Tuberose

Winner of the second place in our writing competition

My first instinct after losing my job was to find another immediately. Phone calls and video chats quickly filled my schedule with interviews. I refined my resume and created a bank of responses to typical interview questions. When a hiring manager asks me, “Tell me about a time when…” I’m chomping at the bit to give the right response. Weeks pass. I’m never quite the right fit. With each rejection, I secretly feel a sense of relief. “I’ll find someone who likes my vibe eventually,” I tell my former colleagues. After another round of interviews with no offers, I realize I really don’t care. I stop applying. I need a clean break.

To stave off boredom, I start writing unhinged reviews on The Fumery, an online fragrance database. Eschewing any traditional description of what a fragrance actually smells like, I instead focus on describing a character or activity that embodies the smell:

Imagine, a typical review begins, you’re painting a sunset, but not how a child would paint a sunset. Your sunset conveys the melancholy complexity of a great star slowly extinguishing from millions of miles away. A soft peach davana gently bleeds into a deep, smoky, red russet across your canvas. A cup of milky tea steams nearby. “Where has my husband gone,” you wonder wistfully, “what goes through his mind at night?” “Why don’t we talk anymore?” You add another dab of yellow ochre to the top left corner and sigh.

Imagine, you’re aboard the Dread Pirate Robert’s schooner. A whiff of gunpowder clings to your blouse. You haven’t bathed in three weeks. A single tear rolls down your cheek as a whale breaches the surf.

Imagine, it’s 9:00 pm on July 16th, 1998 and you’re at the town’s summer carnival. You sit on the sun-warmed asphalt drinking a cherry slushy. You’ve just had your braces removed. Soon you will give your first blowjob behind the tilt-a-whirl.

Imagine

It’s night. I don’t want to spend any money so I’m watching a movie at home, alone. My apartment’s resident mouse, Jerry, darts into the living room, his beady eyes sparkling in the light of the projector. I sit up quickly, pretending to attack him. He runs back across the floor, hiding in the recesses of the cabinetry.

I pause the movie and look at myself. I’m wearing a pair of pajama pants gifted to me by the company that just fired me and a ratty sweater. I look like a bum. This will not stand. I change into a matching lingerie set and satin Dior robe. I dump a sack of perfume samples onto my bed. Amongst the tiny vials of liquid, I find an appropriate fragrance, a creamy white floral named Champs Lunaires. Its composition is based on a realistic tuberose absolute that blooms and envelops the air around me with just a few drops, bursting with nuance that smells at once tropical, metallic, and fruity. It’s supported by a hint of rose and a whiff of coconut and musk.

I sip a glass of wine and sniff at my wrists. I feel bawdy, expensive, and frivolous. Perhaps this is the key. If I can find the right scent to embody a new, aspirational life, the other details will fill themselves in. Tuberose feels like the ideal candidate. It’s classic, but it doesn’t feel dated. It’s loud, it’s distinct, it’s multi-faceted. Sometimes it’s creamy and sweet, almost bubble gummy; sometimes it’s sharp and green. It’s transformational and transportive. It blends well with the smell of cigarette smoke.

Jerry is beneath the refrigerator, peering at me cautiously. I try not to spook him, pleased by the performative feeling of being observed.

The next day, I douse myself with a liberal spray of Flos Mortis on my way to kill time at some galleries. It has a strange, camphorous smell, an appropriately arty floral perfume. En route, I pass the Editions de Parfum Frederic Malle store. The shopkeeper opens the door for me. We’re alone. I tell him I’m interested in something tuberose-heavy, and ask what his favorite perfume is. “I wear Musc Ravageur,” he replies, spritzing the fragrance onto a card and handing it to me to sniff. It’s sweet and spicy. “Very different from what you’re looking for,” he says. I nod, “It smells like baking luxurious cookies.” He laughs, “Hold on a second,” and disappears behind a door at the back of the store. I pull the caps off a couple of bottles and sniff them while I wait. The shopkeeper returns and hands me a small cardboard tube with the words “Carnal Flower” printed on the side. “Free sample,” he winks, “I think this is what you want.” I thank him and head out.

Looking at art is the perfect occupation for cultivating a life of idle luxury. It’s free, yet consumptive. One is seen, yet not obligated to interact with anyone. None of the art I’m looking at is even for sale. I walk up to a large rectangle composed of individually wrapped oblong black candies. An installation originally conceived in 1992, supposedly a commentary on the slide toward conservatism in the media or something. Several teenagers take candy from the rectangle and pocket it. The gallery assistant doesn’t react. I shrug, reach down, and pick up a piece of candy. So far I’ve managed to obtain free perfume and free art. A good omen.

Later, I’m on hold with the unemployment office to find out why my claim still hasn’t been processed. The music pauses for a second before repeating. I’m not desperate for money yet, but I intend to collect what I’m entitled to. A robotic voice tells me the wait time for my call is between fifteen and thirty minutes.

Jerry runs into the living room. He’s been getting bolder lately. I throw a book at him, not trying to hit him, but not particularly concerned with avoiding him. I should get a mouse trap, but I’d feel bad murdering him. He’s not destructive, merely annoying. It doesn’t seem like a violation worthy of capital punishment.

I lean back in my chair and feel something in my pocket. It’s the sample of Carnal Flower I picked up previously. I roll up my sleeve, spray a drop onto my wrist, and bring it to my nose.

I close my eyes and inhale.

It’s perfect.

You open your eyes.

You’re an iguana sunning yourself on a rock on an island in the Caribbean. You don’t know the name of the island because such things are of no importance to lizards. A fragrant breeze passes by, filled with the rich scent of white flowers and overripe melon. You bask contentedly. The sun’s beams warm your scales. You lick your eyes to moisten them. It’s time to eat a bug.