October 2006, Los Angeles, California

By Andy Cowan

I recently came upon an honest test of my worth as a human being. My ATM spit out $20 more than I had coming to me. And I’m honest enough to tell you that my worth as a human being is $20 more than it used to be.

Rationalizing that it was long overdue interest on my non-interest-bearing checking account, I set off for the post office, where another test of my honesty occurred in line, eliciting even longer overdue interest.

An attractive gal directly behind me complimented me on my cologne. I thanked her. I wasn’t wearing any. The cell phone babbler in front of me was. I’d taken advantage of another guy’s smell – Ol”fact”ory deception under the guise of male, if not mail, fraud. My only recourse was to hope my sense of humor and wit would trump, or at least complement, his scents of lavender and jasmine, to the degree she’d give me her phone number before he was called to a window and all she’d smell was a poseur.

Post office lines have an annoying habit of moving quickly when you don’t want them to, so I had to work fast, carefully ensconced behind my aromatic buddy. While she remained under the power of this unknowing accomplice, I closed the deal in time for two windows to open up, mercifully allowing me to disappear in conjunction with his dissipating bouquet.

I thought about waiting outside for him. But what would I say?

“Pardon me. What’s that cologne you’re wearing?”

“Excuse me. A hot babe likes the way you smell and I’m trying to reap all the benefits.”

I decided to forgo a sock in the jaw or the guy’s phone number, and smell-test colognes that matched the memory of his scent. This was a challenging task, considering how off-putting it was trying to remember a guy’s smell. Challenge number two: Every cologne, to my untrained nostrils, smelled alike. I was a rube at a wine tasting, confusing a cabernet for a merlot. And what about the quantity? Too little, what’s the point? Too much, I wind up smelling like Burt Reynolds in Boogie Nights.

Maybe this guy had used too much. If it wafted past me all the way to her nostrils, it might have overpowered her had she been directly behind him. I could have been an all-important buffer. In effect, he needed my services to entice women as much as I needed his. I now felt less guilty using him.

And what about location, location, location? The neck? The wrists? The ears? All three, make that, five? I decided that maybe it didn’t matter. The only way I would win over this lady’s most primitive sense was by replicating the guy’s DNA. Cologne may smell alike, but in conjunction with one’s body chemistry, it transforms into a personal stamp of, one hopes, approval.

Seated at Starbucks, our mutually agreed upon meeting place, I sensed in her a lack of energy – and this was with caffeine racing through her veins. Did she smell me? Did she not like what she smelled? Had I been too conservative? Did she not smell me? Did she not like what she did not smell? I flunked chemistry in high school. Was I flunking body chemistry now?

We shared our history, such as it was.

“Did you mail off that package OK?” I asked.

“Sure did,” she replied.

“Great. So did I,” I responded.

“Oh yeah? That’s good,” she answered.

Awkward silence.

“It’s amazing. You can send a package across the street. Or across the country. Same price,” I noted.

“That’s true,” she noted.

Awkward silence.

“You send a person across the street, or across the country. Different price,” I reasoned.

“Very different,” she agreed.

I must have looked as bored as she was, because I stretched a lot – with fingers clasped together and delicately scented wrists zeroing in more closely on that turned up nose of hers.

Our coffee date ended. We exchanged pleasantries that were code for two distressed ships passing into the night. But I still couldn’t let go of the fact our “relationship” had begun on an intimate note: “I like your cologne.” I’d conquered one of her senses from the get-go, whether or not I was technically the conqueror. At least she’d experienced no disconnect imagining I’d smelled good. Would her brain have allowed her to compliment Quasimodo’s smell if he’d been hunched in my place? (Presuming he didn’t bring his own smell into the equation.) My hunch: No.

After further reflection, what it really came down to was this: The Orson Welles syndrome. I’d peaked too early. Our post office encounter was my Citizen Kane. Even if our less-than-magnificent Starbucks encounter had turned into The Magnificent Ambersons, she would have been disappointed. And before you know it, it could have spiraled down to an acting gig in The Muppet Movie. (Yes, Mr. Welles shared the screen with Miss Piggy. And did a magnificent job, by the way.) My ultimate challenge, however dicey, was to raise the bar the next time, and hopefully make that date an even more impossible act to follow. (That is, if there was a next time.) Our post office date was now The Godfather. The next date would have to be The Godfather II.

I waited a week and called her. Her “Hi” had a discernible lift compared to her initial “Hello,” a hopeful sign that she might have missed me. Or him. I took what I could get, and wound up wining and dining her at a restaurant (Indian) of her choice. Our conversation began to flow as freely as the wine. The caffeine had obviously made us jittery before; this time, there wasn’t one lag in the conversation. She even touched my arm when she spoke.

I had indeed raised the bar. But one thought gnawed at me as she, alone, happily breathed in the aroma of curry and cauliflower. “Doesn’t this smell good?” she asked. “Sure does,” I said, failing yet another test of my honesty.

Her original appraisal of him/me could have been all wet, too.

Andy Cowan is an award-winning writer/producer and performer, whose credits include Cheers, Seinfeld, and 3rd Rock From the Sun. He also contributes to the L.A. Times.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Friday, January 26th, 2007 | Email This Post

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