The scent was unbearable. It wafted into the room and took everyone by the nose, grabbing and pulling at their sinuses. The aroma of a rotten fruit stand mixed with days old fish slowly filled the nostrils and lungs of everyone within reach. It happened like this every week. Monday nights became synonymous with teary eyes and sick filled throats.
At five fifty-five TGIFridays would start to clear, and by six o’clock the odor crept its way in the front door and mingled with the few remaining people. If one were to walk in five minutes after, the smell and emptiness of the restaurant would resemble something like Bosnia in 1995.
Jason Fetz was born in the garbage. He was cursed to have the lingering perfume of his birth follow him for an eternity. In grade school he was quite often sent back home to his dumpster with a note taped on his shirt proclaiming his blight. His parents tried and tried, but could never wash it off of his skin. He would carry around oranges and cloves hoping to mask it, to no avail. The moment Axe body spray started appearing on store shelves he bought it in droves and still it failed. Jason Fetz never felt the touch of a woman, but once told a story of touching a homeless mans pecker for a dollar. So instead of people he found his solace in a cold beer at a novelty restaurant filled with tourists and unfamiliar faces. The bartenders paid him no mind, and the South Jersey patrons were used to the stench (because they’re from South Jersey and South Jersey smells like turds). Jason Fetz was doomed to have a lonely life. A lonely life because he smells like shit.