My first thought, of course, was DOG. Easy enough, to blame man’s best friend. A stray, down on his luck and searching for scraps in our garbage. My second thought was low-level neighborhood terrorism, a feeble and matchless attempt at the old classic, the flaming bag of shit-in-the-doorway.
Unhappy thought! But forgive me, forgive me: the pile was not artfully placed. It was delivered. Like Trader Joe’s, there had been no middle man. Whosoever deposited the brown surprise did so directly at the scene of the crime. The wheels in my head began to turn. I have read every book by Agatha Christie. (True.) What dog, I ask you, would clamber up three brownstone stairs to do his business? No dog, my friends. No dog at all.
When someone does something awful, like, take a shit on your front steps, not only does it bring up looming questions of public health, quality of life, and the lack of a garden hose on a city apartment, it shakes one’s faith in humanity. I don’t mean that I have trouble understanding why someone would do it. I get why they did it. It is a natural, daily necessity and the 90 degree angle of a staircase comfortably mimics that of a commode. It’s more the idea that on a regular weekday morning I was standing in front of my house figuring out that a staircase might make a better toilet than the ground. That the stench of shit rose up and permeated my sense of well-being and left me feeling guilty for something I had not done.
“We should make sure to close the gate,” my roommate emailed, after I had explained the situation. “It’s like an invitation.” Or maybe it was the trash, blown around on the sidewalk. Rain soaked bits of paper and napkin were dried up around the entrance like sidewalk scabs. We were just breeding an atmosphere of filth… or providing free toilet paper.
So what to do? The only thing I could think was to alert our landlord, who lives downstairs. We are lucky enough to be able to text message with him. But there was just no good way to say it. The following is the [verbatim] conversation. Let this help the next hapless fool who awakens to find his own home besmirched with feces:
Me: Not sure quite how to put this … but there is poop on our stoop! Unrelated, the locks have been a
[Ed. Note: my phone only allows a minimum number of characters per message. I usually forget how I end the last sentence before I begin the new message, allowing maximum confusion]
Me: sticky lately might just need some wd forty thanks!!
[Ed. Note: Kill two birds with one stone.]
Landlord: I’m not home but imma take a look when I get home
[Ed. Note: He sure will.]
Landlord: Where on the stoop? That is very nasty
[Ed. Note: Correct.]
Me: OK great! Sorry! So gross!
[Ed. Note: Not my fault! Why am I apologizing?]
Me: Yes and by the mailbox too.
[Ed. Note: More was discovered in the evening.]
Landlord: Wow. That’s crazy
[Ed. Note: Thank god it rained.]
Originally posted at www.glassesglasses.org
