It's been about a month since the old man died of natural causes, and to the two cleanup men standing on his front porch, dressed in white protective suits, complete with gloves, hoods, gray booties and respirators, waiting in front of the "Sealed by Las Vegas Justice Court" sticker on the door, not much is known about him. Just that he lived with his son in this two-bedroom apartment in the northwest side of town, and he died. His son had some kind of skin disorder that's covered nearly every surface in the home with flecks of his dead skin, and then disappeared without even reporting the death. Though the body's long been removed, the apartment complex is required by law to wait 30 days before allowing cleaners in, giving next of kin a chance to claim the old man's belongings. But no one came to pillage through the mess, which the men from Odor Masters are now here to assess. There's not much else they need to know.
"I try not to think about it too much because we have a job to do. That's really what it comes down to," says Ian Simon, vice president of operations of Odor Masters. "It's a sad state of affairs to think someday somebody'll be cleaning up me, you know, and you. We all hope that we just go peacefully in our sleep, but it doesn't always work out that way."
Before they enter, a large man in this fairly upscale complex questions them from a distance. "Will it spread?" he asks. They assure him that "it" will not. He thanks them and explains that he just moved in, then walks away. Simon explains that they prefer to suit up inside of the apartment.
"What I want to make clear is that these situations are sensitive. So we try to be very discreet, and very conscientious to people's scenarios," he explains. Then he opens the front door.
The apartment is dark and hot. The air-conditioning has been off for at least the last 30 days to avoid spreading the smell of death, feces and urine through the air-conditioning system. I breathe through my respirator, thankful that it keeps the smells out. The carpet feels harsh. It's covered in what looks like potato flakes, which is actually the son's skin, and it's everywhere. The place is trashed. Boxes of cat food and detergent and cigarette butts overflow from the fireplace, as if waiting to be incinerated. Blankets cover windows and the mismatched, disorganized furniture looks like it came from a thrift shop, all covered in a blanket of particles too thick to be dust. More skin.
Above the fireplace is a framed picture of a serene mountain setting, with cabins and trees. Nearby is another picture of a mountain stream. Then a couple of tigers, peeking out from the grass. The artwork is meticulously placed, and it's clear, painfully so, that at one time someone cared about making this biohazard feel like a home. Maybe even looked at these photos to escape the painful reality of sickness and dependence. Or perhaps they were hung before the oxygen tanks in the dining room were put to use, or the used syringes that litter the apartment.
Not all rooms hint at such orderly times. In the master bedroom, where the man's body was found after he failed to pay his rent on time, the mattress is stained. Urine mixed with blood. Bodily fluids. Dark circles drenching the old bed. There's plastic tubing shoved next to a wall that connects to the oxygen machine, and a clumsily plopped dresser, covered in more grayish body dust, next to piles of clothes and cat feces.
"Supposedly they got the animal," Simon says to his colleague. "There was an animal. We don't know if they had another one. Remember the last one we did, found that cat? Be on the lookout."
The kitchen's covered with a brownish-yellow sticky substance. It's on the floor and counters.
"Cat urine?" I ask, hopeful.
"I don't know. Looks more like human," says Simon. "You can see the condition that this place is in. And of course we've got this layer of skin over everything."
Flakes. Everywhere. Some dime-size, others dust-like, and every shape and size in between. It's gray, dry and dead. The bedroom where the scaly son lived is the most grotesque. The carpets are crispy with the particles. The closet floor is entirely covered with cat shit. The cheap mattress has cigarette butts and burns on it, along with a copy of Hustler's Hottest Honeys. There's a green strip of turf on the floor and golf clubs nearby. All coated.
The Odor Masters lead me back outside, and we take off our masks, unzip our suits, allow the fresh air and dripping sweat to cool us. Simon explains it will take four people three or four days to finish the place, and cost the property $2,000 -$3,000. They'll have to bag every item in 3-millimeter-thick bags, then deposit them in their own rented Dumpsters and dispose of it all. Then they have to rip out the carpets and padding, clean the walls, the floor, the air ducts and anything that could have the skin in it, or the smell.
"It smells like a dead guy," says Simon. "And once you smell that smell, you'll never forget it."
So I do. I smell it. I take off my respirator and stick my head back into the mire and breathe. It's sharp, pungent. Almost like the sweet smell of rotting meat, sautéed with urine and some other undesirables. "A cornucopia," Simon describes it.
And it sticks with me. After my suit is off, after I've driven miles away, the smell is in the car, under the gloves, on a slice of Boston cream pie. It's like I imagine phantom limb tingles and itches to be. The smell remains on the inside of my nose, imprinting memories of a man I never met, leaving the world in a state that none of us ever hope to experience. And rousing concerns about friends and loved ones who may one day find me, hopefully in a more ordered state, and before the landlord comes knocking.