"I've slept in some pretty god awful places (Detroit), but no one should be made to live like this."
Now I don't claim to be the cleanest person on the block, nor do I claim to have any standards of personal hygiene, but I do believe in a basic minimum inalienable standard of acceptable human living conditions. I'm no princess either. I've woken up in some disgusting places. For example: a landfill. I once had to spend the night on a guy's couch in a place so dirty it was promptly referred to as "Little Sierra Leone." These locations are considered to be suites at the Hilton compared to the hell of Slanty Shanty Town.
After surveying the Tenth Circle of Hell, I made a mental list of the supplies needed to vanquish undiluted evil.A little background on my situation. I took a job about 40 minutes north of middle of nowhere. The remote location offered very few options for living space. Luckily the employer offered affordable staff housing to meet the needs of their employees. There was absolutely no information available anywhere pertaining to the staff housing, so I didn't have any opportunity to see or even read about where I would be staying for half of a year. I had to sign a contract outlining the rules and regulations governing my stay in these accommodations. There were the basics about noise levels after certain times and keeping the rooms clean (there were to be weekly inspections), but what really made me think I was in for a treat was the part about holes in the walls. I'm not talking fist holes in the wall you sometimes make when you lose a large sports bet or find out your son is a homosexual, you aren't allowed to hang posters with pushpins because of the damage to the walls. The cost of repair to these miniscule holes will be deducted from your security deposit. Now I have pictured in my mind a pretty fancy place with a new coat of paint or something reasonable to validate this unusually strict protocol. Caveat emptor.
Before moving day I had been taken on a tour past staff housing with a veteran of the job and the living quarters. Basically there are two motels (yes motels, they still exist) across a highway from each other. The one on the left was the best ("best" is a relative term), the one on the right the worst, and then there were the slums. Disconnected from the shittier of the two motels was a small strip of satellite rooms even worse than what was deemed "the worst." Kind words were offered to reassure my concerns. "You might get HIV if you live in one of the better ones, but you WILL get AIDS if you live in Shanty Town. A guy got hospitalized for mold poisoning a couple years ago."
Guess where I got to stay.
Diving Down the Rabbit Hole
Pulling up to the motel, I had to sit in my car for a second and just take a breath… soaking in the majesty of my surroundings. Walking up to check-in at the front desk I met some friends. They were in a slight panic because upon opening their room, they startled the current occupants. The language barrier probably didn't help the confusion, but once the woodland creatures had scattered, all was well. One girl opened her room and burst into tears. Most agreed they would not have taken the job if there was any information on the living conditions. I later found out my would-be roommate unlocked the door, took one look around, and then handed back his key and left. If only I had been so fortunate.
A deep breath and I walked into the office. The woman who checked me in was very nice. She had a broken wrist and sought no medical attention for it. This was explained to me as I went to shake her hand. Things to do before I die: witness gangrene firsthand (no pun). Check.
I was handed a key, and my adventure began.
Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here
I turned the key to the room where I would be residing for the next six months, #11 Shanty Town. My senses were flooded when I opened the door and stepped inside. While my eyes were adjusting I was immediately able to focus on the smell. I used to play sports and sometimes you would forget to wash your kit for a week or two months. That smell was still tolerable and you could function. The problem comes when you forget to wash your kit over the off-season. Eight months later you open your gym bag that has now turned into a lab manufacturing high-grade chemical weapons. Throw that gym bag into a sauna, add mold and wildlife, and you have yourself a party, or my room.
Where Angels Fear to Tread
After surveying the Tenth Circle of Hell, I made a mental list of the supplies needed to vanquish undiluted evil. Unfortunately, Walmart carries neither Holy Water nor flame-throwers at Canadian retail locations. I embarked on a short drive (40 minutes) to the nearest humanoid settlement. This was a small town but it had the basics of consumerism: Walmart, Canadian Tire, grocery store, abortion clinic.
I had the unfortunate experience of stopping in a REALLY small town to turn around. They had an LCBO/post office. Just to be clear, both services were offered in the same building. I've never seen that before and doubt I ever will. The driveway in which I made the fastest three-point turn on record featured a sight much like the painting of American Gothic, but instead of a pitchfork, there was a 40-ouncer of vodka being gulped straight from the bottle. "Would you like a glass?" "It comes in a glass?!" The funny thing is that I may have turned around without batting an eye had it not been 10:17 am, on a Tuesday. Small towns: You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.
The bathroom is where the Chupacabra must have done the majority of its ritual killings because I had to scrub blood off of the ceilings.Fucking tangents. So I procure what I feel are the necessary tools to cleanse and protect me from the saturated filth that has accumulated on every surface of my room: mop, broom, corn broom, dustpan, SARS mask, elbow length rubber gloves, condoms, steel wool, scouring pads, disinfectant, adult diapers, paper towel, garbage bags, crucifix, sandpaper, uppers, downers, screamers, laughers, a case of beer (to take the edge off), and bleach.
Funny story about the bleach. I was in the bleach section trying to narrow down my choice. After settling on the industrial application chlorine bleach I was faced with the ultimate decision. Do I buy 2.5L for $3.50 or do I go with the best volume/cost ratio of 5L for $4.25. I went with the 2.5L foolishly saying to myself, "I'll never need 5L of bleach." How wrong I was.
Veni, Vidi, Vomit
I started my crusade with the bathroom. Total elapsed time: 3h 42m. Times gagged: 87 (those statistics put pornographic films to shame, I'd assume). Chances of sodium hypochlorite poisoning: 100%.
A Mexican standoff between me and the mold took place. I gathered my wits and made the first move. The bathroom fixtures were a shade of pink no longer in production, but I'm sure it looked pretty good back in the 40's when Shanty Town was built, and, incidentally, the last time it was cleaned.
The toilet seat and lid were white and clearly replacements. I found out the previous occupants had them changed after someone broke into their room and propped up a dead raccoon with a cigarette in its paw on the seat as a prank. The toilet tank was covered in a once-matching pink carpet, now black with mold. I hope it was glued on because I had to tear it off with modest effort.
Beneath the carpet lived an ecosystem of bugs, dirt, and mold. Let the scrubbing begin. The nature of using harsh chemicals in an enclosed and non-ventilated area required me to take several breaks to run outside and attempt to expel my lungs with the power of coughing. How do floor tiles manage to become totally permeated with mold? These omni-gross tiles were impervious even to two days of soaking in pure bleach.
The mold whispered to me at night. It told me to feed it. It was then that I knew how Seymour Krelborn felt. If I could manage to sleep, I would wake up with the unexplained urge to bring offerings to what I now call "The Blackness." In moments of weakness I have succumbed to the terrific suggestiveness of words heard in dreams, of phrases spoken in nightmares. I found hair everywhere. Long hair, 20 inches minimum. I was now certain that the Chupacabra was real.
The bathroom is where it must have done the majority of its ritual killings because I had to scrub blood off of the ceilings. The medicine cabinet served as a display case for artifacts that offered insight about past residents. There was a shot glass (not an actual glass that people might put their contact lenses in, but one of those plastic dollar store ones usually attached to a Mardi Gras necklace), a woman's razor (completely fouled with no less than two distinctly different colors of half-inch hair, so either people were sharing a razor or there was a serious day and night dye job going on), and a used Q-tip (I've seen less wax at a candle store [I've never been to a candle store]). The shower looked to be a converted closet added last minute. The plastic wall coverings were warped, allowing water to pool behind them, and the drain was located "uphill," which didn't help either, but more on that later.
My favorite accent in the bathroom had to be the soap dish in the shower stall. It was, to put it simply and literally, an inverted plastic lid to a mayonnaise jar screwed into the wall. I kept the pink shower curtain though, because it was fucking awesome. On the first day all I had accomplished by dark was the bathroom. I needed the light if I was going to tackle the rest. I slept standing up that night so as to not touch any unclean surfaces. It was almost like fear itself was propping me up. Fucking disgusting.
Matthew 7:26
"And everyone who hears these words of mine and does not do them will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand."
Day 2 of cleaning. I removed all of the furniture from the room and took it outside. I properly disposed of a mattress and box spring in accordance with local ordinance. While taking the bed out I observed a large hole but thought nothing of it. The combination of frantic movement inside, and a trail of discarded nuts, shells, and feces clued me in to notion of a possible rodent infestation. On the bright side I did learn a handy carpentry trick: if you are ever in need of a bed frame, just duct tape random scraps of found wood directly to the box spring. If the women don't find you handsome…
It's okay to ignore the fact that the bed boasts an orthopedic certification from 1973 when using four different thicknesses of wood as the legs. The bed I decided to keep looked to be fairly new and in good condition. I flipped the mattress to find a crime scene that needed investigating. I deduced there were two possible scenarios that could have produced that much blood: a murder or an abortion. Think of the Shroud of Turin with more blood and less Jesus, on the surface you have to sleep on.
After wrapping the mattress and box spring in multiple layers of thick plastic, and disinfecting the bed frame, desk, dresser, fridge, microwave, walls, ceilings, floors, doors, windows, frames, trim, light fixtures, and window curtains, it was time to move my furniture back in. I didn't have a lot of space to work with seeing how I could touch all four walls while standing directly in the center of the room, so organization to maximize floor space was a must. I wanted to have the head of my bed facing north for magnetic chi, feng shui, and sun exposure purposes, so I solicited the help of a compass in my efforts to determine my directional orientation. Was I surprised when the compass started spinning violently moments before its shards shattered to the far reaches of the Earth as if I had just made a wish with the dragon balls? No. Shanty Town was, after all, built in the shadow of the statue.
I was surprised, however, that my room slanted in two separate directions but not at the same time. I don't know how that's possible; it's an unexplained law of physics. Half of my room must be located on another dimensional plane. What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? Slanty Shanty Town is erected out of that violent energy and chaos. Up is down, left is right, Dancing with the Stars is on, brb.
Setting up my bed was like playing that marble-hole-tilt game: frustrating and seemingly impossible to an 8-year-old's psyche. Now the only concern was that my head was uphill when I slept for fear of blood pooling in my skull causing brain hemorrhaging, stroke, and/or blindness. I needed to know how Shanty Town got the moniker Slanty. I started my inspection of the building's exterior with the prospect of finding a wormhole or some other similar space/time distorter, but what I found was the foundation of the problem.
The problem was the foundation. It appears that Shanty Town had been built on top of a hill with half of the structure hanging over the slope supported by stilts made of cinder blocks. I'm no expert on building codes but I've watched enough Holmes on Homes to make my nipples chafe against 13.5 oz 100% cotton duck canvas (approximately 1/3 of an episode). There were no visible signs of erosion so this building practice must have been intended and not just a cheaply attempted fix. I imagine that if I were to ever build a house on blocks resting on soft ground that I would put at the very least sheets of plywood under the blocks to try and distribute pressure over a larger area, or I'd just build my house in the clouds above Bespin, or not be a fucking cunt who builds houses. Shanty Town is sinking, man, and I don't wanna swim.
In summation, why is this place allowed to exist? People have lived in this hellhole for years and nothing has been done to make these conditions tolerable. Shanty Town should be razed. The biggest irony is that the company who puts its employees up in these accommodations is a large supporter of the charity Habitat for Humanity. Habitat? For whom, The Blackness? There is no humanity here, just a place where souls go to die.