I had been dealing with a God-awful smell in my car for quite some time. I was unaware of what caused it, but it was a smell unlike anything I'd ever encountered, Not the smell of death so much as a pre-death, more specifically, a sour gangrene, or perhaps, gangrene in a leg at the base of a frat-house laundry basket. It was so intolerable my wife and kids refused to ride with me. They said it made them feel like dust-bowlers, or the night patrol at a dump.

The smell had not been there six weeks earlier, and there had been nothing stored in the car since, outside of discarded newspapers and styrofoam coffee cups. I cleaned the car, vacuumed it, tried special solvents purchased from auto parts stores, but the stench stuck.

Finally, yesterday, feeling frustrated and angry, I came up with an unorthodox solution.

Pondering the predicament in my driveway, I wondered if there were other odors as difficult to remove as this one, and if such odors might be a bit more tolerable. Could I, perhaps, layer some equally stubborn smell over this one? In other words, if a stench was to rule, could I choose the stench?

I knew two things: One, growing up my favorite smell had always been the smell of an outdoor campfire; and two, firemen often talked of the intractable nature of smoke damage, which I assumed to mean the odor of burnt material that has seeped into walls and ceilings.

I figured smoke must not only be an equally stubborn stench, but, for me at least, a relatively pleasant aroma that could conjure up images of summer evenings at the lake. Was it possible that a small fire in my car, controlled and contained, might obliterate the old smell and leave me with an evocative odor, bringing back fond memories of childhood?

I decided to hoist a cast-iron backyard chiminea into the vehicle and load its two foot opening with tree bark, twigs and pine needles. I dropped back the bucket seats so there would be plenty of clear, safe, space surrounding the chiminea, and I rolled up the windows so that the smoke would remain in the car and settle into the rugs and upholstery.

I lit the fire and stood outside to monitor things as the interior swiftly filled with a thick, dark-gray haze. It seemed unnatural to take in the scene so calmly, to watch without taking action, but I had seen to all precautions.

It was then that the phone rang inside the house. I knew my son would be calling for a ride home from basketball practice, so I raced in to let him know I'd be a little late. However, it wasn't my son, it was my father-in-law calling from California. He's a reasonable, practical, logical man who would never endorse what I was up to, so I didn't tell him I needed to hang up and stay with my fumigation project. In fact, in that agitated moment, I couldn't come up with a cover story at all, and felt compelled to visit with him as it had been some time since we'd spoken.

Again, I was certain I had my bases covered in that driveway. It was a contained, controlled burn. At least I felt that way. A woman walking her dog past my house apparently did not. The combination of living by a park, where people walk their pets, and the invention of the cell phone, allowing those who walk their pets to be in touch with municipal government offices, has too often been a toxic mix for me. A police car and a fire engine soon showed up out front. I was still on the phone, but even my father-in-law knew something was wrong.

"What the devil is going on over there, Son," he asked.

I feigned ignorance, telling him a neighbor must be in trouble, and I'd call him back. By the time I got outside, the car doors had already been thrown open and chemicals were being sprayed from two directions. I yelled, "No, I'm here, I'm doing this on purpose." That didn't slow them, it just caught the attention of the cop who told me to "back away." I angrily stated that I happened to be well aware chiminea use was perfectly legal within the city limits of Saint Paul.

The men looked at me as they would a half-dressed homeless fella on an a.m. bender. Their mugs offered little but pity and revulsion.

I was lectured and I was scolded. If I had wanted to hearken back to the days of my youth, I was hearkening back now. I felt 11 years old again, being chewed out by Uncle Ted for playing with his Zippo in the closet.

The good news was I got off with just a warning. But the better news was, my plan had worked. No, my car didn't smell like a rural campfire; it's a trickier smell to describe than that. It's more in the neighborhood of some kind of 3M potpourri. There is indeed a burnt smell, but the solvents used to put out the blaze are equally strong. It's the smell of an incinerator at a paint stripping plant, or the end result of a blow torch used on a can of Raid. What's leaving me feeling victorious, however, is that the odor is far preferable to what existed before, and I pulled it off without being heavily fined. Sure, I felt sheepish after the brow beating, but that's a price I'll pay. If having people think I'm an idiot ruined afternoons, I'd have done myself in years ago.

The point is, I took a problem, found my own solution, teetered on the brink of embarrassing disaster, faced down a little authority and won my afternoon battle. That, for me, brings joyous sensations, a warm glow of serene satisfaction, the feeling of being truly, fully alive.

My nerves are still tingling today, and I have a spring in my step that's been missing for weeks. Plus, I know my wife and kids will come around, agree to ride with the old man once again. It's just going to take a little while. They're still frightened, staying with in-laws. But at least they're not looking at me the way the firemen did. Their stare is more sympathetic, the way one views a man talking to himself at a bus stop.
        

Posted by TD Mischke
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