5.20.2006
Smell a rat...
Write three smells you love. Write three smells you hate. Use all six scents in a piece starting with...
Three smells I love:
Three smells I hate:
I pulled into the gas station, running low on not just gasoline, but on self-esteem. I was running, running like the wind, from the city, and the stench around me. The stench of unwashed bodies and urine. The stench of my ex-boyfriend’s drunken belches. The rank fecal odor that clogged the urban air like the laughing gas the dentist used on me when I was a child. But I could only go so far before I had to stop and breathe. There was only so much diesel I could take before I had to close the vents. The semis clogged the roads tonight, and I had cursed and sworn as they cut me off again and again. The gas station had beckoned me like a cowbweb laden yellow bulb lures bloated and stupid moths. That’s how I felt right now, bloated and stupid and hormonal.
I pulled into the station, the fluorescent lights drawing my old Lumina to the cheerful red and yellow candy-colored pumps. I tapped my brakes and pulled up the parking brake. I shut off the engine and stared at the kids streaming in and out of the mini mart. They laughed and pushed each other playfully. I remembered those carefree days in my own life twenty years ago, those days when the future stretched out ahead of me like a road stretching forever into the horizon. But it was empty and went on into infinity, unlike the clogged artery I was traveling tonight. It wasn’t broken, jagged, and full of potholes like the interstate or my heart. I remembered smelling the jasmine and the peppermint as I danced under the stars with Josh, sneaking out after my midnight curfew. Those beautiful days, when fragrance danced on every gentle breeze, were over a long time ago.
I got out of the car almost wistfully, and the gasoline stench combined with the oppressive stink of nearby dairies slammed me back to reality. The chocolate cake I’d imagined Josh feeding me on the beach at sunset dissolved like a salted snail.
Dammit!
I cursed under my breath as I slammed my debit card into the slot on the pump. It screeched at me as the screen demanded I punch in my zip code. I tried to conjure the delicate strains of the Himesh Reshammiya song I heard on Namaste America this morning, but a huge F-350 screeched into the station blaring Shania Twain. I groaned as I unscrewed the gas cap and shoved the nozzle home. Stupid Central Valley!
A big, burly guy shoved the door open as Shania caterwauled. His bright red face was seamed with deep smoker’s creases, and it floated above a stereotypical checked cowboy shirt. A huge, filthy cowboy hat perched atop it, and his hands ferried a half-smoked cancer stick to and from his mouth like an assembly-line robot. There wasn’t any wind, but the stench of the cigarette smoke he was emitting like a chimney hit me and nearly knocked me over. I started coughing and nearly jerked the nozzle out of my tank as I doubled over.
“What’s yer problem, lil lady?” he yelled.
I sputtered, and I felt the rage come back. For every insult Josh had slung in my direction over the last decade, I felt another six pounds of lava build up inside, kept back only by the lack of oxygen in my lungs. Josh used that tone with me every time he came home late and drunk from the bar, usually five or six times a week.
“Well, what’s yer problem, purty one?” he demanded, as if no one should have the very audacity to cough in his presence.
“Will you put out that fucking cigarette?” I screeched, gasping for air at the end.
“Only for such a purty lil lady as you,” he said, and winked. Oh Jesus. He dropped the cigarette to the ground with a flourish, and ground it out dramatically with his scuffed but stereotypical boot. Gross.
Ever since the gas prices started going up, it took me longer and longer to fill the tank. The Lumina used to take three minutes to fill when gas was only a couple of bucks a gallon, but lately, with gas at over $3.50 a gallon, it took what seemed like hours. Yuck.
“So, what’s a purty lil lady like you doin’ in a place like this?” he asked as I stared at the pump. Only three gallons in. Just frigging great.
I glared at him.
“Aw, come on, now! My name’s Hank,” he said, extending a filthy hand that reeked of tar.
“Sorry, I have to get going,” I said, and shoved the nozzle back into its pump slot. Three and a half gallons, and I’m in the middle of nowhere, I thought. Gonna have to stop in another hour. Crap.
“Don’t go, little one,” he said.
I scrambled for the gas cap and jammed it home. It kept slipping as I tried to tighten it. I shoved the tank door shut, and as the pump screeched at me, I grabbed at the receipt which was printing far too slowly for my taste. I missed.
“I’ve been waiting...” he crooned in his gravelly but loud voice, “for a girl like you...”
Shit, Foreigner? I snagged the receipt, shaking my head. I never imagined myself just off I-5 listening to some old croaky fart in a cowboy hat singing light rock to me. Really, this moment just screamed Sartre to me, if Sartre had ever visited 21st century central California. A Huis Clos indeed.
“Don’t go, little one!” Hank bellowed as I wrenched the Lumina’s door open and shoved myself in.
I slammed the door as I saw his mouth move. I could have sworn he was saying, “I love you!” I buckled myself in and tore off into the distance. Down the pike, I could feel Pea Soup Andersen’s beckoning me.
As I drove away, I thought to myself, “I’m swearing off men for awhile. A convent sounds really nice...” Then I started laughing, and I could feel Josh’s boozy stench drifting away from my heart. Old cowboys were good for something, I guess.
Three smells I love:
- Peppermint
- Chocolate
- Jasmine
Three smells I hate:
- Unwashed bodies
- Cigarette smoke
- Urine
I pulled into the gas station, running low on not just gasoline, but on self-esteem. I was running, running like the wind, from the city, and the stench around me. The stench of unwashed bodies and urine. The stench of my ex-boyfriend’s drunken belches. The rank fecal odor that clogged the urban air like the laughing gas the dentist used on me when I was a child. But I could only go so far before I had to stop and breathe. There was only so much diesel I could take before I had to close the vents. The semis clogged the roads tonight, and I had cursed and sworn as they cut me off again and again. The gas station had beckoned me like a cowbweb laden yellow bulb lures bloated and stupid moths. That’s how I felt right now, bloated and stupid and hormonal.
I pulled into the station, the fluorescent lights drawing my old Lumina to the cheerful red and yellow candy-colored pumps. I tapped my brakes and pulled up the parking brake. I shut off the engine and stared at the kids streaming in and out of the mini mart. They laughed and pushed each other playfully. I remembered those carefree days in my own life twenty years ago, those days when the future stretched out ahead of me like a road stretching forever into the horizon. But it was empty and went on into infinity, unlike the clogged artery I was traveling tonight. It wasn’t broken, jagged, and full of potholes like the interstate or my heart. I remembered smelling the jasmine and the peppermint as I danced under the stars with Josh, sneaking out after my midnight curfew. Those beautiful days, when fragrance danced on every gentle breeze, were over a long time ago.
I got out of the car almost wistfully, and the gasoline stench combined with the oppressive stink of nearby dairies slammed me back to reality. The chocolate cake I’d imagined Josh feeding me on the beach at sunset dissolved like a salted snail.
Dammit!
I cursed under my breath as I slammed my debit card into the slot on the pump. It screeched at me as the screen demanded I punch in my zip code. I tried to conjure the delicate strains of the Himesh Reshammiya song I heard on Namaste America this morning, but a huge F-350 screeched into the station blaring Shania Twain. I groaned as I unscrewed the gas cap and shoved the nozzle home. Stupid Central Valley!
A big, burly guy shoved the door open as Shania caterwauled. His bright red face was seamed with deep smoker’s creases, and it floated above a stereotypical checked cowboy shirt. A huge, filthy cowboy hat perched atop it, and his hands ferried a half-smoked cancer stick to and from his mouth like an assembly-line robot. There wasn’t any wind, but the stench of the cigarette smoke he was emitting like a chimney hit me and nearly knocked me over. I started coughing and nearly jerked the nozzle out of my tank as I doubled over.
“What’s yer problem, lil lady?” he yelled.
I sputtered, and I felt the rage come back. For every insult Josh had slung in my direction over the last decade, I felt another six pounds of lava build up inside, kept back only by the lack of oxygen in my lungs. Josh used that tone with me every time he came home late and drunk from the bar, usually five or six times a week.
“Well, what’s yer problem, purty one?” he demanded, as if no one should have the very audacity to cough in his presence.
“Will you put out that fucking cigarette?” I screeched, gasping for air at the end.
“Only for such a purty lil lady as you,” he said, and winked. Oh Jesus. He dropped the cigarette to the ground with a flourish, and ground it out dramatically with his scuffed but stereotypical boot. Gross.
Ever since the gas prices started going up, it took me longer and longer to fill the tank. The Lumina used to take three minutes to fill when gas was only a couple of bucks a gallon, but lately, with gas at over $3.50 a gallon, it took what seemed like hours. Yuck.
“So, what’s a purty lil lady like you doin’ in a place like this?” he asked as I stared at the pump. Only three gallons in. Just frigging great.
I glared at him.
“Aw, come on, now! My name’s Hank,” he said, extending a filthy hand that reeked of tar.
“Sorry, I have to get going,” I said, and shoved the nozzle back into its pump slot. Three and a half gallons, and I’m in the middle of nowhere, I thought. Gonna have to stop in another hour. Crap.
“Don’t go, little one,” he said.
I scrambled for the gas cap and jammed it home. It kept slipping as I tried to tighten it. I shoved the tank door shut, and as the pump screeched at me, I grabbed at the receipt which was printing far too slowly for my taste. I missed.
“I’ve been waiting...” he crooned in his gravelly but loud voice, “for a girl like you...”
Shit, Foreigner? I snagged the receipt, shaking my head. I never imagined myself just off I-5 listening to some old croaky fart in a cowboy hat singing light rock to me. Really, this moment just screamed Sartre to me, if Sartre had ever visited 21st century central California. A Huis Clos indeed.
“Don’t go, little one!” Hank bellowed as I wrenched the Lumina’s door open and shoved myself in.
I slammed the door as I saw his mouth move. I could have sworn he was saying, “I love you!” I buckled myself in and tore off into the distance. Down the pike, I could feel Pea Soup Andersen’s beckoning me.
As I drove away, I thought to myself, “I’m swearing off men for awhile. A convent sounds really nice...” Then I started laughing, and I could feel Josh’s boozy stench drifting away from my heart. Old cowboys were good for something, I guess.
