Short Fiction- apologies to Randy

There's a smell to him. You know what I mean- an unidentifiable back-of-your-throat kind of smell.
It absolutely emanates from him, and if you get too close, it envelops you in this cloud of Randy and you smell like him all day. Last week I got caught in an elevator with him, and his smell coated me in this sticky film and I couldn't scrub it off in trip after trip to the corporate bathroom using that drippy pink soap they have in the dispensers. I tried some Handi-Wipes I found in my desk drawer, but those were no match for the Randy smell either. Co-workers were actively avoiding me- taking the long route to the water cooler rather than walking past my desk; emailing me instead of coming by to talk to me. I spent a miserable day, and at the end of it, I bolted from the office and drove home with all of the windows rolled down. I went directly to the tub, and even considered adding bleach to the water, but I thought better of it at the last minute.

It's this appalling odor- like garlic mixed with cheese, but assuredly not in a Le Bernadin sort of way- like old socks and coffee left in the pot too long. The way a little kid smells after they've been playing outside for hours- of snot, and dirt, and little kid sweat. Ozone. Iron. Worms. That's Randy.

I hate Randy, and I know it's unfair, but my nostrils rebel when it comes to Randy and all of my democratic ideals about equality and the nobility of man crumble into worthlessness in the presence of the smell of Randy.