Back in the summer of 1997, Stephen was living across the street, in a house owned by my grandmother and her infamous lover Ed Lewis. My uncle was never the neatest person in the world, and going into the place was like walking into the bedroom of a rowdy teenager, with clothes and dirty dishes all over the place. The clutter made it easy to lose objects within the building.
The small house was hot and miserable in the summer months, but on top of the heat in '97, there arose a stench. The recognizable smell of rotting meat filled the air whenever you'd enter the building, and at first Stephen assumed there had to be a dead animal somewhere. A raccoon or porcupine had crawled into the walls and died, he presumed. But try as he may, the source of the putrid scent could not be discovered. It got so bad, he had to flee for several days, and slept on our guest bed during his exile.
|Stephen K. Alexander|