loracs | The Memory of Smell

On my drive into work today, CalTrans closed a ramp for repair. Flares were set to alert drivers and several of them rolled out into the driving lane. I drove over one and the smell of cap guns filled my van. I might be a 49 year old woman driving on a California highway, but for a couple of seconds I transformed into a 10 year old kid, playing cops and robbers on a hot summer evening in the Midwest of the 1960’s. The smell of gun powder clung to me as I hunted my enemy.

Heart pounded as I’d round the corner of the garage. I knew he was close; after all it wasn’t that large a backyard. The silver cap gun was stuck in the band of my pants. I needed both hands free to climb up the side of the garage to get to the roof. Could I make it before he saw me? The muggy summer night had sweat pouring off my forehead, burning my eyes. A storm was due in a few hours. My muscles tensed with the exertion of the climb and the anticipation of a certain death if discovered in this vulnerable position. I held my breath. Only a few more seconds and I would have the high ground and he’d be the dead man.

What happened next? The car in front of me braked hard and I had to do the same. Then I was at my exit. The memory, just like the flare/cap gun smell, was gone.