The Sense of Smell

A somewhat Memento-style reflection on the life of one man. In his golden years, one man considers the worth of a life, and wonders why someone would want to assassinate him. First draft.

The Sense of Smell

 

They say that it evokes the strongest associations of memory, the sense of smell. 

 

The smell of:
Turkey, slowly smoking outside.
That smell like a churchbell,
calling the beloved back from wherever,
if only for an hour on a Sunday.

 

Thanksgiving.  The meal will be done soon and we can all huddle together as a family, tuck in tightly to the moment.  Life affords us too few of these small spaces: opportunities to stop enjoy the simple career of being alive, of being part of a family, and enjoying the sensations of Life that either evolution or Providence has blessed us with.

 

The sight of:
A red jay.  And also a squirrel.  Vying for the same feeder.
Low afternoon light in the eyes, hard but welcome. 
a wide, idyllic panorama �" rolling manicured lawns hemmed by stands of pines and live oaks.
Elysium if ever I saw.

 

Leaves’ll be turning soon.

 

Folks talk about the sixth sense in terms of the supernatural.  But there really are six senses, you know?  More in fact.  We speak of the five, but there is also balance, acceleration, pain of course (one would think that one would be obvious), temperature, and on and on.  I forget now, all of them.  Even the body’s notification of its need to defecate is a sense.  But I suppose no one ever waxed nostalgic when needing to evacuate their bowels.

Marta by my side, resting, asleep in one of our matching plush chairs before the windows.  She’s earned it.

It is an awesome thing, to have lived a life: to have this thing to look back upon, a book of days �" full now �" and for better or worse, to be able to retire from it, to own it, and just . . . rest.  This grand lady has run her race; she deserves to rest.

It is good to be home.

My hand reaching for hers.

How many days left to touch this hand?

The old lady snapping awake and snatching her hand away as if stung.

“Get your damn paw off of me!  You don’t touch people when they’re sleeping, you old fool.  I’ll report you, as sure as day!”

The old lady gathering up her blanket and storming off in her fragile, feeble way.  The old lady railing to one of the men in the white uniforms, gesticulating.  The feeling of discrete sadness.  Not a sense.  But still, palpable.

She hasn’t been the same in recent years.

Why are the men wearing Full Dress Whites?

All alone now. . .

 

The sound of:
A violent crash and tinkle of glass. 
One of the lites in the twelve-pane window exploding. 
A bullet-shot.
A pillow imploding in a fray of down.

 

Instinct!  Drop.  Get low.  Remember your drills; get out alive.  I have to tell the President!

Scrambling on all fours out of the room.  The feel of the hard floor on these rickety knees. 

The hall, The Long White Hall.  Rise and go.  The long hall that leads to the interim Executive Conference Room.  We need to lock down the perimeter �" mobilize the entire campus.  Wish I had a radio!

“Sir?”  One of the guards.  Where the hell is your cap, son?

“We have a breach.  Notify command.”

“What?”

What?!  What the hell way is that to talk to a ranking officer?

“Over there, son!  A shot!  We have been compromised.”

“Sir, I’m sure no one is shooting at you.”

Who is this kid?  I don’t have time to kick your a*s right now, son.  “Go look at the couch and window, boy!  Handle it!”  I’ve got to get the Conference Room.

The feel of:
The Long White Hall �" antiseptic.
The floor cold and hard under the feet.
Lights cold and hard above.
The scanner cold against my palm as well.

 

Nothing.  The door doesn’t open.

 

“Sir, we’re all about to eat.”  That damn incompetent honor guard again. 

“Open this door, son.”

“Sir, that area is restricted.”

“I know it’s restricted.  But not to me.  Please open the damn door.”

“Ok, why don’t we go eat now?  Everyone is ready.”

“What the hell is wrong with you people?  The President is in jeopardy!  The perimeter had been breached.  Now open the door!”

“Sir, I need you to settle down.”

Hands upon me.  Have I been boxed-out?  But why.  It just doesn’t make any sense.

Training.  Years and years of training.  A hard chop to the esophagus.  A kick to the groin.  There’s no shame in combat.  And I know the limitations of this old body.

The boy rolling on the floor.

Another hallway.  A glass door.  A parking lot.  A lawn.  A thicket.  The woods.  The woods.  The woods.

Ok.  Ok.  I’ve got some distance now.  Some distance.  Some distance.

I need to get to . . . somewhere.  I ran into the pines, westerly.  For sure, westerly.  The sun was low and late, and I was running in to the sun.  But then, I turned . . . damnit!  I need some gear.  Or at least my compass.

Where am I? 

I refuse to be lost.  I am a professional!  Professionals do not “get lost”.

The sense of:
Pine needles crunching beneath my feet.
The vault of the canopy above, like a cathedral against the dusk sky.
The living smell of the woods,
The green noise of the forest’s community busy about their foraging.

Just like at the cabin.

That’s where I need to be: the cabin.  Rory will be there, with the grandkids.  He’ll know what to do.  And it’ll be nice to see the grandbabies.  Rest a bit.

There it is up ahead; it’s a ways, but the hike is worth it. 

I am sure they will have a fire going.  Hopefully, if my timing is right, Leslie will have something still warm to eat.  I wouldn’t mind a drink.  I wonder if they still have my old Charger in the garage.

Here we are.

My hand on the latch, opening the door.
The other hand knocking as I do.

“Anyone home?  It’s Paw-Paw!”

The sight of:
Beastly machines,
things fit for Armageddon,
towering up into the fading sky
where a timber roof should be.

What is happening?! 

Where is Rory �" the kids?

Where am I?  What is happening?

Tears.
The feel of the cold bricks against my back as I slide to the damp ground.
Fading light in the forest.
All alone now . . .

A figure approaching,
A shadow really,
Black, head-to-toe �"
Nears and squats before me, a gun in his hand.

“Where am I?”

“The mechanical plant, sir.  Air conditioning equipment for the Home.”

“I’m so confused.”

“I know, sir.”

“I need you to take me . . . somewhere.”

“I can’t do that sir.”

“Why not?”

“I am here to kill you, sir.”

“Kill me?!  But . . . But I’m retired!  I �" I’m just an old man.  I don’t know anything of any importance anymore.  Who?  Who sent you?”

The shadow leans in close �" embraces me about the neck.

“You did, sir.”

The smell of:
My son �"
his hair,
his musk,
his history. 

Everything comes back to me.  I can feel in myself that in this moment I am lucid; and I know that a moment ago I was not, nor the hour before, nor the week.

The smell of a baby:
Moist and new,
innocent piss shellacked over with
powders and potpourri.

The smell of a boy:
funky and fun,
All dirty nails,
sweat and scabs.

The smell of rebellion:
New-found hardness,
Poorly hid smokes,
hateful , horny.

And now this black savior in the night �"
this grown man! �"
who smells of leather and graphite �"
who smells of “professionalism”.

“I can’t live like this.  I’m confused all the time.  I can’t do it. . . I’m all alone in here.”

“I know, sir.”

Two slick, muffled shots, expertly placed.

“I love you, sir.”

The sense of . . .

the end.