The Cherries

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Sometime last week my mom had to ride in the car with my chain-smoking neighbor, Marialena. My mother (true to Cuban form) complained about the smell in the car. Marialena asked for her oh-so-great advice about how to get rid of it and my mom told her to buy this incredibly strong can of cherry smelling stuff specifically designed to take care of any strong odors that might be invading small vehicles. 

Marialena took my mom’s advice despite my warnings about the hazards of the cherry scented car thing. The next night, I was sitting on my porch having a couple of beers with Chris when Marialena pulled up. Before she even opened the door, the smell of incessant headaches and nausea made its way into my nostrils and I knew that she had popped the cherry can. She burst from the car waving her hand in front of her face. She was complaining about what I’m assuming was the smell. I couldn’t hear her because I had already leaped to the other side of the porch. I wasn’t in the mood to re-live my wonderful school days when that “scent” would cling to my hair and my clothes. Quite frankly, I’d rather smell like an ash-tray. 

Today, just 10 minutes ago, Marialena sped into her driveway and just as I was ready to catapult myself across the porch, she steps out of her car smiling with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. My mom asks her about the cherry can and she says “Oh, umm…it just…fell out of my car!”

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