I’m in line at the bank.
There’s a mother with, I’d say, a four year-old boy, clutching a stuffed cat. One of those squishy ones. I think they’re called Jellycats.
He suddenly says to his mother, “I smell cake.” She’s rifling through bank stuff ignoring him. He says it again. “Mom, I smell cake. Can I have some cake?”
Her patience, tripping a little, says. “Stop it. We’re at the bank, there’s no cake at the bank.” The kid won’t take no for an answer.
Then I realize, what he smells is me, covered in my vanilla body cream I just found online discontinued in all the stores. It was Bill Hick’s favorite fragrance he’d buy for me whenever he came across it in his many travels.
I say to the kid’s mother, “Excuse me, but what he’s smelling is the lotion I’m wearing. It’s vanilla, so in a way, it does smell like cake.” I say this smiling since there is a sweetness to the whole thing, no pun intended, however, mom is not smiling when she says, “Now I’m gonna have to buy him dessert or he’ll drive me crazy. Perhaps unscented would be the wiser path to take.”
Wiser path? Are we camping? Lighten up mom, will ya?
Bill Hicks would have gotten a big kick out of this story.