We pull into the driveway of the house just a ways from Foothill drive. It's a nice 3 story house. 2 car garage, 3 stories, maple wall linings, snobbish. We start running the hoses has the housewife begins showing us to our task.
Has we walk up the stairs, I catch the scent of something unpleasant. It smells familiar, but I can't place it. We reach the top of the stairs and head down the hallway and the smell becomes more intense. I have a bad feeling about this.
My worst fears are realized has we reach our task. The smell is coming from the two couches in the living room. The same two couches we've been called on to clean. At this point the smell is so intense that my eyes are watering. My hyperactive brain is still working on trying to place that smell. It's so familiar.
I regain my focus long enough to catch the conversation between my boss and the housewife. "Yeah we haven't gotten these couches cleaned in a few years. The kids have thrown up on them and spilled soda and........................" Bingo, that's what that smell is! Puke. layers and layer of throwup. Finding the answer to my question has only made me more depressed. The couch has splotches of white and brown all over them, and on fabric that is a dark pine green, that is truly a feat.
I look at my boss, and I can tell he's suffering too. He makes a flat run for the van to start loading unholy amounts of deoderant in the pressure pump. I am left with the stench, and the housewife, who decides she wants to talk to me. "So I hear you're a student in college? What's your study? Oh that sounds so interesting." I want to put my finger to her lips and say "Ma'am, please stop. You don't care about what I'm doing and you'll forget everything 2 minutes after I leave. Every time I open my mouth to answer one of your questions, brings me one step closer to losing consciousness. Go back to you kitchen, check on your turkey, and please LET ME LIVE!"
Note to self: The smell of puke-ridden couches mixed with the warm smell of baking Christmas cookies is one to avoid in the future.
Me and my boss pound through those couches with has much muscle and speed has we can muster. Surprisingly, we manage to give the couches their original color back. And we can breathe again. The color has returned to our faces, and suddenly it's Christmas again. We are throwing things in the van with all speed, trying to get away from this nightmare. Has a final blow to our senses, the housewife informs us that it was not even her call to have us tend to her couches! Her husband is the one who made the mercy call, and she couldn't even smell what the big deal was about! Truly a sick and twisted lady.
My boss drops me off at my truck with a little bit of Christmas cash, and heads home. I for one am shot. A revelation hits me, Christmas sucks! Nat King Cole and Elvis were full of shit. I wasn't to have any storybook Christmases. This was my Christmas. There would be no hanging stockings from the chimney with care, no blessed days. Someone burned my chestnuts, and Jack Frost kicked me in the sacs.
With that truth understood, there had to be a way to salvage what was left of the holidays. Not to regain any kind of Christmas cheer mind you, but just to retain what's left of my sanity. Then with a twinkle in my eye and a mischevious grin on my face, I find the way to salvation. Christmas lives in my heart, while driving 93 miles an hour singing along to Paranoid by Black Sabbath.
Merry Christmas ya bastards!