Three days before Christmas the street in front of our house flooded. You can read more details about that sweet event
here. Once the lake evaporated, we were left with 20 leaky sandbags and a damp station wagon interior.
When I opened the door to my car today, I was slapped with a wall of smell reminiscent of rotting fruit nestled in a pot of burning hair. I brought a strong cinnamon scented (unlit) votive candle into the car to temper the stench and the resulting aroma was a more festive, freshly baked aroma of dead elf.
I attempted to drive with the windows open to air it out but then it began raining again and adding moisture to the problem seemed like a bad idea. After awhile, I realized I could no longer smell the offensive scent. I wondered if the smell was really gone or if I had just become used to the odor or worse yet, the smell had permeated my clothing, my skin, my very soul.
At a stoplight on Olympic Boulevard, I rolled down the window again and stuck my head out into the damp night and took several deep breaths. I held my breath and quickly pulled my head back into the car and rolled up the window. I exhaled slowly and then began vigorously sniffing around the area of the front seat. I couldn't tell the fresh from the foul. My eyes drifted to the car idling on my left. The police officer in the passenger seat stared at me perhaps a beat too long and then nodded once. I smiled and then tried to look casual.
Real casual.
