Meat Shoes

Part of the job of the manager is to prepare vacant units for rental. This involves scheduling the maintenance crews, painters, carpet replacement, etc. Usually, it's pretty routine and only a matter of making phone calls and directing traffic. But every now and then we have what we in the managing businnes like to call "a situation."
With college kids, the first thing you do after someone moves out is go in and look for treasure. This is dumpster diving all dressed up. I'll write about the joys of wasteful rich kids another time because that can only come after a quick check of the fridge. If the fridge is empty, then on to treasure island. If the fridge has any food in it, you must empty it right then and there. While there's still power keeping it cold.

This is a happy fridge. Cold waffles all set for the landfill. That little bag of stuff is cool and not stinky. You must jump on this immediately.



Otherwise...















Had a bad day at the office? Me too.

My first fridge situation was apartment #6. What nice guys they were. A couple of stoners who accidentally left their firearms out during inspections. And apparently their idea of taking a shower involved removing the tiles ( I wish I'd taken pictures of that). Not too sorry to see them go.

They moved out three weeks early and didn't tell anybody. A lot of students don't remember to turn the power off when they move but these guys were diligent. They killed their power immediately. But only after going to Ralph's and filling the fridge with cheese, milk, hot dogs, ground beef, and sausage.

By the time I showed up it was early July and hot as balls.

Being new to the Management Game, I walked in to do the inspection, noticed a little dribble coming from the fridge, opened it up and was introduced to a whole new world of odor. Baby roaches scampered. Little black gnats flew out. How did they get in there? And the smell...the smell...

(Pause as he stares off into the distance).

The horror.
The horror.

As I hauled the first garbage bag to the dumpster, I had the brain twisting sensation of liquefied meat running out of a tear, down my leg and into my shoe. By the time I was done, I had Meat Shoes.

I washed them. I bleached them. I did everything short of burning them but there was no reversing the effect: My shoes took on the personality of a puddle of rotted flesh. These became my dirty job shoes but we will always remember them fondly as meat shoes.