Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Fifty-seven

The first thing I noticed about the trunk as we opened it was the stench. We both took a few steps back, as the well-sealed trunk delivered its special reek immediately. As with most ferocious smells, it was pretty distracting. A combination of cedar chips, old newspapers, and, from what I could estimate, a fifty-year-old tuna sandwich, heavy on the mayo. Kate, on the other hand, thought it was simply a mouse or a rat—but I stuck to the tuna sandwich theory.

I kicked the trunk shut. We needed some fresh air. I opened the window, and the brisk December air reminded me how I hate the cold ... nonetheless, it circulated quickly.

"I bet Ben buried the tuna sandwich so whomever opened the trunk would be discouraged from going through it," I hypothesized.

"Sam, get off the tuna thing. There's a dead rodent in that trunk, and you need to find it, and dispose of it."

"Me? Why me?"

"First of all, the trunk is your responsibility, and secondly, who else do you expect to do it? Me?"

"I was thinking of calling the super and having him dig whatever it is out of there." The more I talked, the more stupid I felt. I just hate smelly things, especially if it's a dead smelly thing. If I were going to do this, I would need the proper tools. I went to the kitchen. Kate followed.

"What are you doing?"

I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a Beck's.

"Preparing myself for the removal of trunk reek. Want one?"

"Sure." I handed Kate a bottle of Beck's.

For whatever reason, I noticed the time on the microwave—2:13—and chuckled.

"What?"

"If that clock is any indication of my future, the stinky object in the trunk should prove to be very 'lucky.'"

"A six ... what did I tell you? Now you'll start to see how important the number six is in your life."

I moved on.

"Next, I need something for my face. Something to mask my nose and mouth."

"Do you have a bandana?"

I stopped dead in my tracks.

"Do I look like someone who would own a bandana?"

"I didn't know there were bandana people and non-bandana people."

"Well, now you do."

I tried a dishtowel over my nose and mouth ... wouldn't reach.

"Why don't you just sick a cotton ball in each nostril?"

I looked at her like I had no idea what she was talking about.

"Don't tell me," she said, "you're not a cotton ball person either."

"What would I use a cotton ball for? I'm a guy. But I like the idea of putting something up my nose." I stepped into the bathroom.

"Can I quote you on that?"

I came out of the bathroom with wadded-up toilet paper hanging from my nostrils.

"What about toilet paper?" I asked with an obstructed-nostril sort of voice.

"Well, if nothing else, it's a good look for you."

"Next, I need an implement to extract the smelly material."

I suddenly felt myself getting into it ... in an enthusiastic, fun way. I dug through my kitchen drawers and came up with hot dog tongs. I snapped them at Kate a few times for affect.