Mr. Odoratore

Saturday had finally arrived, erupting with the clamor and volume befitting a house of four excited boys under the age of 10. Two of the four boys had risen with the sun and donned mismatched Halloween outfits. Micah, who was seven, helped dress the youngest, Barry, who was four, and together they entered mom and dads still-dark room, revealing themselves first to their groggy mother, who upon making out their shadowy figures; bathed in the yellow light of the hallway through the cracked bedroom door, said something properly motherly and encouraging.

“Oh boys, wow, you both look...great. I see two little boys who must be excited to go visit Grandma.”

Mrs. Odoratore rolled over in bed, peered at the red glow of the digital clock on the nightstand, and slowly started to lift herself up from the large bed. “Who’s idea was it to wear the Ninja Turtles costumes though?” she smiled and yawned, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth.

Mr. Odoratore snorted twice and began to stir to wakefulness on the other side of the California King. “What...what time is it?” he asked slowly, his mouth moving as if it was recently numbed by novocaine.

“Uh, five forty-five,” she responded, with her own excitement at visiting her mother beginning to well up, speeding her cognition to alertness.

“Oh, shit,” responded the groggy father, who had been up late into the evening working on his projects.

“Michael.” Mrs. Odoratore said in her husband's direction, sharply but at a low volume.

“Oh yeah...sorry. Good morning boys...” He shook his head awake and lifted his face from the pillow. “That’s not a good word that I just said, don’t...uhhh...daddy doesn’t usually…”

A loud crash echoed through the house from downstairs. It sounded like something large had hit the floor in the kitchen. Mr. Odoratore jolted up from the bed while Mrs. Odoratore's shoulders synchronously jumped and settled back down.

“Umm, Micah, where are your brothers?”

“Making breakfast.” casually responded the shaggy blonde seven year old. Mrs. Odoratore craned her neck around to look at her husband, and with the oxymoronic combination of annoyance and pure exuberance that only a parent of young children can feel, her chin dropped and she mouthed “oh shit.” Mr. Odoratore tipped his head at his wife, as if to say, “enjoy the mess,” and Mrs. Odoratore returned a wry smile, then turned back to her two excited boys and said “who’s ready to go and see Grandma!”

The two boys started jumping up and down, with little Barry latching onto Micah, as they chanted “gramma, gramma.” “OK, let’s go see what your bros are making.” Mrs. Odoratore hopped out of the large comfy bed, threw on her favorite kimono and followed the boys, who were still chanting “gramma” out of the room and down the stairs toward the kitchen.

Mr. Odoratore plopped back down into the bed, resting his neck on the pillow, and started doing some calculations about whether or not it might be possible to gain an extra 30 minutes of sleep. He was exhausted, and though he was excited to have the weekend to himself while Mrs. Odoratore and the kids visited his mother-in-law in suburban Detroit, it was not such an all-encompassing exuberance that it could completely eliminate the effects of the meager three hours of sleep he had obtained that early morning.

Realizing that the whole house was now awake, he knew his prospects of any additional sleep only existed in the same realm of possibility as did the “Stinkmonster;” his boy's favorite creature that he had created to tell them scary-ish bedtime stories. “Oh shit.” He murmured, as he resigned himself to his early morning fate, got up from the bed and flipped on the lamp on the nightstand.

Now in the kitchen, Mrs. Odoratore had a full view of the just-barely-controlled chaos being orchestrated by her eldest son, Max, nine and a half, who was, at the moment, instructing his sous chef, Aiden, who was almost six, on how to whisk the eggs in order to prepare them for the hot pan set on the stove top, which was nearly overflowing with liquified butter.

All things considered, Mrs. Odoratore was impressed with the effort. Only one pan had found its way on to the Spanish tile floor, Aiden was doing a fine job of whisking, the smoke coming from the toaster oven had not yet set off the smoke alarm, and there they were, her little men, all dressed, making breakfast, and ready to go. She did note however that Aidens shoes were on the wrong way, “an acceptable oversight,” she thought.

She smiled. “Ok kiddos, this looks amazing...but, we definitely don’t want the house to catch on fire before we go to Grandmas, so lets…” she flipped open the toaster and pulled out the four dark brown slices of bread, “...take these guys out of here, ok, good, and these are hot guys, so don’t touch them yet,” she said, mostly for her most-impulsive son, Micah’s sake.

“Ok, and, wow, this looks great Max, but that is a lot of butter, so let’s just get rid of some of this sweetie...we don’t need it all,” she said as she grabbed a towel and took hold of the heavy cast iron pan, dumping what would amount to ninety percent of the liquified butter into the sink drain.

“Mom, why isn’t dad coming?” Max inquired, while she was slowly draining the pan of its contents.

“Yeah, we want daddy to come,” Aiden chimed in, while still whisking away at eggs which had already been whisked into a uniform yellow oblivion.

“Well, Maxie...I know that we all wish daddy would come to visit Grandma too, but unfortunately, this time he...well, he just needs some daddy time, to be alone by himself, but don’t worry, next time we’ll all go to visit Grandma together.”

“Why does he need to be alone?” persisted Max, the inquisitive captain of the brothers.

“Well sweetie, sometimes, and you’ll understand more once you get a little bit older, but, sometimes, when people have a lot of responsibilities, like daddy does, they just need some time to ‘blow off some steam.’” Mrs. Odoratore used air quotes, “and that just means, time to enjoy by themselves, doing whatever it is people like to do when they have time just for themselves. Kind of like how you like reading in your room by yourself, and Micah likes playing outside in the dirt by himself, and-”

“What does daddy like to do by himself?” Micah interrupted, with a mouthful of crunchy but still-too-hot wheat toast.

“Good question, Micah, sweetie. You know, daddy loves his projects. That’s why he has his room in the basement just for himself, that no one is allowed to go into without knocking first, right?”

“But what projects does he do, mommy?” Aiden chimed in, only looking up from the swirling lemon colored lake for a moment.

“Daddy likes to work on...well, daddy stuff. If you want to know more about it, I think you should ask him when he gets downstairs. I’m sure he’d be happy to tell you all about the cool things he works on.”

Mr. Odoratore came bounding down the stairs right on cue, with a big smile on his face, having been revitalized via a short visualization of an entire long weekend alone doing “daddy stuff.”

“Good morning, my beautiful boys! What are we cooking up for breakfast?” He looked around. All the boys had ceased their culinary efforts and were staring back at him with as much curious intensity as young children can muster.

“What did I say?” Mr. Odoratore said, only half-jokingly.

“Daddy…?” Max, the courageous leader, sang out, moving up in pitch from the “da” to the “dee.”

“Yes, my Max-ie?” Mr Odoratore mimicked back.

“What do you do when you work on projects in the basement?” Max said, while twisting his torso about where he stood.

Caught off guard, Mr. Odoratore moved his gaze from his questioning son to his wife, and all but the youngest of the children reacted in kind, looking up at their mom, awaiting her wisdom. Mrs. Odoratore furrowed her brow and tipped her head towards her husband as if to say “nuh-uh, not a mommy question. The ball’s in your court now, Michael.”

“Well, ok, boys. So...when I’m downstairs working on my projects, which is what I’m going to be doing this weekend while you’re all having fun at Grandmas, I work on different things...things that I like to do, but can’t do during work, or when I’m helping you guys with homework, or we’re playing together. It’s just...special stuff, that I...can...only do by myself. Daddy stuff.”

Unsatisfied, Micah, his fingers covered in toast-dust, asked “what’s daddy stuff, daddy?”

“Haha, well…that’s-” Michael quickly replied with some stress in his voice.

“Micah, sweetie, you know how you like to go outside and dig your tunnel to China in the sandpit?” Mrs. Odoratore interjected.

“Yes, mommy.”

“Well, daddy also likes to play with the dirt and the worms, so maybe you got that interest from him! But not just the dirt, he plays with other things too, and it makes daddy feel good to be able to play with this stuff by himself, and we want daddy to feel good, right boys?”

All the boys chimed in with a resounding “yah!” with baby Barry jumping and twirling, throwing his right arm into the air like a superhero.

“Ok kiddos, you all did so great, but mommy’s going to finish the eggs and make some more toast, and we’ll get everyone's tummies full, then we’ll get on the road to grammas. Sound good?”

Another resounding, “Yah!” from the boys followed.

“Ok, Maxie, Micah, can you go get the bags from upstairs, and make sure we have everything we need to hit the road?”

Max and Micah raced each other up the stairs to their bedrooms to get their bags. Mr Odoratore looked at his wife, he was relieved, “thanks” he mouthed. Mrs. Odoratore lifted her eyebrows and tightened her lips together in response; “no problem,” she said with a hint of annoyance; and taking the bowl from the eternally-whisking Aiden and dumping it into the buttery cast-iron pan, said, “great job honey, these look awesome!” The silence in the air was filled in with sizzles and crackles.

“Mmm, smells great, thanks everyone,” said Mr. Odoratore, who turned around and went upstairs to help make sure the boys had packed more than just Halloween costumes for their long weekend at their Grandmother's house.

---

The car now full of suitcases and his family, Mr. Odoratore stood in the doorway and waved with delight as Mrs. Odoratore and their four ecstatic sons pulled out of the smooth driveway and took off down the road to see their Grandma in Detroit. He felt a bolt of electricity shoot through him as soon as the green minivan was out of sight, but he knew that it might be a false start, and so he resolved to wait a half an hour before beginning any of his special projects.

He thought he would do some light reading, but the minutes passed painfully slowly, so he decided to turn on the living room television. He looked up at the clock, it read 7:15. “Ok, fifteen more minutes,” he thought. He watched as Ellen Degeneres danced in front of an audience, he looked up again, “7:25...almost there,” he thought. He stood up and started pacing, his mind humming, as Ellen began speaking with her first guest. He looked at the clock again, “7:32.” He bolted out of the living room straight to the wooden door next to the kitchen which led down into the basement, daddy’s sanctuary.

He pulled the chain of the single light bulb as he excitedly raced down the stairs, revealing his large vinyl desk, 32 inch monitor and laptop computer resting on it, a comfortable leather office chair, and a small, faintly humming, black dorm-room refrigerator. Outside of this nook of furniture, the basement was cold and bare.

Pulsing with energy, Mr. Odoratore checked his phone to make sure he hadn’t missed any messages from his wife. He hadn’t. “They must be happily on the highway by now,” he concluded. He set his phone on “airplane mode.” It was time to begin.

He flipped open the laptop and turned on the monitor. He entered his password, 12 characters; the computer denied access. A slight tremble vibrated through his hands as he tried again, access granted. He released a deep breath.

He opened his web browser, opting for the “private search mode.” His heart started to beat faster and his face became flush. He could feel the blood, the energy, coursing through his body. He entered a web url in its entirety from memory. He was asked for his password. He entered 15 alphanumeric characters, access granted.

He stood up and took off his shirt. He felt warm all over. The hair on his chest was standing up. He reached under the desk to a small shelf, and retrieved a dark ski mask. He donned the ski mask. He clicked with his mouse, and a green light radiated from his laptop in his direction. He slowly moved the fingers of his right hand, pinkie to thumb, waving toward the green-light which emanated from the computer. He smiled with a feigned coyness.

“Hello to all of my sweet...wittle...babies out there. Who’s ready for a show from daddy?” He smiled again through the dark ski mask, then reached down into the small fridge and retrieved a rectangular plastic take-out box. He moved his hand slowly across the plastic box. He wiped his ski-masked face across its top then slowly moved his tongue over it.

“Ready, boys?” He turned the top of the box toward the camera, revealing a tan piece of masking tape and black marker ink, which read: “Egg Foo Young - Baked in the sun - 3 days.”

The computer began to ring with chimes. “Thank you, my babies. Oh, thank you for that big tip RhinoGuy5.” He popped off the top and reached his hand in, pulling out a handful of a rotten wet patty, which in its past life was a delectable Egg Foo Young from Mandarin Garden. It crumbled in his hand. He put it up to his nose and inhaled its noxious scent.

“Mmm...should I taste it?” The computer chimes sounded faster now. Mr. Odoratore put his tongue to the rotten blue-green patty, “mmm...it’s so yummy.” He reached into the plastic box and grabbed another handful, this time coming up with a clump of rice which was laden with soft white spores. He stood up and began rubbing the mushy rice and spores all over his torso. The computer rang out cacophonously. He reached his hand down towards the waistband of his sweatpants, “oh, no no no,” he pulled his hand back up and rubbed the contents against his chest once more.

He sat back down in the office chair, awash in the combined glows of blue light and of stardom, his eyes shown wide and bright through the ski mask.

“I have an extra special treat for my babies this week...something we’ve been talking about for a very long time. That’s right, MukMukBangBang...But I’m going to need you boys to band together and get me at least 10,000 if we’re going to make this happen, and I really want to make this happen.” He licked his lips then brought his mold-stained palm up to his mouth, and ran his tongue over it. “Show me what you got, boys.”

The computer rang out in a torrent of bells and the website’s tip counter continued to climb. “Oh yes, we are getting very close now my babies, shall we see what we’re working for?” He leaned down in the chair and once more opened the fridge, reached inside and pulled out another plastic container. He lifted it up to the camera and displayed the masking tape label which read “Daddy's special treat.” The tips continued to pick up steam.

“Thank you Davos, that is a very generous tip” - “Oh wow, thank you Germ321, that nearly gets us to our goal...who will be my special baby and get us over the threshold to reveal the extra special treat?” He licked the outside of the box, “mmmm, it’s so yummy. I can’t wait to taste it.”

With that, a unique chime went off, it sounded like fireworks and rang out for a few seconds. “Oh, thank you PolarBearBites, we did it...now let’s see what’s inside the box, shall we?” Mr. Odoratore slid off the plastic top, and tipped the box to the camera, revealing a cold mess of what looked like brown & chartreuse colored fecal matter. “This was a gift from my son last night, it looked so good to me I just had to keep it, and now it is my turn to give my gift to you.”

Mr Odoratore stood up, once more revealing his torso and waist to the adoring strangers through the glowing screen, reached into the plastic box and scooped out a large cold gob. He began rubbing it on his chest. The particulate formed tiny nugget-clumps as it commingled with his chest hair. “Mmmm...it feels so good, and I love the way it smells, it makes me so hot.”

The computer continued to sing out its praises, and Mr. Odoratore smiled widely. He reached into the plastic box and pulled out a yellow-brown clump, peeling it out of the box like play-doh. He reached down into his pants, and rubbed it all over himself, intermittently bringing his sweatpants low enough so viewers could get a brief glimpse of the money shot. The computer hummed with tips.

“Now for the grand finale, my babies, keep those tips coming...mmmm.” He sat down once again making his ski-masked face viewable to his adoring international audience. He reached back into the box and pulled out a large quantity of excrement. He moved it up towards his nose, “mmmm, it smells sooooo good, I wonder what it tastes like…?”

He bit his lower lip, the computer chimed out an uninterrupted melody of gratitude. He lifted his hand to his mouth and put his youngest son's waste matter onto his lips, then two fingers deeply into his mouth, then he gyrated in ecstasy as he began rubbing the now warming clumps of stool all over the holes in the ski-mask. ‘Oh my god, it tastes so fucking good. I’m so fucking hard right now. Mmmmm…” The computer rang in ecstatic rhythm. “I’m gonna-”

“Dad...?”

Mr. Odoratore jumped two feet off the ground; it was his soul trying to exit his body. Landing back in the office chair he recoiled in shock, dry-heaved, and instinctively slammed down the computer screen, cutting the stream; leaving only the dim glow of a singular dangling ceiling bulb to shine its light on the father and his young son.

His mind racing, seeking a way out, and heart in his stomach, Mr. Odoratore turned to face the source of the distressed sound, which he knew to be his eldest son Max. With his painted bare chest, his stool covered ski-mask still on, pieces of green-yellow feculence grasping to his lower lip, his entire body shook as he confronted his worst nightmare.

“Maxie...what uhhh...what are you guys doing at home? You’re supposed to be…” He slid off the shit covered ski-mask. “...and you know, you know better,” he raised his voice here, “you’re not supposed to come down here without knocking!”

Max stood in an eternity of stunned silence in front of the horrific nightmarish vision that was his father. Then he started to bawl and howl. “Gra...gra...grammas dead!”