Dodo Eggs

Allow me to introduce you to the 945 (pronounced nine forty-five).  It’s a blue 1998 Ford Escort ZX2 that has faithfully transported my carcass to and from work for over ten years. 

The name originated from a date Melissa and I took to downtown Memphis.  I paid to park in a garage and the attendant gave me a thick manila card which had “945” printed in bold ink on the top and near the bottom.  I jammed it into the far left side of the windshield and never removed it thinking that perhaps I could reuse it one day. 

The 945 never garnered the attention I thought it should.  Not too many females glance and smile at a car that stands about five feet tall and weighs less than their stuffed animal collection.  In fact, I often loose it in parking lots behind SUVs and other vehicles that could run over it without the driver noticing. 

Sure, it’s heard the wind-up jokes and the cruel “foooour cylinder, foooour cylinder” chant from the other cars but the 945 maintains a stiff upper bumper.  Scratch that, the front and rear bumpers are plastic so they flex pretty easily, but you get the idea.

The 945 has taught me some valuable lessons about inanimate objects.  At one time, I believed cars incapable of displaying personality traits or anything close to decision-making but I was grossly mistaken.  I’m not sure how it began or how they are produced but each time I open my car door I am greeted with a different foul aroma.  I could not be more serious! 

Take last week for example… I’ve created a short table that best describes how the 945 greeted me each day.

SUNDAY
My car had a hint of rotten plums, stale vanilla air freshener, and a strong lean toward sweaty gym sock.

MONDAY
My car prepared me for the workweek with the aroma of untended rain bucket, my brother’s masculine body spray, a whiff of musty paperback, and a teasing bit of flatulence.

TUESDAY
This is where the teeth of the workweek really bit.  To fortify me, the 945 filled my lungs with the fruity echo of rancid apple juice, grandpa’s musk, seventh grade bathroom stall, and essence of loaded diaper.

WEDNESDAY
Hump-day!  I opened my door and sensed zit cream, permanent marker, and an alluring accent of composted spearmint leaves.

THURSDAY
My vitality was wearing down.  Not to fear!  The 945 came through with the energizing scents of a European women’s soccer team. 

FRIDAY
The 945 gets lazy and tries to take the day off by filling the interior with the almost visible scent of a discount French cheese trolley.

SATURDAY
It was a great day to rest.  My car’s nasal bouquet was a mix of porta-potty at a Grateful Dead concert and grandma’s guest bed after cousin Eugene slept in it.  (Note:  This is DodoEggs.com’s Official scent.)

Melissa almost refuses to drive anywhere in the 945 because she doesn’t appreciate the masterful work the car does in perfectly harmonizing these delicate olfactory offerings.  She is constantly asking me why my car stinks so badly. 

“How should I know!?”  I respond in a huff.  “Why don’t you go outside and ask the artist?”

• Grandparent Syndrome
• The Outhouse
• Optimist
• When You’ve Got To Go (5)
• Lunch of Dodo Eggs