The Thirty-First Post

I’ve been here a few times now, to this cafe, early in the mornings before my therapy. I’m here now, on wireless, and I’m already starting to recognize some of the regulars: waif actress, or model, or aspirant, business woman with the David Lee Roth hair and the expensive power suit, probably a ball-busting attorney. Old character actor I can’t place, and the Asian girl with her (much) older suitor. There aren’t that many people here this time of the morning in this side of town.

The smell of good, good coffee. Bitter. Aromatic.

I’m big on smells. People smells, thing smells, cunt smells, colognes. One whiff and I’m transported, that sort of thing. And some scents I love that I wear, I inherited from my father. One of them particularly poignant, Aramis 900. His favorite, and one of my top five.

900 isn’t too easy to get. You have to look, though if you look hard enough you often find it. It comes in a large bottle, so it goes a long way. I’ve gone through, in my entire life, perhaps 3 bottles of 900, and by the time each bottle was finished, the next bottle got harder to find. Someday I’ll buy a lot of ten or twenty to last me my whole life.

It’s not an easy scent to wear. And probably not for most people. 900 is pungent, sharp, incredibly masculine. Herbs, decay, whiskey, cigarettes, expensive whores and hotels. It was how he smelled when he came back from long trips. Pulling off the cap, inhaling without even spraying, I’m there, 11 years old, running into his arms as he walked through the patio doors, setting down his briefcase as the chauffeur carried his suitcases behind him.

“Dad!” I yell and fly into his arms, bear hugging him and trying to lift him.

“Son,” he says, hugging me back.

I look up, he looks down. We’re both smiling.

“Get away, you’re ugly up close,” he says. Still smiling.

Something inside me breaks, and stops. I keep looking up. Waiting for the punch line.

But it doesn’t come. And his smile fades. So mine does, too. I withdraw. Get him a clean ashtray, his cigarettes and lighter, and pour him a drink.

*

"I’m struck by the pain of that,” she says, after she closes her eyes for a long beat.

*

Fragments of a memory come crashing in. Eight years old, lining up for tickets, somewhere, a football game, a movie, a circus, I don’t know. But my father and I are standing in line when he hands me the cash and tells me to get the tickets while he has a smoke.

Moments later, a hand on my ass, trying to get up my shorts. I whip around immediately and see an old man, pretending to look away. I don’t understand, this is new to me, and I’m confused. I turn around and then the hand comes once more. I turn around, and it’s only the old man, who doesn’t look like he’s done anything to me at all. It begins to upset me and when I turn around and feel the hand a third time, I look around for my father, desperate for his help. And I see him.

Standing there. In the smoking area. Cigarette burning as he watches, smiling, nodding. Seeing. Seen it all.

I don’t know if I was touched again but I got the tickets. My father came to me. Patted me on the back of the head. Like a good boy. A good, good boy.

*

“Did you suppress this completely or did you acknowledge a portion of the incident?” she asks.

“I think I was vaguely aware of the memory that an old man was trying to touch me in a queue. I’d suppressed the second half of the incident, my father’s reaction. I think it was the more heinous of the two.”

She nods. I’ve been sitting on her couch, one leg crossed over the other, looking out her window at nothing. Sunlight, a building across the street, cars parked by the sidewalk, people, and these simple things seem as foreign to me as organisms under a microscope. I’m tight, locked up, jaws, hands, legs, brain. I mention the nightmares every night, even during naps, that started as soon as the flashback occurred about a week ago. The headaches. The elevated anxiety. The sadness. The self-injury. Every word that comes out of me seems almost slurred, pulled out with tugs.

“I think you’re in post-traumatic stress,” she says, very, very kindly.

I nod.

“Do you want to wait till next week?” she asked. It was yesterday.

“No,” I say quietly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

*

I don’t think there’s been anything that’s made me more aware and appreciative of our body chemistry, than scents. Especially the delicate or complex ones.

When I wear the 900, it takes a second for the memory to come, and pass, and then on my skin it becomes mine. On my father it was a powerful, harsh scent. On me, more delicate, subtle. But the fundamentals still persist, and I love it for being so acrid and selective with its wearer. Bitter. Aromatic.

One minute to 8 AM. Soon the parking meters will want quarters. But I’m getting out of here, anyway.

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