June 5th, 2010. "My, God. It's full of jars." I gasped. I lowered my sunglasses, and turned to Darger. He was sniffing at the waxy paper from the package of cheese slices he had been carrying. Then he pulled back a short sleeve of his t-shirt, and sniffed at his armpit.
"It's Colby." he stammered.
"No. It's moldy, you foul bastard!" I told him. "You smell moldy! Like a dead toad wrapped up in a wet towel! Jesus F. Christ!"
Then I fixated my attention back to the extensive, plexus of jars that Darger had burrowed into the ruddy, dirt embankment quietly nestled behind the overgrowth by the loading dock of the Food-4-All.
"What in the hell is all this?" I demanded. Then I proposed, "Those are your clothes? In those jars? In those holes? You keep your clothes stuffed into jars that you stuff into holes that you dug into the dirt?!"
Darger nodded, then slowly reached out and pulled a mayonaise-sized, glass jar from it's singular, dusty, little hole-in-the-wall. He struggled to open it, but ultimately, I knocked it from his hands, and it proudly cracked open like the last rotten egg onto the hard, dry ground. I immediately recognized the damp, tightly-rolled, mass of smelly felt to be one of Darger's old, Traffic Town sweatshirts.
"Eeewww!" I choked. "That's dank! You're going to have to air that thing out! It's no wonder you smell like you just sat in a big, pile of mildew."
Darger grinned. Then he wiped his armpits with the cheese wrapper and said, "It's Colby. I'm going to open a jar of pants, now."
L is for Fourme d'Ambert.
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