April 5, 2000
A whiff of malodorous memories
By Garrett Leiva
Herald editor
I don't know the German word for smell, but I suspect most pocket translators would include see: 3VWRC81C55MO47259. This being the vehicle identification number of our 1996 Volkswagen Jetta, which has gone from 'Fahrvergnuegen' to 'Foulvergnuegen.'
Malodorous, mephitic, noisome - all of these words are synonymous with the funk rising from our VW. We've run a battery of olfactory tests, including sniffing every square inch of upholstery. Unfortunately, the lone discovery was a broken Dorrito beneath the passenger seat; hardly the stench epicenter.
From headlights to taillights, the car has been washed, waxed and vacuumed. I even considered rubbing Right Guard on the wheelwells. Which makes this stench reminiscent of the "Seinfeld" episode where Jerry couldn't get the parking attendant's body odor out of his Saab. He finally left it out on the street, unlocked, with the keys in the ignition. In the end, however, even a would-be thief turned up his nose at the automobile.
When it comes to the senses, some moments of life are forever linked to our proboscis. While certain smells bring a whiff of unpleasant memories, like overdue milk you can't help but inhale.
Milk gone horribly wrong reminds me of my college days living at 126 Park Street. When four twenty-something guys rent a house, you open the refrigerator at your own risk.
While none of us were biology majors, we constantly conducted genetic engineering inside the Frigidaire. Leftover pizza slices would molecularly bond with half-eaten burritos, while a plate of month-old spaghetti developed its own pulse. Cleaning out the 'fridge at the end of the semester was especially arduous since we couldn't rent biohazard suits by the hour.
Another food-related memory is the scent of fish sticks. Nothing prepares you for the harsh reality of life like school lunch. From early elementary, you realize how the world is comprised of class systems - in this case the brown baggers and the hot lunchers.
Fish sticks, pizza, Salisbury steak- the world was square for the hot lunch kid. Even the lunch trays were squares within squares; carefully segregating the peas from the tatter tots. Meanwhile, the brown baggers swapped Twinkies, potato chips, and chocolate pudding like bullish floor traders at the New York Stock Exchange.
Along with food, overwhelming idyllic odors can be overshadowed by moments of rotten timing. That is why freshly cut grass still causes a slight throbbing in my middle finger.
What started as a favor of cutting the grass behind my parent's real estate office ended with a trip to the emergency room. Actually, it really started when the mower wouldn't and I inadvertently stuck my fingers under the Lawn-Boy. It was at this point that the tip of my middle phalange stopped the still spinning blades.
Sitting in the front seat with my grass and blood stained jeans, as the mini van broke land speed records, I knew this was a moment I'd never forget. After all, how many times can you swear and flip off other cars while riding shotgun with your mom.
A smelly for instance can change your perspective on even ordinary objects. That is why, after much sniffing, the Jetta's offending odor has been classified as a bad buttered potato. Of course, no such vegetable has been found rolling around in the car - buttered or otherwise.
It doesn't take a linguist fluent in German to realize our car "stinkt" Perhaps, if the pervading odor persists, a nice Sunday drive out into Hoosier Valley is in order. I'll leave the doors unlocked and the key in the ignition - if you want a joyride, however, I'd suggest keeping the windows down.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com.