Boogers Off The Balcony
His fingernails were long, scraggly, and yellow, the perfect tool for nose picking. Elmer S. was the name that was written on all of his incoming mail. Past due bills and junk ads, mostly, which were jammed through a slot in the door and stayed wedged there until Elmer knocked them to the ground on his way out.
His apartment was on the fifth floor of a building that eventually got condemned by the city for various violations. The walls got blistering hot when the heat was turned on, but the rooms themselves never warmed up. Pipes leaked year round and most of the tenants, including Elmer, caught the drainage in soup pots. People in the neighborhood knew to walk on the other side of the street because it was not uncommon to see a full bucket of rusty water splashed from one of the balconies.
Elmer had been standing with one foot in the grave for more years than anyone cared to count. Even the doctor, who he rarely visited, was stunned to see him standing. There wasn’t a time of day when Elmer didn’t smell like cigarettes. He had a habit of using the dying end of one butt to light the next. Even then, he’d smoke the butts down to the foul taste of the filter. Whatever was left was collected in bottles, cans, and small mounds that were once ashtrays. The television was old and heavy. It played with a blurred bar that ran straight through the picture. The antennas, which were necessary to maintain the shaky focus, reached from one side of the room to the other.
The old man suffered terribly from arthritis for many years. He treated the pain with blue pills which were neither meant for arthritis, or pain – but he had long since made up his mind that they helped. Maybe they did.
Between 6:05 and 7pm, the fading daylight came in over the balcony just right, landing on the old man’s hairy knees. The door that lead to the balcony was always propped open about six inches. It let flies and mosquitoes in, but it allowed some of the smoke to clear out of the room. It was also the perfect width for flicking boogers.
Elmer used one of his long fingernails like a surgeon’s blade. He’d poke it up one nostril until his eyes crossed, then he’d carve around the perimeter and that finger would always come out with something gruesome on the end. It was a testament to his bad health. The boogers were always discolored, typically with a hue of blood and hair. There was never any moisture in them, probably because Elmer never drank a sip of water. Some of the treasures were not boogers at all, but scabs from deep in his nasal passage.
It didn’t matter what season it was. It didn’t matter what was on the blurry television. When five-after-six came around, Elmer was in his nose without a care in the world. He coughed and hacked between picks. Not because he was sick, but because that dirty fingernail had a way of triggering his gag reflex. To sooth his coughing, he sipped a type of cognac that he bought for half price on a long standing deal he’d made with the untrustworthy neighborhood liquor store owner.
When he got a booger, or what have you, he’d mash it between his thumb and forefinger until it was flat. Then, like a blacksmith working with a red-hot iron, he’d fold it over on itself and repeat the process until it felt sturdy. Only he knew when it was ready. Sometimes this process lasted several minutes.
Once he deemed it acceptable, Elmer would pinch one end to create a base of sorts. The final product ended up looking a bit like the tip of a pyramid, only more repulsive. The booger sculpture was then set with precision on the edge of his glass. From where it sat, on his knee, the glass made the perfect flicking tee. On a good day, Elmer could go ten for ten on flicking these hand crafted mucus pyramids straight through the open door, right off the balcony.
With each one that flew true, up and over the railing and down onto some poor passerby, Elmer would let out an obnoxious hoot, and take a celebratory swig from the glass. This hobby never got old. He continued the tradition until he passed away, right there in that armchair. It wasn’t a heart attack that got him, something else, something in his brain – maybe it was those blue pills. Hell – it could have been anything.
Elmer had been standing with one foot in the grave for more years than anyone cared to count. Even the doctor, who he rarely visited, was stunned to see him standing. There wasn’t a time of day when Elmer didn’t smell like cigarettes. He had a habit of using the dying end of one butt to light the next. Even then, he’d smoke the butts down to the foul taste of the filter. Whatever was left was collected in bottles, cans, and small mounds that were once ashtrays. The television was old and heavy. It played with a blurred bar that ran straight through the picture. The antennas, which were necessary to maintain the shaky focus, reached from one side of the room to the other.
The old man suffered terribly from arthritis for many years. He treated the pain with blue pills which were neither meant for arthritis, or pain – but he had long since made up his mind that they helped. Maybe they did.
Between 6:05 and 7pm, the fading daylight came in over the balcony just right, landing on the old man’s hairy knees. The door that lead to the balcony was always propped open about six inches. It let flies and mosquitoes in, but it allowed some of the smoke to clear out of the room. It was also the perfect width for flicking boogers.
Elmer used one of his long fingernails like a surgeon’s blade. He’d poke it up one nostril until his eyes crossed, then he’d carve around the perimeter and that finger would always come out with something gruesome on the end. It was a testament to his bad health. The boogers were always discolored, typically with a hue of blood and hair. There was never any moisture in them, probably because Elmer never drank a sip of water. Some of the treasures were not boogers at all, but scabs from deep in his nasal passage.
It didn’t matter what season it was. It didn’t matter what was on the blurry television. When five-after-six came around, Elmer was in his nose without a care in the world. He coughed and hacked between picks. Not because he was sick, but because that dirty fingernail had a way of triggering his gag reflex. To sooth his coughing, he sipped a type of Cognac that he bought for half price on a long standing deal he’d made with the untrustworthy neighborhood liquor store owner.
When he got a booger, or what have you, he’d mash it between his thumb and forefinger until it was flat. Then, like a blacksmith working with a red-hot iron, he’d fold it over on itself and repeat the process until it felt sturdy. Only he knew when it was ready. Sometimes this process lasted several minutes.
Once he deemed it acceptable, Elmer would pinch one end to create a base of sorts. The final product ended up looking a bit like the tip of a pyramid, only more repulsive. The booger sculpture was then set with precision on the edge of his glass. From where it sat, on his knee, the glass made the perfect flicking tee. On a good day, Elmer could go ten for ten on flicking these hand crafted mucus pyramids straight through the open door, right off the balcony.
With each one that flew true, up and over the railing and down onto some poor passerby, Elmer would let out an obnoxious hoot, and take a celebratory swig from the glass. This hobby never got old. He continued the tradition until he passed away, right there in that armchair. It wasn’t a heart attack that got him, something else, something in his brain – maybe it was those blue pills. Hell – it could have been anything.
With each one that flew true, up and over the railing and down onto some poor passerby, Elmer would let out an obnoxious hoot, and take a celebratory swig from the glass. This hobby never got old. He continued the tradition until he passed away, right there in that armchair. It wasn’t a heart attack that got him, something else, something in his brain – maybe it was those blue pills. Hell – it could have been anything.
