The Perfume of Humankind

A few weeks ago, while waiting for my car to undergo maintenance, I was feeling supremely inconvenienced. To help pass the time, I walked along a major street in the city where I currently reside. I am new to the area, as is the usual case with me, but saw there were some stores I could visit. Upon entering a beauty shop, I was instantly submerged in a cloud of aromatic overload. It was a factory of artificiality and it quickly became necessary to leave for the sake of my sinuses.

I cut through a parking lot behind what looked to be a defunct restaurant and observed a man sitting against the building. I've never in my life seen another human being in worse shape than this man. There was nothing fabricated about the forceful aroma that arose from him. I'm ashamed to admit, I might not, otherwise, have noticed him.

My initial instinct was a remorseful repulsion, but upon closer observation, I was strangely drawn to him. However, I didn't think I should  make an approach without something to offer. A Jimmy John's nearby seemed the best solution and with bag in hand, I returned.

He didn't seem to notice my presence, so I simply knelt down and placed the bag in front of him. I would likely have left it at that had words not suddenly rushed from my mouth. I asked for his name. He did not answer, but instead, looked at me for what seemed a long time. I was glad to be at eye level. There is something irreligious about standing over someone and expecting them to feel your equal or perceive your honest regard.

It seemed fairly certain he hadn't showered in several weeks, and the odor of his body cried out with a mighty plea to any who would heed it. That all-encompassing fetor, which was at first offensive, somehow mellowed, and became fragrant to the olfactory senses of my inner being. It was the perfume of humankind.
Holding hands with M.
His face and hands were filthy. He could have been my own brother for all I could tell, but then I realized, he was my brother on this earth. Earlier that morning, I had stuffed some hand wipes into my wallet for easy cleanup up after checking the oil reserves in my car.

I'm not sure what made me feel I had any right to do this, but I tore open the packets, and ever so gently, took one of his hands and began to wipe. It wasn't a perfect job and I only had a few towelettes, but I managed to clean both of his hands, and then, with tepid care, his face. He remained perfectly still and seemed to comprehend I was a friend. His hands were dry and cracked in places.

Over Christmas, my sister had sent me some samples of L'occitane lotion. Two of the foils remained in my wallet from a trip I had recently taken. I had been stingy with their use, as they were a pricey lotion. How swiftly my frivolous problems became unimportant, and the foils were opened.

As I lotioned the callused hands of this man, who was my brother, I kept my eyes on task, and upon finishing, found that a small bit remained. I gathered my courage and gingerly dabbed the fine substance along his weathered face. No hint of emotion ever touched his expression, and although I did not know how that man came to be in such a place, the strands in my throat caught sound, and my words were simple.

"You are strong enough to overcome whatever it is inside that's killing you."

He never spoke a word, but a glint of moisture dropped from his gray eye into the dark trench beneath it. He touched his face where my fingers had just been. I prayed he would comprehend that he was loved by many. When we serve each other, we do it at the behest of all, and most times, that brotherly love is the only meaningful thing we have to offer. I placed the lunch bag in his lap and to my surprise, repeated the same phrase.

I believe those words are true for all of us. Whatever your struggle may be, you are comprised of the precise mettle to overcome it, because that struggle was built uniquely for you. We can smother our battles with artificial remedies of a perfume-type quality, but it's the deep sweat of the soul that overcomes in the end.


Eliott McKay
~Spreading Joy, Writing Books~

You can read my book, The Aureate Spectacles, for free on Inkitt