From "Sic Transit" (8)

She rummaged inside her purse for a cigarette, but instead pulled out a roll-on bottle of Avon's "Rapture." She applied it to her wrist while describing her journey from backstage tryst to committed relationship with the lead singer of the local proto-new wave band, Guest List. I was mildly surprised by the scent of "Rapture": it was like an old church on Easter. Her silver rings clicked together as she untangled her feathered hair from her new sweater. The next day I ordered some "Rapture" from a classmate whose mother sold Avon among the candlepin bowling winners. And when the girl passed me the perfume in the bathroom between classes I rolled it on my hands, arms, neck — all areas of exposed flesh — on the edges of my textbooks, even on the furry parts of my chukka boots, elated that I was now on my way to being more like B. I suddenly found it easy to believe what I'd read years before in Taffy's Tips to Teens: that someday I'd create something about the human condition as great as anything Harry Chapin had written. Being more like B guaranteed the inspiration.

But then B disappeared before graduation. Rumor had it she was in an institution because her boyfriend switched from heavy metal to fusion and she couldn't get used to it. I figured I still had the bottle of "Rapture" whenever I wanted to remember, and so decided to open it and smell it, but never again use it. If the smell evaporated I could always just order it. But then Avon discontinued it. I wrote to company to inquire; their only answer was that it had been unpopular. And so when the bottle was finally empty there was no trace of B whatsoever. For awhile, I forgot about her. But then a few years ago I found a tiny vial at a tag sale in Vancouver, and I was right back to being a senior. But at that remove, what good did it do? Besides, cultivating the memory of B had long since become a labor of love that I longed to be quit of. Isn't it tribute enough to be occasionally thought of?

But who laid the foundation for B? For all my years of intrasigence in tenements I still seek the beauty of a slop sink at evening. Someone somewhere has the responsiblity for sowing that seed.