He remembered his father's smell. It was not pleasant, but it was not repulsive. It was sweat perspired because of work. It was honest. It was innocent. Many times it would be blended with celery he had cut to impress old ladies, to keep old bitches from complaining about dry stalk ends. “The old ladies keep this store afloat, son.”
He had not smelled that aroma for a long time. He could not remember the last time he perspired to the point where he radiated that sweet smell. He remembered when that smell came from him, it made him feel alive. It excited him like nothing else.
He would never sweat like his father. His father made sure his son would become someone who did not sweat. His father’s calculated toil was an investment in him. He would never have to work, and he would never have that honest innocent smell. Without it, his sons would miss something he could never teach with words.
Many of his colleagues did not understand that beautiful smell. Some lied and said they cared about people like his father, but without that smell, they could never understand the old man. Just like his father could never understand the liars.
He never understood the smell either, until he became used to not sweating. He hated the liars during his adolescence. He still hated them, but now, he was one of them. He got up every morning and lied, lied to himself, lied to his peers, and the most hurtful lies went to his father.
At least his father was satisfied.
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