That Smell

"What's that smell?"

Yes, it is true, those are my fateful words, spoken out loud without any realization that they'd live on in infamy, a consistent source of mirth for my family and friends, permanently pegging me in fogey land.

We were attending a Jack Johnson concert at the Hollywood Bowl, my wife and I, when those regrettable words left my lips.  My wife is a fan of Mr. Johnson's and I, a dutiful husband, purchased tickets and accompanied her to the concert.  I try to indulge my wife's particular interests from time to time, for she is younger than me, and, as you might expect, the gap in our ages produces a gap in our interests that, for our relationship's sake, must be assiduously bridged with determined effort. 

True, she is only ten months younger than me, but in outlook and disposition she is younger than her years while I am older than mine.  Much older.

Anyways, while we waited for Mr. Johnson to take the stage, I scanned the audience for friends and acquaintances.  I can usually spot a few at these affairs, especially at the Bowl, but tonight the demographic skewed young, very young, so much so that I soon found myself looking for anyone -- anyone! -- older than me. 

I eventually spotted a gray-haired matronly type down below, but she appeared to be chaperoning a gaggle of teens, her knitting bag on her knee, so she didn't count.  Have you ever been the oldest person at a large event?  Although I am not a vain man, I must confess that the sensation of being the oldster shook me to my core, so much so that I feared it would trigger one of those dreaded mid-life crises. 

Age does have its advantages, I reminded myself, as the sun disappeared behind the Hollywood hills and I donned the Norwegian fisherman's sweater I'd packed to ward off the creeping chill.  Years of Bowl experience have taught me that the Bowl is always cold.  Those scantily-clad teenage girls may be frolicking and carefree now, I thought, but in an hour their delicately slender bodies, bereft of the insulating properties of body fat, will be shivering as they stare at me with envy, no doubt wishing they had the sense to bring their own thick warm sweaters. 

I was just nestling into my seat, thankful for the comfortable seat cushion I'd remembered to pack, and pouring myself some hot coffee from the thermos when Mr. Johnson took the stage and everyone stood up.  After waiting ten minutes for them to sit back down, I reluctantly stood as well, unwilling to spend the next few hours staring at the bottoms of the young men in front of me. 

And that's when the smell accosted me.  An earthy smell, redolent of sweet pungent herbs, a mysterious smell that immediately transported me, as smells often do, deep into my murky past.  As my brain processed the olfactory data and my memory banks searched for a match, I turned to my wife and asked her if she could place that smell, her nose being much more sensitive than mine.

Her laughter indicated that she could.  "It's pot, you idiot."  Of course!  I knew I knew that smell.  Memories of carefree days flooded over me, days of wine and wheezes, smoke-filled rooms and other scenes from those fondly-recalled Cheech and Chong movies, our earnest but inept attempts at aping Mr. Marin's distinctive accent and that Christmas song they did.  How did it go?  "Mamama sita, donde esta Santa Cleez, the beto with the bony knees...."  It's amazing what's still stored in my mental attic.

I had assumed kids today were all on crank, crack and smack, so in a way it heartened me to witness the evident popularity of this comparatively minor gateway drug.  We spent the evening enveloped in a thick cloud of this sweet-smelling smoke as our neighbors eagerly applied the teachings of The Toyes while blithely disregarding the no smoking signs and the damage they were inflicting on our respective lungs.  Thankfully Mr. Johnson's tunes, tunes that initially struck me as thin and insufficiently melodious, improved as the evening matured into a mellow night and he located his "groove." By the end even my foot was tapping.  A little.

Well the next day, as my wife manned the phone lines to spread my words, starting each conversation with a laughter-filled but somewhat derisive recounting of my "what's that smell?" line, I once again realized how it felt to be the butt of the joke.  Not my first time, nor my last, to be sure, but it's the sort of unwelcome sensation to which one never quite grows accustomed.  Alas, here age offers no solace.

Thankfully, after having shared and re-shared this story with all our friends and relations, and many of our acquaintances, my wife's interest in it began to wane, no doubt replaced by another typically distorted episode from my life.  Lest I sound resentful, please be assured that I indulge my wife in these matters, for I am heartened that, if nothing else, my minor misfortunes bring so much happiness into the lives of others.

And my merciful mind buried the memory of the incident deep within the murk of my unconscious, where it lay undisturbed, until last December when I arrived at the stately home of one of our most senior executives for a company-wide holiday soiree and, greeted at the door by his wife, a prim and proper alum of the old school, I leaned forward to deposit the requisite peck on her right cheek only to have her immediately recoil from me, pointing her bony finger at my Norwegian fisherman's sweater, unearthed for the first time since the concert, its traditional pattern eloquently expressing the joy of the season, and, in a sharp and knowing voice, a tone I hadn't heard since my wayward teenage years, she demanded to know:

"What's that smell?"

Comments

[DarkoV]

Clever. Very clever. Didn't see that last paragraph coming at all. Must have been lost in the mist of the moment.

[stephenesque]

Corrupted sweater aside, you have a reputation to be proud of, if you ask me. Personally, I would much prefer to remain in non-substance induced blissful ignorance of these acrid, filthy hippy smells than recognise their miserably embarrassing source as they pollute the air with all their their stale, rancid and aimless quality.

[Waterfall]

:-)

[Mrs. Peperium]

You could have said patachouli.