The Altar of Olbas
It’s taking me an inordinate time to type this because I’m inhaling Olbas oil recommended by my chiropractor to open up my sinuses. Frankly, breathing in that tangy, sweet peppermint, eucalyptus, cajeput, wintergreen, juniper and clove put me in a flowery field far far away. I had to do something to calm my nerves. I’d just spent the better part of an hour cleaning crushed cookies from underneath both my car seats, cookies festering into fungal, evil growths covering my new car manual and Amoco Motor Club phone numbers for when my 10 year old Corolla breaks down, which, it being a Corolla, almost never happens except that one time in Fairlawn when the starter went as I attempted to leave a parking space in the middle of a quiet neighborhood near the high school where I went to watch volleyball playoffs because I, in fact, have no life, and as soon as I popped the hood, 84 block-watchers got on their phones and within seconds squad cars pulled up. Good thing I didn’t have any of this Olbas oil on me, which right now is making me so mellow I’ve forgotten my point.
Okay, so after cleaning up the mess underneath my car seats, I turned my attention to screwing on my new three-wide rear view mirror to my old Don Knotts tiny mirror so I can see panoramic views of 16-wheelers crushing the space around me on major highways, as well as youngsters popping out from between parked cars on those death-trap scooters, which, frankly, seem to have peaked in popularity, making way for portable hang gliders. I’ve almost got one screw in as I glance at the instructions for the fiftieth time, instructions that say: “Put the clips no. 2 of 3-wide mirror no. 1. Screw tight screw no. 3 with Phillips screwdriver. Angle of new version adjustable.” In fairness to me, the accompanying diagram was confusing. The other screw of course slipped out as I tightened the first screw and fell in that crevice between the seat and the seat divider, so thin Hillary Swank could not fit in or reach it with her overbite. Seconds later I’m on my knees on the floor of the back seat area reaching desperately, trying to coax the stinking thing out. I could easily go inside to my nail and screw drawer and get another, but I’m stubborn in the face of adversity to the point of, well, idiocy, and there I squat doing some kind of autoerotic penance for a good 10 minutes before I nudge the sucker out and clutch it to my bosom. Chest, chest… I keep forgetting I lack a bosom. Gooey stuff from my car floor sticks to my fingers.
I admire my handiwork after finishing the tightening, anxious to show it to anyone who passes, but because this is 2 p.m. no one is around. I have discovered one sure thing in my life – nothing of importance ever happens at 2 p.m.
Now I am ready to put out the plastic Christmas flowers that have lain dormant for months down my cellar, except when I try to excavate them from under Santa Claus placards, tinsel and a miniature fake tree I find they are filthy, discolored, rancid, bent, demoralized, desecrated beyond recognition. I bring them upstairs and stick them violently in the dry earth of 12 empty flower pots at any angle, step back to admire my display and trip over a pile of dirty gray mops that have festered on my porch since the last time I mopped which was right after the last time I painted which was the year Gary Hart blew his chances at the Presidency by letting that blonde on his lap on that boat and this Olbas oil is really getting to me so I have to stop and find my Steely Dan CDs. First I’ll pick up the phone and order an eggplant parm sandwich with the spare change I found under my car seat. Hope they take sticky money. – Joe Del Priore