I returned:
- the broken Roadstar scooter
- a small Coleman cooler
- a pair of shorts I didn’t like because it had small pockets and no belt loops to hold up my belt which then could not hold up my pants, which are vitally important to holding up my dignity.
All this (and dirty laundry of course) was jammed in my large pull-along suitcase which I dragged the two miles to the train station across the river at 7:00 in the morning with Larry and friends. The train rolled in just as several old ladies started smoking. They clustered together in an act of social solidarity that happened to center on my suitcase and beloved hoodie.
It is widely acknowledged that everyone has a distinct odor. In my experience, that odor has pretty much been the odor of their house. Now, no one can smell their own odor due to perceptual adaptation. So after being removed from my house for two months I was able to smell its odor and presumably my own, although briefly, for the first time.
Jerky, with chili peppers and salt.
After an hour of smelling that, I then smelled home which is nothing.