OF DOMICILES

Nothing awakens a reminiscence like an odor.
Victor Hugo

It was an estate sale.

When I entered the house, I immediately felt like I wanted to retch.

The smell inside was an unpleasant sour smell, an odor that I couldn’t put my hands on, but I later remembered another time and place that had had the same odor.

It was my second semester at the university.

I had received a grant of $500, and I wanted to stretch this money as far as I possibly could.

When I searched the ads for APARTMENTS TO RENT, I saw ROOM FOR RENT.

I don’t remember the exact words in the ad, but it went something like:

“Single room. No food or cooking. No pets. No guests. $35 per month.”

I went to the house and a frail woman appeared at the door.

After I told her that I wanted to see the room, she seemed to trust me, and said to enter.

When I entered---

There was that same SOUR SMELL.

It was the odor of the ages.

It was the scent of a (VERY OLD ) woman.

I was almost blind, but my nose was not.

I tried not to reveal to the old woman that my olfactory faculties were in high gear.

I followed her down a hallway that went past her kitchen.

We turned right, and the room was the first door on the right.

It was a small and dark space, but I didn’t care, because the rent was cheap and it was at least a roof over my head.

I told the old woman I'd take the room.

I promptly bought one hot plate, and stocked the closet with cans of food.

The old woman must have known that I had broken one of her “house rules”, but she never said anything to me.

I didn’t take baths, because the bathtub had a hole in it.

That’s where the old woman’s dog slept.

I went to the recreation center on campus and took my showers.

I rarely spoke to the old woman, but during the first week of my residence in her odoriferous abode, she told me that she was a widow, and that her husband had been a sociology professor, and that she had been one of the first camera operators for silent films.

After that, we never spoke to each other again.

The most salient thing that I remember (besides the sour and acrid smell of the house)---and her cats---was her tea kettle whistling every morning.

It became the high-pitched “alarm clock” and reveille that woke me up each morning.

I broke one other house rule.

I brought home a guest.

She was a student in my Epistemology class, and one day in class she started rubbing her leg on mine.

I am sure that my professor noticed this amorous touching.

She gave me a ride to my room in her Volkswagen bug.

It was a stick shift.

She was a dexterous driver, and continued her amorous advances.

(Sorry, but what happened next will be in my memoirs.)


My room was located on the same street where Florence Becker Lennon lived.

In fact, it was right across the street.

She was a poet and biographer of Lewis Carroll.

The entire front of her house was covered with various posters and stickers of social protest.



When I moved out of my rank refuge, my next domicile was not much of an improvement.

It was a single room with paper-thin walls.

The name of these “apartments” was called The Shacks.

Again, the rent was modest: Only $45 per month.

The owner of The Shacks---and most of the property for a square mile or so---was a Mrs. Gold.

It was an apposite appellation.

On one side of my room lived a couple who were always making loud noises, usually ones of intimacy.

On the other side lived a former Shakespearean actor who frequently got drunk and recited the Bard’s words.

Somehow I was able to get some sleep.

One morning I woke up, and my entire floor was a lake of water.

My water heater had broken.

Life is sweet, but many of my dwellings were not.



IT'S THE SMELL STUPID!