Phil’s boss, whose name was actually Boss (ridiculous), thought it was a chocolate stain, and he thought the smell was because Phil had farted outside of the office, had failed to waft it out of his pants, so had inadvertently brought the fart into the office. However, it was actually a shit stain and the smell emanated from it. It was a dark brown smudge the size of a quarter on his right sleeve on the forearm, about a third of the way to his elbow.
“Phil, you’re pretty much on track this year, and…” he paused and tried to hide his shit-smell-induced grimace “…and…but I have a few suggestions for you.”
At this point Phil also smelled it, and he figured Boss had farted. “Go on…” he said as he tried to hide his shit-smell-induced grimace.
“Phil, you have something on your shirt there,” pointing at the stain.
First, confusion, then terror, then pure embarrassment. “Looks like I got some shit on my shirt, Boss.” Then an awkward laugh that trailed off. He thought to himself how it sounded like a stoner laugh. “I’ll be right back, I’m gonna clean this shit off my shirt.” He said it casually as if it weren’t actually feces, but “shit”, as one would refer to something non-fecal, like “Hey check this shit out” or “Wipe that shit off your face.” It might have worked if Phil hadn’t involuntarily made the exact face one makes when he discovers his own shit on his sleeve. And there was the smell. And there was the fact that this was not the first time someone at work had noticed shit on Phil’s right sleeve. Always on the right sleeve. Always a third of the way to his elbow. Some of his lighter-colored shirts had faint stains there, lonely remnants from botched clean-up attempts of other big brown bowel bursts.
When Phil returned, Boss was in the exact same position, mouth slightly ajar and a blank, emotionless stare, facing the same direction, which was toward the space where the stain was before Phil left. He didn’t notice when Phil returned, his mind elsewhere. Somewhere happier where people didn’t enter his office with shit on their sleeves.
Phil sat back down, Boss still not moving, but when Phil’s right arm passed into Boss’s field of vision, there was no way he could remain emotionless. In his effort to clean the stain, Phil had just moistened it and spread it. It now covered his whole forearm, and although it was not as dark as before, the brown coloration was still very obvious. And there was the smell.
Sternly but with the slightest hint of sympathy, and no eye contact, “Go home Phil.”
Without a word, Phil left, and as he walked to his car he laughed to himself. “Jesus Christ Phillip.” But it was a forced laugh. If it weren’t for that slight hint of sympathy in Boss’s voice, he would have been fine, but that sympathy made him feel sorry for himself. His lips curled inward, his eyes turned downward, and he cried.