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The noxious fog of a chemical spill poured through our home. I
dropped to the floor where the air was breathable and crawled to the
center of the house. I screamed for the rest of the family.
Me: Hurry! We’ve got to evacuate the house. Danger, danger…
Melissa came into the room, stood over me, tapped her foot, glared.
Melissa: What are you doing, Lump?
I looked up through chemical induced tears.
Me: Get the kids! Get out fast. Possible chemical explosion…cough,
cough.
Melissa tapped my side with her boot.
Melissa: Get up moron. Casey just put on his cologne. The fumes will
die down soon.
Me: Oh…
At this point, the story gets strange. One of our neighbors had crawled
to his phone and dialed 911. Firefighters, in full chemical suits, ran
into the house screaming orders.
Firefighter: Get out! Get out! Danger, danger…
I beamed a smile at Melissa.
Me: Told you there was danger Toad.
One of the firefighters grabbed Melissa to carry her to the door. She
asked him politely to put her down. He did not listen to polite Toad. He
did, however, listen to her boot.
The firefighters gathered around their fallen comrade. One of them
spoke harshly to Melissa and was carried out with his buddy.
We were left at the mercy of Channel Cat #5. The cologne that makes
girl’s knees buckle.
It may not turn their heads, but it will definitely turn their stomachs.
Casey came into the living room to see what the commotion was all
about. The last firefighter dropped to his knees. In medical
terminology he projectile upchucked. His buddies left him for dead.
Casey exuded an aroma that burned the hair off our dog.
The cats ran from the room. The lights flickered.
The ceiling fan bogged down in the cloud hanging over Casey’s head.
Me: Casey, did you put on enough cologne?
Casey: It don’t last till fifth period if I don’t put on a little extra.
I couldn’t see him, but I heard him through the fog. His tennis shoes
squished and sloshed next to my ear.
Me: What’s in fifth period?
There is, of course, a girl in fifth period. I know this because Casey
told me repeatedly that there is not a girl in fifth period.
Casey: There is absolutely not a girl in fifth period, honest!!!
Me: What color is her hair?
Casey: Brown, I mean who? There is no girl!!!
Casey’s cologne is guaranteed to leave girls helpless before his many
charm. This is true. They lie on the ground coughing, helpless. Truth
in advertising is a rare thing these days.
I took Casey to school. He rode in the back of the truck to air out a
little. We drove by pastures with herds of cattle; the herds of cattle
huddled against the back fence spitting out half-chewed grass and
bellowing for mercy. Look out eighth-grade girls, Casey is the bomb.
Fifth period.
Brown haired girl: Please Casey, get me an oxygen tank. If I survive,
and you’ll promise never to attack me with that noxious chemical
again, I’ll go to the dance with you.
Casey took a foggy step closer to the coughing, retching object of his
affection.
Brown haired girl: Step back please! I’ll marry you if I don’t have to
smell you! Please I surrender.
Casey walked in the door that afternoon after school, white teeth
smiling a beacon through the fog.
Casey: Mom, Dad I got a date!
Melissa and I ran for the backdoor and sucked in a lungful of oxygen.
The joys of parenthood will one day be a foggy memory. The smell
will still be in the carpet.