Fart Confessions

Several years ago, Linda and I were in a store at the mall when I let out an SBD. Holy Jesus. Easily the most foul-smelling atrocity I've ever committed. It was so horrid, I couldn't bear to own up to it—even to my spouse, who is well acquainted with the weapons-grade exhaust our two sons and I can produce. 

But I could hardly pretend we weren’t suddenly standing in a cloying mist of wretched gloom and rotting vegetation, so I faux-innocently darted a few judgy glances at nearby customers. At the very least, I figured a funk so thick and vile must have staying power and long-range mobility, so I could plausibly deflect my guilt if Linda should accuse me: Aw, c’mon, sweetie, that one coulda floated in from the food court! 

Well. Linda didn't say anything … but she did indeed react. I could practically see the waft as it traveled up her nostrils. Her nose twitched, and then she winced. That was it—but it was priceless.

Mercifully, her eyes betrayed no accusation, but nor was there any hint of humor, or even disgust—just a passing flash of injury, bewilderment and very real panic. The apocalyptic emanation from the depths of my bowels didn’t just instantly engulf my poor wife’s olfactory nerves. It might very well have made her question her will to go on living.

To this day in my memory, that oh-so-fleeting facial flutter rivals any movie double-take I've ever seen. God, it was funny, but I was mortally afraid to incriminate myself with laughter.

I couldn’t remember even then what culinary delights I might have eaten that could produce such toxic effluvium. But I can still smell it today: compost, mildew, horror and shame.

Linda waved her hand in front of her nose and quickly headed out into the mall. I went with her, staying a cautious and considerate step behind, and I prayed for those still in the store. I resisted looking back, but I pictured them stumbling out after us, hands at their throats, eyeballs a-bulge and aimed angrily in my direction.

I floated another pernicious air biscuit as we made our way down the concourse. I could only hope the fumes weren’t visible.

I was just happy to leave it behind me.

So to speak.

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