And B.O. Was His Name-O

B.O., body odour, the scent of the unwashed.  As the electrician worked outside my office, I quickly realized he was inflicted with one of the most severe cases of B.O. I had ever encountered.  Hoping that whatever he was there to repair would not take long, I stayed put, as the path out of my office lead directly through the cloud that surrounded him.  I could not take the risk of a cling-on attack, and decided to ride this one out.

Five minutes passed.  Ten.  Twenty.  My eyes watering, I struggled to determine which was best, breathing through my nose, or my mouth.  Both proved to be torturous, requiring me to stifle my gag reflex, but what else was I to do.  B.O. enriched oxygen was all that was available, and I was fighting to survive.  Was he there to repair the light fixture, or crush my spirit?  I no longer knew.  Breathing into the sleeve of my shirt, I questioned his motives. 

After one half hour of agony, and unsuccessful attempts to fan the incoming fumes with an empty beige file folder, he finally finished his repair, packed up his things, and left the building.  Relieved that it would all soon be over, and with the expectation that fresh air would gradually replace that which he had polluted, I wiped my eyes and went back to work. 

Alas, that was not the end.  It was not over.  Nearly an hour had passed, yet an odiferous presence lingered strongly in the air.  “Why won’t that smell just go away?!!” I frustratingly wondered.  Looking up from my desk and into my doorway, I soon found my answer.  Startled, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood tall, my eyes opened widely.  While the man may have left, his B.O. shadow remained, and it was staring right at me.