He Smelled of Roses

He smelled of roses, but God forbid he should be remembered for that. Mr. All-American in football, hockey and everything else typically linked to male machismo would never appreciate having himself described by such a feminine fragrance. Beer, blood, even vomit would be less of an insult. Still, he smelled of roses--or at least that's what I remember of his scent.

Maybe it was his fabric softener. What an odd thought that is. I can hardly imagine that man doing laundry, let alone recognizing the importance of fabric softener. It seems ridiculous to think of him measuring out detergent and separating colors from whites. I suppose it's possible he never had any whites. What would be the point? They would all end up gray anyway. You can't do the things he did and keep your whites white.

The only thing he could ever keep in pristine, white condition was his eyes. They were never bloodshot, always focused, always ready. In fact, that was the first thing I noticed about him when we met at the company picnic last spring. He was covered head to toe in thick, brown mud. The whites of his eyes were whiter than white then, surrounded as they were by all that mud. They were so white they made his irises seem to shimmer in a golden, green glow that I swear made me glow inside.

"Pardon me," he said in that easy country drawl.

I was reaching into one of the bins filled with melting ice and ice-cold beer, looking to ease the sting from a grueling game of volleyball. His words washed over me from behind, a cascading wave that was hot and refreshing at once and somehow made me thirstier still. Then I turned and saw those eyes. The mud barely even registered.

"Would you mind grabbing one for me?" He asked. "I'd get it myself, but I don't think folks would be too happy if they had to bob for cans in muddy water."

I remember telling him to go jump in the lake as I handed him his beer. Of course, I said it with a smile, and he must have appreciated the humor. His teeth were almost as white as his eyes when he smiled back at me.

A week later I heard those words behind me again. "Pardon me."

This time I was at work, waiting for the third floor vending machine to finish dispensing my muddy coffee. With the smooth sound of his voice, the electronic hum as hot liquid slowly filled that small paper cup evolved from mechanical to melodic.

"I don't suppose I could ask you to grab one for me?" He asked. "'Course, if I did you'd probably just tell me to go jump in the lake."

I bought him a cup just for the pleasure of repeating the joke.

We shared our morning breaks every day after that, taking turns buying and chatting about whatever came to mind--perhaps what we did the night before or were planning to do later in the week. Sometimes we would go deeper, delving into that murky territory of hopes and dreams, but not often. Such conversations are better suited to candlelit restaurants or cozy moments at home than to the fluorescent hues of an office suite break room. We never quite reached that point, though I believe we both knew we were headed there. Maybe it was fate that held us back. It might even have been fear, yet imagining that man afraid of anything is about as insane as imagining him using fabric softener.

Our discussions were pleasant, nonetheless. I especially enjoyed it when he would tell me about whatever game he had just played, or watched, or coached. It's crazy I know, but somehow the coffee always tasted best when he talked about his pee wee league games, about how much of a struggle it was for him to get his kids to hold a bat just right, or to swing when he told them to rather than ten minutes later. He loved that struggle. His eyes sparkled whenever he talked about it. I remember wondering just how much they would shine if he were describing incidents with his own son rather than someone else's. What a great father that man would be, and what a lucky kid to have him.

It's amazing the things you think about--the things you allow yourself to think about when you drop your guard, when you let yourself forget you're not living in a dream. It's dangerous, too. I suppose it just makes sense that a man like him would not only be in the reserves, he would be eager for his unit to be activated. But if I had known enough to consider that possibility sooner, I would have been far more cautious about picturing a mud-covered little boy with shimmering, golden, green eyes spreading dirt across my clean kitchen floor as he innocently asks me for a cup of juice.

I can still imagine that boy, even as I follow Mr. All-American's family to his grave, my gaze curiously drawn to his mother. She may have once had his eyes, but they lack his pristine, focused shimmer. They seem raw, and the way she clutches that folded flag so tightly to her breast gives me the feeling she hopes to squeeze his blood right out of it. Only then might her eyes see white again.

The boy may not be real, but he fills my thoughts with a better vision. And when I think about the father that boy should have had, it suddenly seems easier to see that man pouring out a capful of rose-scented fabric softener than lying in that dark, wooden box beneath my feet. Now, as I drop a thorny stem in remembrance, its fragrance makes me expect to hear that smooth drawl behind me again.

Pardon me....