He entered the house worrying, yet greeted again by ‘Pee-u-wee!’ Beulah stood distant in the kitchen, as she normally did upon his return, and authoritatively pointed at the back door. “You know the drill, Gordy. No indoors shower, bathe in the wood tub out back until you get rid of the stench. Supper is about ready, so please make haste with a brisk brush scrubbing with ample lye soap. Scrub the dickens under those armpits of yourn.”

“Yes, honey, ‘specially the pits.” Gordy suddenly lifted his nose, and sniffed deeply. “Impervious to my B.O., I smell pot-roast, boiled corn, and turnip greens. I can’t wait to dig in, and won’t be long washing.”

She leaned forward and pointed sternly at him, demanding, “Be long enough to do a thorough cleaning.”

Oh, did he love this woman of his, her brutish posturing raising sensuality and passion within him.

Briefly, Gordy remembered when he and Beulah were engaged out of high school. The whole county was abuzz, even on local WTMV radio, and T.V. news out of Marietta. They were the talk of North Georgia, the wonder of wonder couple, and he in wonder the stink raised by their upcoming marriage, Beulah declaring in an interview for which he was forbidden that she loved him despite paramount personal distress, and initially nose-bleeds that passed after she and he became more acquainted, and physically acclimated.

“Okay hon … when we settle at suppertime, I have some interesting news to share with you.”

As Gordy stepped on the back porch and removed his clothes putting them in a wicker basket, he grabbed the morning newspaper Beulah always had waiting for him. Shortly, she opened the screen door just so far and squeezed a pale of scalding water through the shallow opening. Then, fanning her nose, she quickly closed the door.

Gordy stood on the back porch, apprehensive. Beauregard their male goat had to be somewhere near protecting his sweetheart Princess the female goat so productive for milk and cheese on the Winfield table; he always patrolling the immediate backyard and making sure it was clear of odor that he Gordy delivered. If not thinking about Beauregard’s looming presence, Gordy could be butted in the behind by those wicked horns, and chased to the far backyard that housed for obvious reasons the distant outhouse for which one had to use binoculars at the back porch to see if a passerby was using it, the clothes line, and washtub in open air Beulah demanded he use.

One such day when Gordy was really in distress, galloping toward the distant outhouse and holding at bay his disruptive innards, he happened upon an unyielding skunk near the outhouse door sniffing the roundabouts. For brief seconds the cantankerous animal held his ground, wouldn’t allow Gordy outhouse access. The skunk was so unnerved by the looming man and stench released by him he raised his tail to spray him until it raised its nose ever higher and sniffed the putrid air. Gauging initially, thinking better to spray and add a catastrophic stink effect, the skunk increasingly choking, withdrew, then dashed like a rabid critter into the woods behind the outhouse.

The coast clear of Beauregard the goat and Gordy still on the porch, he chuckled at his reminisces. He lit a cigar and stepped from the porch. Carrying the bucket, a battery-powered radio, also precariously balancing a cup of hot coffee, whiffs of pot roast propelled him toward the distant washtub. Taking deep draws on the Cuban jewel, he strolled along the path down the hill and across a washout toward the distant washtub. Butt-naked except for his floppy hat, he didn’t fear nor care that anyone might spot him from the surrounding woods. He poured the hot water into the tub of cooler water Beulah had previously hauled from the old water pump. Once settled in the luke-warm water he tuned the radio to Al’s Country Music Show, the popular Georgia disk jockey his favorite for his preference of airing old-time country melodies.

Smoking his cigar, sipping coffee intermittently, and reading the newspaper, Gordy enjoyed the radio cranking out country delights. Lathering up soap, he ignored the flies’ magnetically buzzing roundabout, Bubba the buzzard on Beulah’s clothesline disgusted he was cleaning himself; also, Biscuit Syrup the Walker hound sitting on the porch at a distance barking encouragement at him. Lost in bliss, the hot tub and soap lessening his B.O, he scrubbed vigorously to a point he had learned through trial and error that Beulah would accept his occupancy in the house.

Ten minutes passed.

Suddenly, he heard Beulah’s voice behind him, “Enough is enough.”

A chicken pecking ground bugs close by, squawked, and immediately fled. Biscuit Syrup the hound jumped away from lapping soapy water from the tub. In the next instant, ice-cold water showered him.

Springing to his feet in the tub, he faced Beulah naked, and bellowed, “What the heck, honey; that was horrible … a sneaky thing to do.”

“Yes it was. The stench has worsened over time, especially working at that chicken processing plant; do something about your smelly condition before I go stay with Dooly and Jessabelle. I’ve made arrangements already, but it’s up to you to make drastic changes.”

Minute’s later dressing in their bedroom and pulling his jeans up, Gordy chuckled. Beulah had reached the end of her rope, and this made the upcoming conversation much more tantalizing, and pleasurable.  He would eat his supper, make Beulah wonder what interesting news he had to share, and then ambush her by springing the huge surprise on her concerning Robby Pendergrassius.

After supper and helping her clean and tidy the kitchen, he whistled while he washed and dried dishes, as she put food in the fridge for leftovers. When the two of them seated themselves at the table opposite each other, he nonchalantly hummed one of Al’s radio tunes.

“What’s up mister? What’s this interesting news, Gordy?” Beulah asked irritably, arms crossed over her ample chest and glaring at him.

He smiled, stopped humming, and remained silent briefly. He winked, even blew her a kiss to heighten her anxiety, which delighted him to no end as she began to grind her teeth causing her jaw muscles to noticeably flex. Sweat even beaded on her forehead and dribbled downward onto her cheeks. “Beulah, I’ve been hired to assist management for a fragrance company out of Boston and headquartered in Paris, France. I will be in charge of warehouse storage, and shipment at a facility being constructed here in North Georgia.”

The shock on Beulah’s face was one for an unparalleled Nobel Prize winning photo. The henceforth expression reflected total befuddlement, eyes popped open, and mouth agape so wide a sudden breath posed the possibility of drawing one of Gordy’s nearby flies down her throat.

“What?” she finally bellowed in a garbled pitch. Slowly, she leaned forward and pointed a shaking finger at him. “Don’t you make sport of me, Gordy; what in tarnation did you just say? If you’re toying with me I swear I’ll hang you by clothespins on the clothesline to keep company with Bubba.”

He repeated the statement, and she shaking her head to realign her brain if it were off kilter, asked, “Do explain, my dear.”

And he did, again, she still shaking her head until slobber began to fly in fanned distribution from her partially open mouth.

Finally, she composed herself. “Let me get this straight. My brother sympathetic for me primarily, certainly for himself and his family, heck, the entire county, especially for our relatives’ reputation throughout North Georgia, consulted a friend of his to interview you on a business deal.”

“Yes, honey, I’ll be more specific. This fancy dude Pendergrassius is a big-shot representative for this Parisian fragrance company called ‘The House of Jacques Dubois’. To the point, I am to work in the new plant the company is constructing near Atlanta. However, there are conditions, which should please you. Robby Pendergrassius the rep in accordance with your brother Dooly Done has demanded I stop eating garlic, and consuming extra spicy foods, increase the peanut butter, and to trash and never again smoke Cuban cigars. Robby insisted odorous combos don’t mix in the perfume business, especially in close proximity to fellow employees and classy customers. I should have learned this at the chicken-processing factory. Anyway, when I accepted his offer and conditions, he hired me on the spot! Right now the company’s’ new products are called Amore’ de Blushe for women, and Ebonie’-Fleur a fancy men’s cologne, items the company will produce here in hopes of becoming big sellers in America. Because of my esteemed odor history, my personality he truly liked, and impending transformation, Robby suggested that I might even do T.V. ads for men’s products. Heck, my goal is to one-day help formulate and manufacture an exotic fragrance line for naturally odorful people like me. This is a profound chance to enhance our lives and alter my scent.”

Beulah slapped her face hard, first with one hand, then with the other to make doubly sure she wasn’t sleeping and this was a dream. Slap! Slap! Slap! Ultimately, woozy and precariously clinging to stay in her chair, and convinced she was in the real world, she straightened up and said cross-eyed, “Get real Gordy. You smoked that awful cigar and spiced your food at our table just minutes ago. Appears to me this new job has made little impact or difference in your behavior.”

“I wanted to relish my last indulgences, honey. I’m not lying.”

Hefty Beulah eyed him several seconds. She slid back in her chair, realigned her jaw partially out of place from the last hard slap, and gawked at him a brief period not saying a word. Then unexpectedly for Gordy, she sprang up, rushed to her smelly husband, lifted him from his chair, and hugged him feet dangling in the air to the point he felt his eyes might pop from their sockets. Feeling him grow limp, probably near suffocation, she released him back into his chair, and said as he twitched several times before full recovery; “You are a man of extremes Gordy Winfield, going from notorious smelly to hopefully enchanting allure. How must I … we all adapt to the blunt suddenness? Can we actually accept normalcy after many years wafting on the fringe of society.”

“I hope it isn’t too offensive for you, or them, I mean my change to fragrant charm and normalcy might cause future problems, you wanting me to revert to the past and the same old Gordy.”

“Not in this life my smelly good man. The animals, friends, our relatives and I will be more than pleased. I can assure you we will adapt … no turning back. However, I fear Biscuit Syrup might take offense to fragrant charm and move to new territory. Bubba might get so distressed he will fly into a cliff wall committing buzzardcide.”

“I’d hate to see them dash off in disgust,” Gordy replied, he immediately burping loudly, the pot-roast whiff weighty in the air.

Beulah impervious to his guttural releases paid no attention to the odor merging with his others, only to say, “The smelliest man I know is about to become adorningly ordorful beyond my wildest dreams. I love you Gordy, also my concerned brother Dooley Done coming to our rescue.”

Gordy suggested, “Let us sit on the porch swing, relish the last of my natural odors, and watch the full Moon and twinkling night stars, honey.”

Beulah smiled. She grabbed his outreached hand and accompanied him outside into the pleasant night air - not before him, not behind him, but alongside him; no clothespin clipped on her nose.


© Copyright 2018 Virgil Dube. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments: