Soap On A Rope

It was Christmas morning during my 8th grade year and opening the brightly colored package I got, SURPRISE!, soap on a rope.  From that moment on I've been much more aware of the impact of unwanted smells.

This week it all came back to me. I'm doing a test for a guy from Saudi Arabia and after I get into the passenger seat Faheed tries to hand me a fist sized, round, black, dare I say bomb looking object that has a spray nozzle on it's top. "This is for you" says Faheed in his Saudi accent. "It is Arabic."

He clearly has the advantage because I have no idea what is going on so I reply with a no thanks I'm not allowed to take anything reply. Undeterred Faheed must have given the bomb a good squeeze without me seeing because all of a sudden the car is filled with an awful strong sweet cheap perfume smelling fragrance. I now am looking forward to 30 more minutes of this unless, if the driving gods are kind, Faheed like many of his countrymen tries to turn left in front of oncoming traffic and the test is shortened, one way or the other.

Alas, I keep making him do left turns but this guy turns out to be quite a good driver and we go the entire route.

After the test is done and I give Faheed his review he once more pulls out his little fragrance bomb and asks me again to take it. I still don't know if he is offering this as a gift or he just wants to squirt me but once more I politely decline, eliciting a sigh and response; "But it is from my country."

America has it's own customs, at least the America I drive with. They are the Christmas trees or other symbols that hang from the rear view mirror, heavily impregnated with odors that smell nothing like advertised. If one is good then a half dozen must be better! Of course if you want to be a little more sophisticated about it then there are those tiny little perfume bottles that fit into the dashboard blower vents (always a fun ride).

All these things make me wonder if what they are trying to cover up is actually that much worse than their solution.  I mean, the original bad smell must still be there as well, right?

But then I had a guy this week who didn't need vent bottles or mirror hangers or Arabic hand bombs. Roy, who looks like a good old country boy comes with a beat up 1998 Chevy Impala. His brother Lester gets out of the passenger seat and apologizes for the brown paper shopping bags laying on the floor that I will have my feet on. "Sorry for the bags" says Lester, "I just cleaned up the car and parts are still wet."

Let me tell you about the dreams that strong bleach odors will give you if you spend 30 minutes with them. I mean, I really don't think that was a dead squirrel tucked underneath the front seat.