Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Entry Point

The trouble is that you're only as good as your entry point. Or so it seems... Like an old guy with thick, clumsy fingers on an iPhone, who finds comfort with a dial-up, Hodges Polson longs for the days when...
  • Cars were made of metal, without plastic...
  • And they smelled like dusty flannel.
  • Women were hairy... there
  • And they smelled sweaty, musty... there.
  • The morning sun lit up the Times
  • And the newsprint smelled like inky bliss.
Of course those things are long gone. Well, sort of... You see Hodges Polson still has his 1958 Oldsmobile 88 J2 in his garage. All metal and lots of chrome, lots, the Rocket weighs more than 2 tons and it floats like a magic carpet. Since he drives fewer than 100 miles in a week, the gas guzzling proclivities of the Olds are inconsequential, even at $3.78 a gallon for 93 octane and even at 9 miles on a gallon.

No doubt, Hodges looks every bit the old man driving about the 'Burg in his tank; he could care less. He loves the way the car handles and drives (it is really an oaf of a car with brakes from hunger and no AC and an AM radio, but...). You're only as good as your entry point.

Sally Sanders, rest her soul, set the bar for the kid everyone called "The Rail". Indeed! Hodges weighed 145 back then and that meager bulk spread out on a 6'3" frame, well, he was a rail. Sally was a 19 year old secretary at the American Standard factory, when she met him in the lunch room. She was on the prowl and he was prey. Back then, people married young.

Working till he was to push off for active duty, "The Rail" loaded porcelain sinks and toilets on trucks, trucks headed every which way, north and south and west. Back then people believed, Trenton Makes, The World Takes. Anyway, people were demanding sinks and toilets. America was expanding, not like today, and was needing sinks and toilets...

It was a fine August night when Hodges and Sally did the nasty. His first, not hers. Back then in 1959, getting a girl to give it up before marriage was something special. Not like today when every muffin topper will unsnap her so tight hipsters in a heartbeat and when a girl will just as soon blow a fella as soon as shake his hand. No it was not easy in 1959. (Well, even then, some girls were "loose"...)

Sally was a dark haired girl, with a thatch to match. Hair so thick there and here, it was an untrimmed wonderland. Not so much curly, but wavy, even here where you might expect extra spin. Once Hodges got here he ran his fingers through it all, as if he had found the promised land. Well, truth be told, he had. The heady aroma, only possible under such incubatory conditions*, intensified as their hearts lub-dubbed faster and their sex ramped up. Later, days later even, HP would sniff his right index and middle fingers and swell. The smell was beyond description, a veritable cerebral hot shot.

Sally, back then, looked just like Madonna

The way it should be... natural and biologic. No, not smooth nor buff and definitely not bald... like so sterile modern girls. Hodges hates the women he gets into now, no matter free or by the hour. No way can he duplicate Sally... but he tries. Bless Mr. Polson for his spirit. Bless Mr. Polson...

When Hodges got back from his two year stint in Germany, Sally had ring bagged some greaser from Emory Avenue. They, Vito (the greaser) and Sally, had a good life for as long as it lasted. They both got crushed one winter night on the Freeway, when a drunk in a brand spanking new 1968 Pontiac Catalina T-boned them. The greaser died instantly since he took the hit and Sally followed him out the door two days later from her concussed noggin getting as swollen as a self hammered thumb. The doctors back then said her medulla oblongata was pithed from the increased intracerebral pressure, which was the result of the traumatic edema.

Hodges once tried to make "the" finger perfume in his garage. Right there on Division Street on a workbench, next to the Olds. He figured it couldn't be that hard. After sending away to Iowa for "Obitz's Home Parfumary Kit", the novice perfumist set off to work the magic of the skunk. Ha-Ha!

The stink and stench, which permeated the neighborhood as the chemist mixed potions, was a fail for everybody except the Baxter's hound named oddly enough, Baxter. That canine humper went into heat every time Hodges tried to concoct eau de Sally's snatch. No one dare get near the cur when he was pumped up. In all honesty, Hodges, too, shaved his carrot in that car shed on more than one occasion as his nostrils reddened and wept clear, watery mucus from his attempts to reach his olfactory aura entry point. Close was good enough.

Never married, "The Rail" just never niched. Sometimes it goes like that when the bar is set too high. Happy for the most part, he lived a contemplative life where he never tried to be any better than his entry point. And what's so wrong with that? Yeah, what's so wrong with that??

He sits on this crisp, sunny-bright October morning. With a cup of full bodied Maxwell House steaming along side his right hand, he holds the newspaper with a reverence reserved for an old friend. The crisp sounds of the pages echoing with each flip kept cadence as the Times gave off a familiar, vague odor. It was not quite right, off from the true. Modern inks with color are not the same as the black, standard issue goos of old... Some things cannot be duplicated! The nose can be so sensitive.

And so now, in 2011, Hodges Polson of Trenton NJ suffers from rheumatism, prostatism and a few more 'isms, but he is indifferent to his incipient decrepitude. Seventy is not that bad of an age, that is, if you're still alive. Still a rail and three inches shorter with osteporosis, he can still pile drive with a little help from blue. And in a few minutes and for 150 bucks this donna, whose picture accompanied her online ad, is gonna knock-knock on his weathered green front door. And for as along as he can last, it won't be October 2011, it'll be August - August of 1959. Oh yeah, you're only as good as your entry point!

"C'mon in, my name is Hodges..."
"Hi, er, nice to meet ya... my name is///"
"Sally!" He quickly interjected.
"///Sally, it is."
E cosi va
Siete soltanto buono quanto il vostro punto di ingresso.
(You're only as good as your entry point.)

*Integral to this saga is the heady aroma of the 'swa and its environs. The thick thatch is integral but is not the sole ingredient in that oh so compelling nasal attractant. The other major variable in this so 50's-60's sniff phenomenon is underwear - panties. And later panty hose.

Synthetic fibers were making their way into the clothing industry back then. Stretchy, form fitting, price attractive and fashionable nylons, orlons, rayons, ban-lons and the other -ons were taking over. The fact that they didn't breathe well allowed for air trapping and diminished ventilation. And coupled with the fact that "big" underwear was still "in", once a lady was dressed for the day things stayed warm, dark and moist.

Nowadays with skimpy-thongy the norm, the 'swa is in a ventilated state. And with the luscious pubic hair gone, well, there's not much growing microbially. Hence the aromatic changes...

Some might say hygiene and indeed, there's a point to be made. But be clear, sexual chemistry is mostly in the nose and de-odorization, by whatever means, lessens the appetite...

Wanna talk about circumcision?? lol

Olds photos from, The J2 was a factory option ... Oldsmobile's solution was to increase the Rocket's displacement to 371, raise the compression from 9.5:1 to 10:1, add three Rochester 2 barrel carburetors, and dual exhaust. The new engine was known as the J2 Golden Rocket and now packed enough horsepower... 

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