When I was 9 or 10 we inherited my grandfather’s Cadillac. Not just any Cadillac, but a fully loaded El Dorado.
I have no idea what year it was, but it was HUGE and all white and well….it smelled of death.
When we would go and visit my grandfather, before we inherited this behemoth of a vehicle, we weren’t allowed to touch it in his driveway. In fact, if we even glanced at the car in a way that would hurt the car in some way (yes, Cadillacs have feelings.) we would get yelled at.
My dad would always stand back in the street and admire the “beauty and class” of my grandfather’s car.
“Someday I am going to have a car just like that,” he would sigh.
Someday turned into quicker than we thought when my grandfather’s alzheimer’s got to a point where he couldn’t drive the car anymore.
At first dad didn’t want to drive the car. It sat in our driveway for what seemed like forever, but winter feels like that in Ohio sometime.
After everything thawed we went to go for a ride in the Cadillac and I was about knocked down from the stench.
Simply put, it was awful. It was the ‘Let’s Check the Trunk for Bodies because its big enough to house at least Six’ kind of awful.
I refused to get into the car. I gagged. I thought I was going to throw up (which as this point might have actually improved the stench in the car).
My dad tried to woo me in the car. Show me its beauty. The leg room. The ALL!LEATHER!INTERIOR!
I crossed my arms and cried that I couldn’t get in there. That smell, that horrible smell.
And that my friends, is when my dad turned to me and told me “You’re just not used to the smell of luxury.”