Page 25 of The Tenant
“Coffee, Porter,” he sighs. “Can you grab us a fresh pot?”
I forgot to mention my other important job during these meetings: fetching coffee.
“Right.” I leap to my feet. “Of course. I’m so sorry.”
I snatch the empty coffeepot from the back of the conference room. As I’m leaving the room, I overhear Kenny saying to someone else, “Some of these temps are better than others, huh?”
Great. So much for this job turning permanent.
Since I have no shot of ever working here, I take my sweet time getting more coffee. I bring the pot to the break room, but instead of filling it up, I leave it there and make a beeline for the men’s room.
Thankfully, nobody is inside since everyone is at the meeting. I undo the tiny buttons on the shirt, resisting the temptation to rip it open. When all the buttons are undone, I yank the shirt open. And I gasp.
No wonder I’m so freaking itchy. There’s an angry red rash covering every inch of my chest. I take the shirt off entirely and discover it’s on my arms and back as well. Even though I know I shouldn’t, I stand there for several minutes, going to town scratching every inch of my body that I can reach until my skin is raw and practically bleeding.
Why did I break out in a rash like this? Given it’s localized to the area under my dress shirt, I have to assume that’s the cause. But this shirt isn’t new. I’ve had it for years, and it never caused a problem. And the itching has been bothering me every day, even when I’m wearing different shirts.
It can’t be the laundry detergent. I would love to use a detergent where the bottle features a big burly man holding a sledgehammer against a backdrop of the woods, but instead I buy a detergent that has a stuffed animal on it that is hypoallergenic because I know I’m sensitive to that kind of stuff. But even the burly man detergent never made me break out like this. The only thing that makes me break out in a rash like this is…
Limonene.
I am extremely allergic to limonene, which is a citrus-scented fragrance chemical often found in laundry detergent. I found that out as a kid, when I used to break out in a rash every time my mom used it. So I avoid it. Krista knows to avoid any detergent with limonene listed as an ingredient. In fact, I’ve asked her not to use it in our machine at all, because even the residual in the machine can irritate my skin.
But Whitney doesn’t know this.
It hits me now that I’ve been noticing the itching sensation since right after Whitney moved in with us, a little over a month ago now. The timeline matches up. Whitney must be using a detergent with limonene in the washing machine, and then when I wash my clothes, they are picking up the residual. And now I have to talk to her about it, which I’m sure will be a fun conversation.
I recognize I can’t spend the day here in the men’s room, scratching my chest. And I’m not doing myself any favors. On top of the rash, I now have scratch marks running up and down my skin. I have to put my shirt back on, fill up that pot of coffee, and proceed with my exciting day of menial tasks.
I splash cold water on myself, hoping that will soothe my raw, aching skin. It helps a little, although more than that, it makes my shirt slightly damp. When I get back to the meeting, they are going to wonder what the hell I was doing all this time.
It’s safe to say I’ve blown any chance of ever working here. And I better get my act together ASAP before I lose everything.
15
I stopat a drugstore on the way home and buy a tube of cortisone cream, knowing it’s the only thing that has a chance of helping. I don’t have any health insurance at the moment, so I better hope the nonprescription strength does the trick.
The itching is as intense as ever by the time I get back to the brownstone. I can barely stand it, and I’m definitely not in the mood when Mr. Zimmerly’s front door swings open and he comes clomping down the steps in his slippers. He brushes a tuft of white hair off his forehead as he glares at me.
“Porter!” he barks. “Your garbage cans are on the curb!”
He’s right. My empty garbage cans are on the curb, and trash pickup was this morning. I’m almost certain I dragged the cans off the curb before I left for work. I can clearly remember hauling them across the sidewalk while trying not to get any garbage juice on my dress shirt. I definitely did it.
Didn’t I?
Yet the bins are clearly still on the curb. Zimmerly isn’t making it up. And I can’t imagine why anyone would haul my empty garbage bins back onto the sidewalk between this morning and now. I must be thinking of last week.
The last thing I feel like doing after the day I’ve had is dealing with garbage. But if I don’t, I’m in danger of not only my neighbor’s wrath but also a ticket.
“Also,” he adds, “your steps are still dirty!”
The itching on my chest intensifies several notches. I want to rip my skin off. I also want to pick up this trash bin and smash it against Zimmerly’s head until he shuts the hell up. I’d say after about three good hits, he won’t have much to complain about anymore.
“Well?” he says.
I glare at him. Without saying a word, I grab the opening of my shirt and yank hard, feeling the buttons strain and finally give. A second later, my shirt is open. I rip it off and throw it down on the sidewalk in disgust while Zimmerly stares at me, his jaw hanging open. The October air sends a chill over my bare torso, which feels pretty good, given how raw and red my skin has become.
“Look!” I grab the trash bin and start wheeling it back to the side of the stairs to lock it up. “I’m doing it! Happy?”
