It started innocently enough. I bought a bag of broccoli at the supermarket a while back. Apparently it was a long while back, as you shall see. In Somerville, our power is unpredictable. I don’t know why, but we often lose power weekly, if only for a minute. I know this because the clocks in the house are perpetually blinking. It’s also why I own a battery-operated alarm clock. So the power goes out, and my little refrigerator trips the surge protector when it comes back on, cutting power to the fridge and other major appliances. All the food gets a little too close to room temperature.
I figured most of the stuff would be okay and I tossed the stuff that wouldn’t. A week later I brought the aforementioned bag of broccoli to work.
The first sign should have been that the bag had expanded and was straining at the seams. I ignored this ill omen and tossed the bag into my backpack anyway. By the time I got to work an hour later, the broccoli had once again progressed to room temperature.
I usually arrive earlier than most of my coworkers, which luckily was the case on the Morning of the Rancid Broccoli. I was concerned about the rate at which the bag was expanding, and to keep it from exploding, I squeezed it open.
What emitted from within was the fetid smell of rotting flesh in low-tide seawater. Swallowing hard in attempt to overthrow the gag reflex, I headed swiftly toward the kitchen and immediately deposited the body bag in the nearest receptacle. I then returned to my desk. Problem solved, right?
Without my knowledge, the aroma of violently rotting vegetables began to seep from the kitchen into the hallway and the ventilation shafts, infiltrating every inch of precious fresh air in the building.
The first clue to the seriousness of the situation was the commentary of the woman seated behind me, who must have gotten a whiff of the bag when I initially opened it at my desk. I sniffed my backpack and shoved it deep into the filing cabinet under my desk just to be safe. I sprayed desk sanitizer all over the place in attempt to erase the evidence.
I was unaware how viciously the decay raged on.
“Do you smell something?”
“No – what do you smell?”
“It smells like, like somebody’s cooking something.”
Hmmm. Maybe I’m off the hook.
“No wait – its smells like they’re cooking something really bad. Ew. Really really bad.”
At this point, two women pass the open door of the kitchen and enter the office area. “Do you smell that? Oh my god! What is that awful smell?”
This chain of events began to truly unfold as my coworkers file one by one into the office. At this point I could have assured everyone that I had discovered some spoiled goods in the fridge and had disposed of them irresponsibly, fixing the situation instantly. But instead, I joined in and vocalized my dismay to conceal my guilt.
“Yeah – what the hell is that? It smells like a dead body.”
Just like any disaster where the facts are unclear, people began to speculate on the origin of the dastardly aroma, brainstorming explanations. The kitchen is across the hall from the bathroom. “I think someone had a little trouble with dinner last night.”
“There must be a backlog in the pipes.”
“I bet there’s a dead rat behind the fridge.”
“Does anyone smell a gas leak?”
Before I know it, there are twenty people congregated around the front desk, holding their noses and chattering fearfully about the Emergency Evacuation Process. An email goes out to the entire six and seventh floors assuring everyone that both security and facilities have been notified and the problem is being investigated immediately.
When the fire trucks arrive, I’m hiding under my desk.
A team of firefighters spill out of the elevator and trot down the hallway, trailing yellow “Danger!” tape behind them and dropping cones to form a barricade. “Stay back, people! Stay behind the yellow line!” The fleet of facility workers arrives in nuclear fallout suits with oxygen tanks strapped to their backs. The chief is holding a tracking device that emits a high frequency wail as he nears the entrance to the kitchen. The team halts, pressing their backs against the wall as he pauses in the doorway. He raises his walkie-talkie. “It’s coming from in here, men. I’m going in.” He plunges into the kitchen and his allies dash in for back up. The broccoli doesn’t have a chance. In a single gagging breath, the trashcan is toppled, the offending vegetable is cornered, sprayed down, and secured in an airtight container for incineration. The throng lined up in the hallway cheers in relief.
The following two hours of speculation revolve around whose broccoli it was.
It’s a bad day to be a vegetarian.
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