THE FART

I was sitting in the living room of the group home I was living in—I was in my mid-thirties at the time—listening to a conversation that was taking place between several of my house mates. I don’t remember what the conversation was about. It was one of those meandering conversations that shuffled back and forth between trivialities, with the occasional reference to a serious issue thrown in for good measure. At one point, after sitting silently for a long time, I made a comment which I felt to be insightful, but which, in hindsight, was probably uncalled for. Not long after I made my comment, and the others had reconvened their conversation, Michael, a man in his early thirties—fat, slovenly, wearing red Umbros and a stained tee shirt that was much too small for him and which allowed for his huge, bulbous belly to hang out exposed—leaned over in his seat and farted right in my direction. I stood up vehemently and accused Michael of passive aggressiveness. The house manager, a young, pretty woman with a mousy demeanor, assured me that it wasn’t personal. I disagreed, and stormed out. I went to my room and began to pace. I felt that I had been egregiously insulted. Who was he to pass gas at me? A disgusting, malodorous wretch, he should very well be living on the street, eating discarded fast food out of garbage dumps, scribbling asinine messages on the walls of public restrooms, or, at the very least, sitting in the library watching cartoons and laughing hysterically. Instead, I was forced to live with him, simply because the psycho-pharmaceutical industry had found a way to make him mildly coherent. They may as well have used their energy to find a way to make pigs talk! Instead, I, and the rest of my housemates, were forced to live with a man who had all the worst attributes of a pig and all the worst attributes of a man—horrid stench, and blind, irrepressible pride. I decided that there was only one thing to do. I must take vengeance. I left my room and went downstairs, with this singular thought in mind, and no plan as to how to go about it. I walked into the living room. They were having the same pointless, meandering discussion. I stood by the table with my arms crossed. I must have seemed like a wild animal waiting to strike. At one point, Michael made what to me seemed a snide and ridiculous comment. I pounced.

“Just because you have a fat head doesn’t mean you are intelligent.”

He, and everyone else, turned and looked at me. It seemed that they were waiting for an explanation. Only, I hadn’t one to give to them. I had already made my point. Keeping my eyes fixed on the house manager, I walked out, coolly.

“Fools!” I thought to myself. “Let them fart on each other till kingdom come. I won’t be going to Heaven bearing such a stench!”

Daniel Senser about himself: I am thirty-eight years old and have been writing for close to twenty years, primarily as a poet. I live in Cincinnati, Ohio, where I work as a receptionist at a gym. I have had numerous publications, including many with Adelaide. I hope you enjoy my work.