Out of the parking lot, down the road and onto the highway, in the shadows of the large box truck with Molly’s Long Haul Moving painted on the sides, Big Al can hear the truck driver muttering from the cabin. His scent changes rapidly, from incisive to puddled out to tart to ginger to brownscale, which Al hadn’t smelled on a human yet.
The truck driver seems to be going through strong, quick-changing emotions and is just letting them flow like water and not constrict to the same manners that Ms. Fast or the family had.
“Just roll with it. Just let it go,” says the truck driver to himself. Then after a moment, “I did what I felt was right there.”
“Couldn’t watch that.”
“Not again.”
Big Al smells something different as the truck driver does something that makes him think of rain falling on the swamp and the tiny drops joining the larger body of water. It’s a scent Big Al hasn’t a word for, and it stumps him.
“I’m ok. The kids will know in time. No guilt. Ohhhh,” he sighs.
New words. Smells that don’t have….words? And humans brownscale? They shed old parts that they don’t need anymore.
The box shakes as the rollers rattle in their rails. Dust rises up from the floor as the floor bumps up and down on a rough road, tickling Big Al’s snout. He can smell the history of the truck’s cargo space, and it speaks of people and homes. Smells of people, children, tempting pet snacks, human food, dirty clothing, clean clothing, garage grease and more tell him about the human world. After several hours of bouncing and jostling, the road becomes smooth and the tires hum.
Big Al falls asleep, his nose following the life-scent of a cat that ate Fancy Feast and slept in a cat box under a pollinating plant.
He’s jostled awake when the truck begins to slow and turn. The back door rattles as the tires hit a gravel parking lot. He peeks outside to see ‘The Last Mile’ truck stop. It smells horribly of diesel and other oil wafts. The truck he’s in rolls under some extremely bright lights and Big Al scurries back into the shadow.
The driver door clicks open as the human climbs out and fills the truck.
“Yet another night,” says the trucker to himself. “The Last Mile, eh? I hope so.”
Big Al gets the sense that the trucker is spending another night, and immediately begins to sniff out the area, hoping for another dumpster.
His eyes go wide. Cinnamon buns. But there are many people in the space, and there’s yeasty, malty haze that covers it up.
The truck ambles its way to a parking space, and the trucker goes into a door, comes out after a bit, and into another door for the night.
Big Al peeks out the door to see a big, color screen with an animated sign that flashes WELCOME. TO THE. ZIT & GRIT. CHECK OUR. NEW DRINK. SPIT GRIT WIT. ASK FOR. EXTRA WIT.
Feeling restless from the long ride, Big Al slips down and out of the truck, adjusts his dress, and waddles toward the bar. Music grows louder as he approaches, and he tucks his straw hat down lower over his eyes.
Cinnamon buns here I come.
This time the door isn’t a mystery, and he grabs the handle and pulls. The latch however is new, and Big Al has put enough strength and weight into the pull that the door bends and slips out of the latch. The top hinge breaks, the door falling open on just the lower hinge, the soft-close arm holding it up.
The music dies down; colored lights move across a still crowd. A man about Big Al’s height and build stands behind a countertop, cleaning a glass. He looks at Big Al and gulps.
Two men with SECURITY on their shirts approach him with confused looks on their faces.
“You gonna fix that door buddy?” His scent is like when Ms. Fast was embarrassed, so Big Al waves his hand like he did with her. Security backs away.
Every eyeball in the place is on him, and he isn’t sure what to make of it. So many scents, so many different people. It’s a little much, but he goes up to the big guy behind the counter.
The bartender doesn’t know what to make of him. “Uhhh…” His eyes flick to security and back.
“What am I getting you?”
Big Al has cinnamon buns on his mind, but the tart smell of tension is only growing and he’s gotta do something about that. It dawns on him that he doesn’t have a door to back out of.
The tune he whistles this time is of the song Carney the Crane had sung, of continuing to stand like a survivor and feeling young.
The band on the stage chimes in at ‘Lookin like a true survivor’ with the real words, and by the time the verse is done, the energy in the bar is back up to the moment before he walked in.
Someone slides up to the bar next to him, and the scent coming off is strong enough for humans to smell. It’s the fermented wheat smell, and Big Al doesn’t want any of that. There’s also a hint of Robbie the Fox to him, and Big Al learns to side-eye.
“Raleigh,” he says, holding out a hand. Big Al looks at it, and decides to mimic. He looks at Raleigh, and the bartender ducks fast to avoid his swinging snout.
Big Al holds out his hand and the two shake.
“That was the best entrance I’ve ever seen,” says Raleigh. “You’ve got talent man, you’ve got skill. Hey bartender, whatever this guy wants, it’s on my tab. What’s your name?”
The scents in here are overwhelming. The salty, fried smell of French fries rolls out from the back. His nose hangs over a dripping row of hoppy, wheaty aromas that also emanate from everyone’s breath. At the corner of the bar are small packages filled with something that’s bright yellow and pink.
Perfect.
Big Al reaches over, takes one package in a hand and deftly tears it open. He takes the ear plugs out and stuffs them in his nostrils. Much better.
“Rr-ick.”
He looks Big Al up and down. “I can’t believe you’re in here wearing almost the same dress my mom has. That’s so metal. Is that real straw?” He pokes at the hat, and shakes his head. “Surr-real. Where you from bro?”
This human smells like fox. Can’t eat this trick. Big Al isn’t sure what the trick is, and whether he should answer or not. But the human seems to be expecting something, and Big Al needs to say something.
“Ssstinkwater.”
“Woah, sounds like a prison. You just get out?”
“This guy with you, Raleigh?” says a deep, resonant voice from behind.
“Hey Matt. Meet my new friend, Rick.”
Big Al looks around. Raleigh seems to know his snout is coming and ducks. The scent of something sharp and musky, like hot metal and salt, comes off three large guys behind him. Two bigger guys flank the one that is talking to him.
“Why you treadin on our turf?” asks Matt, his fear smell growing more tart by the second. “We don’t take kindly to dudes in dresses.”
Big Al doesn’t understand the reference, but inside the fear scent coming off this human is a stew of wheaty mold almost rotten hiding a subtle, sweetish vanilla smell.
This human is…conflicted? Two very different scents at once.
Big Al looks at Raleigh, who has an acrid, nervous smell filling in the space between them. He’s not looking straight at the other guys, and seems to be fidgeting.
“Get lost Matt. He’s a paying customer,” says the bartender.
“Nah, we got something we need to a-dress,” says Matt.
Big Al is taller than this human by a foot, and the others almost come up to his snout. The tart grows stronger, and even through the nose-plugs, it irritates his sinuses, making his eyes water.
“Ah look, he’s startin’ to cry, he’s so afraid,” says the guy on the right, another stew of fear, wheaty mold and the slightest trace of smokey honey.
“Ahh…ahhh…” Big Al can’t help what’s coming. That mold smell isn’t doing him any good.
“Hey, here comes a Spit Grit!” says a voice from down the bar. A drink meant for him comes sliding down the bar towards Big Al.
Big Al sneezes towards Matt before quickly pivoting to catch the drink. His heavy tail whips around, and the three intruders go down like bowling pins.
Raleigh again has seen the snout coming and ducks. The bartender stands at the end, having been the one who slid him the drink.
Matt, having been on the receiving end of the sneeze attack, is covered in a sticky goo. His wingmen have not escaped the splats. Their feet wiped out from under them, the three are a little dazed. A raucous laugh erupts from the crowd.
What just happened?
Everyone is looking at him, the water returning to water smell filling the bar.
They’re laughing, but not mean…
Scents muddled, security approaches the bullies quickly.
“Come on, you don’t need this tonight,” says security, picking up Matt and moving him towards the disjointed door.
“Go home Matt!” says the bartender, tossing him a towel.
Raleigh chimes in. “Go home Matt!”
“He’s cooked! Like chicken!” says someone else.
“Way to go, stranger!”
That scent of a drop returning to the pond fills the bar, and Big Al realizes it’s because of what he just did. He sniffs the Spit Grit, and his throat tightens. It’s way too much wheat in one small glass. He sets it back on the bar.
Strange. Humans fear and fight one minute, laugh the next and brownscale the next…and then…water returning to water.
“Man, you just got the empathy of the whole bar,” says Raleigh.
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Chapter 9 audio drops November 15
Chapter 10 text drops November 22
