There is pretty much group consensus that was shared regularly after David’s passing: that he was a master of “passing”… gas, that is. I think it is commonly known that my brother was a chronic and habitual “farter.” He derived absolute pleasure from holding back from releasing out in the perfectly clean, outdoor air in favor of a tight space (such as a car that he preferably had control of the window locks, or an elevator).
He was a pro at this, as well. My brother had absolute control in that he could deftly deliver his little stink bombs and the only tell would be the appearance of a dimple—eventually a full smile—as the stench permeated the air.
When he did want to let you know it was him, he was the Yo-Yo Ma of his craft. It was if he could expel a perfect E-chord with his butt if he put his mind to it. He really thought this was the funniest thing in the world, and if you knew my brother, you know he stunk. This one time we were in church… our church is mostly somber and very quiet, and David rips the mother of all farts, which basically echoes throughout the parapets, creating this disgusting repeating trumpet in total silence. David, probably not realizing how loud it was actually going to be, just yells out, “Oh, Gramp…” and starts waving his hand in the direction of our hard-of-hearing grandfather.
When he was a big gym rat, he would wait until you were unsuspecting, hop into your car, and just let it fly. Usually quietly, but the smell was awful… like, worse than the really, really nasty homeless guy on the subway car that initiates the gag reflex upon entry and an immediate disembark from the same car while you wait for the next train. Dimples exposed, he would then claim, “I can’t help it… it’s the protein shakes.”
The one thing that David hated ironically was anybody else who invaded his nasal space with their “scent.” Unfortunately, Jon Halvorson was caught in the crossfire on this one: We were on our way back to the airport from our last ski trip in Telluride, and my stomach was acting way up and, like clockwork, was causing me horrible horrible pain in the form of gas that was more potent than cyanide. It was cycling every five minutes, which was pretty much the amount of time it took the previous smell to dissipate.
I also had the wheel, and the control of the window locks. For an hour an a half, “I couldn’t help it” and realized that “something” was wrong with the windows. David got physically angry after the first two times and was literally punching the dashboard by the time we got to the airport.
But the real point of this story is simply this: My brother was a really stinky lil’ guy.
