THE SMELL

One morning, as Gregory Murphy woke from anxious dreams, he discovered that he smelled like shit. Well, not shit, exactly, but he smelled really fucking gross, and couldn't figure out why. He took a tentative sniff, lifting up his arms to check his pits, putting a hand to his crotch to check his grundle, taking off a sock to check his feet.

“What's happened to me?” he thought as he sat up. It was no dream. His dorm, which he shared with a roomie who was currently at an early class, seemed big at the moment, like his eyes were wide-angle camera lenses. As he looked around the room, he saw above his desk, on which his backpack and books were spread out, hung a picture which he had made in science class that semester and set in a pretty silver frame. It was a picture of a flower, a red rose, popping out from behind vines and greenery. It was a scratch-and-sniff.

He looked out his window and saw rain. “I should take a shower,” he thought, but realized immediately that it wouldn't make a difference. This wasn't B.O., lingering cologne, or even the scent of old sex. This smell was different, permanent somehow. It would stick to him.

He looked at his alarm clock, realized he overslept and skipped his morning lecture. His grades were already slipping, and it was hard to know how much this missed class would affect his overall grade.

“She gives too much homework anyway,” he thought about his professor.

College was harder than he had anticipated. He was a good student in high school, but university life was much more lonely and stressful. The only way he got through it was Greta, his girlfriend since the beginning of the year. They had an instant chemistry, and had lost their virginity to each other.

The feeling on campus was insecure at the moment due to an acute budget shortfall. The professors were stressed, worried about their jobs and the future of the institution, and his fellow peers were all trying to figure out if it made sense to transfer to other schools, and if so, if their credits would also transfer. Meanwhile, Greg led the supplemental student committee to help raise funds and find ways to keep the school afloat.

Greg's roommate, Sean, walked in the door.

“What the fuck is that?” he said, throwing his backpack down on the floor. He covered his nose with his hand, then grabbed a towel and put it over his face.

Greg didn't answer, just looked with curiosity at Sean's reaction.

“Did you poop the bed or something? Jesus!”

“No,” Greg said.

“Dude, did you skip class again?”

“Yeah, I think I overslept.”

“You going to your next class?”

“I guess?”

“Well, make sure you shower first. Fuck.”

Greg smiled to himself, shaking his head, knowing somehow the futility of it.

He threw the covers off himself and stood up, thereby unleashing the full extent of his odor, and Sean promptly threw up.

He ran out of the room, carrying vomit in his cupped with him as he made his way to the shared bathroom down the hall.

Greg bounded to the doorway, gripping the frame.

“Sorry!” he said, calling after Sean, who burst through the bathroom door and continued puking.

Out came the peanut gallery, the others on his dorm floor who heard the commotion. Kyle across the hall peeked his head out:

“Someone sick?” he said. Then he dry heaved too.

“Something smells terrible! My god.”

Greg slammed the door, locked it, and ran back to bed and huddled under the covers.

His phone vibrated on his side table. It was Greta:

What's going on up there????

He texted back:

Nothing much. How r u?

And he included a smiley face emoji to seem nonchalant.

Good lol. I'm coming up if that's OK...

Sure!!!

Another emoji to signify that he was unconcerned and at ease and smelled just fine.

See u soon

Greta came up the stairs and breathed it in right away. It was hard to describe: to her, it was like the very essence of Greg, but stronger somehow. It was unpleasant, but not overwhelmingly so.

The guys on the second floor disagreed. They all warned her not to go near the room, that they were going to call the cleaning lady, or a doctor, or that Greg should just shower and throw away all of his bedding and clothes, or maybe go home for the weekend.

Sean came out of the bathroom, looking pale.

“What's going on in there?” she asked.

“I don't know. The smell...” he said, taking a long drink from the water fountain.

“Did he have an accident or something?”

“Not that I saw...it was just...he stood up and the funk hit me right in the face.”

“Maybe you should stay with Emily tonight while we figure it out.”

“OK, I just need my backpack.”

“Get it tonight.”

“Sure. Fine. Whatever. Later.”

Sean walked down the hall and Greta approached the door.

She tried the handle and realized it was locked.

“Greg,” she whispered. “It's me. Can you open up?”

“No.”

“Greg, I don't know what's going on, but I want to help.”

“I don't know what's going on either, but I think you should just leave me alone.”

“This isn't like you. Don't shut me out.”

“I know this isn't like me, but something's wrong. Just let me figure it out.”

“I really think you should let me in so we can talk about it.”

“I really think you should go away so you don't have to smell me.”

She checked her phone.

“Greg, I have to go to class soon. I'll come back when I'm done and we can talk then, OK?”

“OK.”

“I don't know what's going on, but maybe take a shower and put on some new clothes, at least. If that doesn't fix it, we can see about getting a doctor or something.”

“I don't want to see a doctor.”

“We'll talk about it after class. I'll see you then. I love you.”

“You too.”

She turned from the door and noticed a group of students who lived in the dorm, standing nearby listening in to the conversation. They were all wearing makeshift masks over their faces: hankerchiefs, ski masks, old t-shirts, one kid even had an old ww2-style gas mask with the little canister at the bottom.

She shook her head at them and walked back downstairs to her room to get ready for class.

Meanwhile, Greg began to try to improve his position, even though he knew deep inside him that it was futile, that this reek was now his normal state, that he had crossed new some pheromone threshold and would not return. The first order was a shower.

He waited for the crowd to disperse, then took off all his clothes and wrapped a towel around his waist, unlocked the door to his room, and peeked out to make sure. It was late morning now, so most everyone was rushing off to their classes. There was no one in the hallway, so he crept quickly to the shared bathroom and got right into a shower.

He turned the water on hotter than he normally would have, turning his hide bright red. He soaped his entire body, then used body wash. He shampooed his hair three times, and even conditioned. After drying off, he used a hair brush to scrape his skin, exfoliating. He also scraped his tongue. He brushed and actually flossed, something he hadn't done since his last dentist visit. He trimmed his beard and was liberal with the after-shave.

He slunk back to his room, thanking God that no one came in or saw him, and put on clean clothes. He had no cologne, so he ripped an insert from a magazine and rubbed the little eau de toilette sample all over his body.

He closed his eyes, stood still for a moment, and took a deep breath, then tentatively sniffed.

It was unmistakable: Greg still smelled. His shoulders slumped, a frowned formed on his face, he hung his head with futility.

A knock on the door.

“Who is it?” Greg asked.

“Hey Greg, it's me,” his RA, Mike, said. Mike was a senior, heavily involved in student government, a by-the-book kind of guy.

“Hey, Mike, what's up?”

“Not much. Could you open up? Just wanted to talk for a minute.”

“I'm busy, actually. Could you come back?”

“Just real quick, Greg.”

“I'm just...in the middle of something right now.”

“Greg, I'll be honest with you: I got some complaints from some of the other guys on the floor and, well, I think it would be easier to talk in person, face-to-face. So can you open up?”

“Can't right now. Sorry. Maybe later?”

“OK, Greg, have it your way. We'll have this conversation through the door. Here it is: a bunch of guys said there was a really bad smell coming from your room this morning. Said Sean left the room puking. I mean, I can smell it right now a little bit. And frankly, I don't know what's going on, but whatever it is seems like a pattern lately: you've been skipping class a lot, your grades are slipping, I also know you've been drinking a lot, and if I wanted to, I could report you for that.”

At that point, Greg could hear other students congregating on the other side of the door, murmuring and footsteps.

“I don't want to do that. But maybe the tough love approach could work? I don't know. So Greg, I don't know what is going on with you, but you need to start taking care of yourself and getting your act together, OK? Now I want you to open the door so we can talk about this.”

“Just a minute,” Greg said, searching around for something to mask his stench.

Greta arrived, fresh from class.

“What's going on?” she asked Mike.

“Hey, Greta,” he said. “Do you know what's going on with Greg? I got some complaints and now he won't answer the door.”

“Greg,” she said gently. “You have to open the door, baby.”

“I really don't think it's a good idea,” he said, opening drawers.

“Greg, I don't want to have to write you up,” Mike said.

“Greg, please,” pleaded Greta.

“Just a sec,” Greg said, pouring a bottle of Febreze on his head.

“Now,” said Mike.

Greg opened the door. Mike, Greta, and another group of lookie-loos were in front of the door, and a whiff hit them.

Commotion. Only Greta remained in front of the door, a look of sadness on her face as she and Greg stared into each other's eyes for a brief moment. Behind her, the other residents of the dorm were crying and heaving and puking and screaming.

Greg broke Greta's gaze, shut the door, and lay back in bed.

**

He woke up hungover, his head aching, to find schoolwork and a box of food that Greta left. It was all comfort food she knew he liked and would usually eat if stressed or sad: cheese and crackers packs, Easy Mac, Doritos, Twizzlers, peanut M&Ms, ice cream. There was also a bottle of bourbon and a six pack of beer.

He tried to eat but he discovered he no longer had a sense of taste.

Greg threw the food away in the trashcan they kept in the corner of the room, and noticed that Sean has cleared out his closet.

“He must have moved out,” Greg said aloud. He didn't remember much of the previous night.

Greg opened the window for some fresh air, and saw on the great lawn a meeting of the student committee to save the school. In The Before Time, prior to his stench, he was the head of that committee and would be leading that meeting. But now he watched from afar, Sean, Mike, Greta, other friends of his. It seemed like another life that he was able to be among them, a part of their world. How quickly things changed, became a new normal.

He cracked a hair-of-the-dog can of beer and wondered what would happen to their college, as he heard bits and pieces of buzz words his peers were saying as they sat in their circle: “maximize”, “profit margin”, “venture capital”, “insolvency”.

Greg watched the meeting end, everyone hugging each other, a foreign exchange student from France offering kisses on both cheeks. Greg cracked another beer, and crawled under his futon.

The next morning, Greta visited Greg, and was shocked by his disheveled state. She saw the food in the trash can and dumped it in the dumpster, then left another bottle of bourbon and a case of beer. They didn't talk or touch, just shared another silent look at each other before she left.

After she was gone, Greg cracked a beer and drank the whole thing in one go. He wanted to see a doctor but decided it was better if he simply stayed inside, didn't disturb anyone. Part of him now believed – hoped, even – that if he waited long enough, maybe the scent would go away?

Time passed. The days inside seemed to blur, one into the next. Another meeting of the school's student committee on the lawn outside his window. He watched and listened and drank. Greg felt shame and grief not being able to be able to help, to be a hero and save the school from it's financial failing. The talk that day was the expectation that, unless a miracle happened, the school would close by the end of the semester and the beginning of summer break.

After the meeting was over, several students stayed on the grass, hugging and crying. Greta pulled out her acoustic guitar, which Greg had bought her for her 20th birthday. She played an old grunge song and some of the other students near her started the song not paying attention, then began swaying to the rhythm, and ended singing along at the tops of their lungs.

Greta visited again that night. More booze. No food. She wouldn't even look at him when she came in the room anymore. She stopped bringing schoolwork long ago. She covered her nose with an old scarf now. They no longer spoke. She cleaned up bottles and cans, and left quickly.

Greg had trouble sleeping, so he taped sheets to the windows, kept the lights off at all times.

It was been two months since Greg woke up stinking. Mike, Greta, and his academic advisor Dr. Brown came to visit and discuss Greg's situation. Greta arrived first, noticed Greg still asleep, the floor littered with bottles of alcohol that she hadn't cleaned up since last time she had visited. She walked down the hall, got the cleaning lady to come into the room, clad in a mask and cover-alls. She began helping Greta clean up the room, but ralphed in her surgeon's mask as she approached Greg's bed.

She ripped her mask off and yelled curses, which woke Greg up. He came to as she fled the room, spew trailing behind her.

Greg looked at Greta. Behind her, the picture of the rose. He stood up to sniff it, but realized that he now had no sense of smell.

A knock on the door. Mike and Dr. Brown peeked their head in, bandanas on their faces.

“What are you doing here?” Greg yelled.

He looked at Greta, who shrugged.

“Greg, we just want to talk,” she said.

“About what?”

“We're here to help,” Dr. Brown said.

“Anything we can do,” said Mike.

“Leave me alone,” Greg said.

“Greg, enough!” Mike yelled. He bounded into the room with a violence, and Greg sped past him, out of the room, down the hall, the three of them crying after him to stop, to talk, to listen to reason.

Greg sneaked down the south stairwell, wandered into the basement of the dorm, towards the game room where the ping pong table, board games, and pool table were. As he approached, he heard cheers and laughter, loud talking. He peeked around the corner, leaning only the top of his head over to look. A group of students were playing beer pong, cups arranged in triangles.

A ping pong ball rolled to his feet and as someone ran over to get it, they recognized his essence and immediately retched.

The other students laughed and the gagging student looked up, saw Gregory, and screamed. She threw the ping pong ball at him and the other students looked over to see Gregory.

“It's him!” she screamed.

The rest of the students in the room threw cups of beer at him, then cans, then finally bottles, glass breaking and shattering all round him, cutting him, slicing him, lacerations and abrasions.

For some reason, Gregory was glued to the spot, couldn't seem to move. He looked up from the broken glass gathered all around him, into the faces and eyes of his former friends, sneering, snarling, full of fear. He ran away, down the hall, up the stairs, across a couple now kissing on the steps, past a student studying, onto his floor, into his room, slammed the door and onto the couch, cracking open a bottle of bourbon and poured it into him as quickly as he could.

**

The wounds from the broken glass caused scars that never quite healed. After that basement incident, Greg's peers felt guilty and some texted him apologies, but he turned off his phone and vowed to stay in his room, alone forever. The semester continued on, with seminars and lectures and study sessions and lab work and dining hall dinners and parties and Greg attended none of it.

Greta stopped visiting since his outburst, so he had a local liquor store begin to deliver it. He was running out of money, and he didn't dare call his family to put any more in his bank account. They didn't know about the smell.

The student committee meetings continued, but everyone seemed exhausted and hopeless, in a daze, just ready for the school year to end so they could transfer, get jobs, move on.

In the meantime, the college hired a new cleaning woman for Greg's dorm, a Mexican undocumented immigrant. She was the only one who saw him anymore. Her main qualification, beyond being cheap, was that she had lost her sense of smell due to a childhood illness.

Another night of drinking, and Gregory had visions of returning to classes, not seeing peers wearing masks when they passed by his door, being able to be with Greta again. Greta, the girl who used to play acoustic guitar for him, used to study with him, cuddle him every night, sit in his lap. He sometimes heard her talking to others as she passed by his room, people telling her to give up on him, tell her to try to get him to leave the dorm and move home, move to an apartment, move anywhere but here.

He was filled with rage about what had happened to him, about being stuck in this little room alone, anger unabated at this invisible enemy that had attacked him. He threw a bottle of whiskey at the wall, watched the liquor trickle down in rivulets until it reached the floor, a pale brown puddle. He bent down, slurped some up. As he knelt on the ground, the cleaning woman quietly entered his room and began cleaning.

Some alums came to visit. They were tech giants who invented an app that matches what to watch on streaming services based on your parameters: length, genre, format, mood. They made millions.

They started working together in the computer lab at the school, and claim fond memories for their alma mater. Maybe they'll donate money themselves? Maybe they'll do an endowment? Maybe they'll connect the school to venture capitalists or hedge fund managers who can help? They had been scheduled to meet with Greg, the supposed head of the student committee, but Greta took over for obvious reasons.

That evening, the cleaning lady left Greg's door open while Mike was showing them around the dorm as they were touring the college. Greta was asked to play her guitar for them, and Greg snuck out of his dorm room and into the stairwell to listen.

The tech bros, who initially seemed interested in Greta, grow bored with her performance and ended up on their phones texting each other about her looks while she played, but Greg was transfixed by it.

One of them suddenly inhaled, and the rest become alarmed.

“Do you guys smell that?”

“What is that?”

“My God!”

Greg knew he had been made. He scurried back to his room to hide.

Some fellow students come down to take the alums to dinner at the dining hall and work to continue to woo them. Greg watched Greta and Mike walk out of the dorm onto the lawn.

The door closed and Greta threw her guitar down on the ground, the sound echoing off the building.

“Greta!” Mike said, picking it up and looking it over. “I think it's OK.”

He handed the guitar to Greta, who held it in her arms and looked it over.

“Yeah,” she said with a sigh. “I think so.”

“Are you OK?” Mike asked.

“This is just a lot,” she said, and sat down.

“I know,” Mike said. “I know.”

She buried her head in her hands. “I don't know how much longer I can do this.”

“Do what?” Mike asked.

“Everything. Take care of Greg, try to help the school stay afloat, try to ignore that fucking…aroma.”

Greta laughed. Greg watched from above.

“It's so bad.”

Mike laughed too.

“It really is.”

“It really really is.”

“It really really really is.”

They both laughed. They hugged. Greg watched.

“What are we going to do if the school closes?” Greta asked.

“Look on the bright side,” Mike said. “At least we won't have to put up with your boyfriend anymore.”

They laughed again.

“Is there any way to get him to take a medical leave?” Greta asked.

“I think it has to be voluntary.” Mike said.

“I hate to say it,” Greta said. “But I wish he'd leave. Everything would be so much easier.”

“I understand,” Mike said.

“Does that make me a shitty person?” Greta asked, breaking from their hug.

“Not at all,” Mike said. “Let's go.”

“Where?” Greta asked.

“Dinner,” he said. “Take our minds off this for a bit.”

“I like that idea,” Greta said. She grabbed her guitar and Greg watched as they walked out.

Greg understood now. So he opened another bottle and drank and drank until he could drink no more.

**

There was no funeral. The doctors recommended cremation in isolation, since they still weren't sure what had caused Gregory Murphy's condition.

Greta felt a great sadness, his peers a sharp sense of relief, Sean took a leave from school, and Mike, approved by the university's president, poured his energy into a benefit dinner to woo deep-pocketed alumni and make it up to the potential funders put off my Greg's odor.

The students took a party bus to the lakehouse in the state forest on the edge of town. On the way, they talked optimistically about the possibility of the school being saved by their efforts. Greta strummed her guitar slowly, practicing, and Mike thought about how beautiful she looked in her stage makeup and her hair done up.

There was a large banquet room at the venue. A stage. A table full of nametags. Bouquets of flowers on every table. Rows of buffet food from the only fancy restaurant in town. Tuxedoed servers. An open bar.

Greta had practiced songs solid for a week, riffing through them in a back room where the president and the board of directors and a group of older professors talked finances and last chances and hail marys and wondered aloud where they would try to find new work if this dinner didn't bring in serious capital.

The crowd filed in. A talent show of sorts commenced as cocktail hour, dinner, dessert, and more drinks merged together and the sun went down. Nervous as she was, Greta became the life of the party, walking from table to table making jokes, flirting with those successful alums, and teasing her forthcoming performance.

Her solo acoustic show was the final act. She came out to tepid clapping, the crowd mostly still talking in small groups. But as she began to play, her voice rose over the room, overtook the din, and slowly the whole party turned their attention to Greta, alone onstage, a dim spotlight shining on her as she sang.

Greta finished her song and put her guitar on its stand. The people rose, applauded as she bowed, and someone in the audience plucked a red rose from a centerpiece and threw it at her feet. As she walked off the stage, she picked it up and put it to her nose.