One particularly sad and disgusting case that belongs right beside #5 in the annals of deplorable places was the aptly named “Floor People”. Dwelling in one of Lawrence’s many fine trailer parks, the floor people will forever haunt mine and many others memories and nasal passages alike.
Now you might think that floor people would refer to the aforementioned dog food bag/trash adorned floors, but it was much, much worse. And as much as it smelled like they had enough pets to cover the entire world with these bags, they had none as far as I could tell.
The floor people were a husband and wife who quite literally lived on the floor of their completely unfurnished trailer, barring a lone television sitting in the middle of the room facing the door. Ranging somewhere between 300 to 400 lbs, they had long ago given up using their legs as a source of locomotion, instead relying solely on crawling and perhaps rolling to move around their estate.
Floor people seemed to be a pretty fitting name for them, although someone else long before me had coined the term. The smell as you got out of your car and approached closer to the door got exponentially worse and worse with every step, most likely due to the fact that neither of them had bathed in roughly a decade. As soon as you knocked on the door you had a finite amount of fresh air breathing left, as there was generally a delay of 15 to 20 seconds between the time you had knocked on the door and when it was opened as one of the inhabitants slinked over from their designated TV watching floor space.
The stench went from comically bad to so horrendous that I often had to fight back the urge to vomit right then and there. I would generally try to take my last breath as soon as I heard their large paws fiddling with the much smaller door handle, and would hold it for the entire transaction. When one studies military history, you often read of the incomparably awful stench that inhabits a battlefield after combat. The smell of blood, death, and decay is often what burns most deeply into survivors’ minds. Going to the floor people’s trailer was the only thing I could ever imagine that could mimic such conditions.
On that note I’d like to thank our servicemen for not only protecting our country but also enduring this ungodly stench without soldering their nasal passages closed with a welder. Whenever the door was finally opened, the expectation of meeting someone at roughly eye level was instead a massive outstretched arm coming from below your waist. Any normal pleasantries such as a “Hello, how are you doing?” or “Have a good day!” were thrown out in an attempt to not inhale any of the possibly deadly smells into one’s lungs, so I would just stand there in silence holding my breath as I waited to receive my payment; I would then then promptly run away immediately afterwards gasping for non-noxious air. It really was that bad.
The floor people eventually became the singular floor person, and then no floor folk at all. All malice aside I truly hope that they somehow received help, and a shower, but something tells me their lifestyle caught up with them in the worst possible way. That being said I was quite happy when the day came that I didn’t have to go to that godforsaken trailer anymore.