Intoxicating

There was a time -- children of this era will never know it -- when men pumped gas for you.  I remember sitting in the backseat of the station wagon hearing the fuel flow into the gas tank while I watched the uniform-shirted man wet the windshield, wipe the windshield, then clear the rubber blade with one of those thick sky blue paper towels .  Then click, the tank was full, the credit card number was etched into the carbon paper, my mother laughed her flirtatious laugh and we were off.

I also remember when we, mere lay people, were allowed to able to pump the petrol.  It seemed somehow dangerous.  If it were not, why had the world waited so long for us to be able to do it?  Until I was old enough, my father would get out and stand at the rear of the car, smoking his cigarette while making small talk with the men who used to do what he was doing now.

Then, somehow, I was finally of age allowed to pump the gas.  I remember standing there smelling the gas, hoping some would spill on my hands.  Watching the wavy emissions - rainbow fumes floating up all around me.  I knew I was not supposed to love the smell as much as I did, but it was a drug to me.  I always scurried out of the car so that I could be beat my brother to the task.  I also knew that I was oddly attached to the smell of just-lit matches, though I was not brave enough to light them.  The wooden smell of bourbon.  My throat when it had bloomed into a winter's infection.  Chlorine on skin.  Chlorine in hair.  Permanent markers.  Rubber cement.  Turpentine. Modeling glue.  I felt strangely guilty about all of this.  Wasn't it normal for a girl to love the smell of shampoo, flowers, Bonnie Bell perfume, watermelon lip gloss? I loved the smell of boys things. Of dangerous things.

Today when I came home, I was swooning.  My house was saturated with the smell of stain.  New floor stain.  If my new kitchen floor were a person I would have laid down on it and pressed my nose in its neck. I would have wrapped my arms around its belly and laid there all night, dozing off by the drunk love of it.  Heady.  Keeled over.  Buckled by the smell.