Jasmine Juicie

As I write this I keep sniffing my left hand, upon which lingers the scent of a hand cream with the fanciful name of "Jasmine Juicie."

Yeah, I know. It would be a great porn-star name. But that's not why I mention it. I mention it because the scent of it is reminding me of something in that evocative, you're-there-again way that only smells can do: Calvin Klein's "Obsession" for men.

Remember that one? I sure as hell am right now. One memory stands out: high school, circa 1987. I'm sitting in the back seat of an old brown Dodge. In the front passenger seat is Clint, with whom I've grown up because we live on the same block. Trent, the owner of the Dodge and the coolest guy in school, has just jumped into the driver's seat. Trent grew up on our block too, but his rise to the pinnacle of high-school popularity has made him something of a stranger to us, except on rare occasions like this one.

The destination escapes me now, but the details I remember: white leather, the engine's throaty rumble, Depeche Mode's "Black Celebration" on the stereo, and the distinctive scent of that cologne emanating from Trent so forcefully that he must have used the entire line of "Obsession" personal care products all at once.

Man, but I wanted to be him at that moment. It's one of the very few times in my life I've had such a feeling. Maybe that's why this memory stands out, dormant yet powerful, waiting to come rushing back to my mind on jasmine-scented wings.

Now, of course, Trent is still living with his parents on that same block where he used to play tag with Clint and me. Depeche Mode and Calvin Klein will never again enjoy the pop-culture prominence they had in those days. And Dodge is making cars that look new because they look old. Funny how things work out.