He was a man who in his youth would fart on command. To do so he would get down on his hands and knees, in which position he had mastered a system of sucking air into his butt hole and pushing it back out, able to produce fart after fart.

He did this one time at a family gathering. At a Fourth of July get-together. He was in the front of the family room, and the family — all the aunts and uncles, their kids, and the grandparents — were sitting around on the couches. Those who had not been there in the beginning gathered slowly, hearkened to the sound.

Uncles and aunts, drinks in hand, watched with faces of disbelief or scorn that broke into uncontrolled laughter at the absurdity.

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This was a man who never did away with his propensity to fart. Continued the habit, did it frequently (all the time, really) in the comfort of his living places. All through college, into his first job.

Walking to his cubicle, with a coworker behind him, without giving a second’s forethought to it, he let go a rancid fart.