Garages always smell of used oil. That is a fact.
After a while, it might become a comforting smell.
I used to know this guy, whose parents named him "jesus." That’s with a little "j" in the front. They usually called him "boy." I'd hear them calling him, "Get home, boy." And man, that kid would run home. Didn't matter much. They'd beat the crap out of him anyway. His parents would be trashed from the booze and drugs long before he walked in the door. Still, he ran home. Every time.
I used to watch them from my perch, from the attic of my house. I could look out of the side vents and see his whole compound. His dad repaired farm equipment, and had all sorts of tools and torches. And hammers. And jesus would do his father's bidding, fetching this and that. They at least seemed to feed him. And let him keep his fish. He had an amazing aquarium in his room, which I could see with the aid of binoculars. Colorful fish. Elegant animals.
I felt lucky. My father only kicked my ass every once in a while, and in private. On the other hand, I would watch jesus' dad wipe the back yard with his ass. And then, jesus would go in and feed his fish. I felt a kinship.
Then, this one afternoon, I watched as jesus was dragged to the alley, where they burned weekly their trash in a 55 gallon oil drum, and his father was prodding him with a big ass stick. I watched, and listened, as the old fart told his son to "do it." I watched as jesus opened the box, like a shoebox or something, and pulled out, one by one, tiny kittens, and placed them in the near empty oil drum.
I watched as the father poured in some liquid from a gas canister, on top of the kittens. Then, he handed jesus a zippo lighter. I heard him, from the distance, demand that jesus set fire to the barrel of kittens.
When it became evident that jesus couldn't pull it off by himself, I watched as his father grasped his hand, holding the lighter, and forced jesus to strike the lighter and throw it into the barrel.
The barrel practically exploded. I think it burned jesus' father's eyebrows off of his face.
I could also hear the kittens screaming. Even from the attic.
And there was a look in his father's eyes, a look of satisfied glee, that haunts me to this day.
As they walked away from the smoke, I saw jesus' father place his arm around his son, and say, "Good boy."
I had never taken a drink in my life, being 12 years old and all, but I crept down from the attic and opened a bottle of Gin that my parents kept on hand, and poured myself several glasses. It burned going down, but it was a good burn.
I don't typically believe in "souls," but if souls exist, I witnessed the breaking of at least one that day. At least one.
The smell of oil is now familiar to me. It is an unforgiving smell. 'Tis neither here nor there. It's just a smell. Burning oil has a distinct odor.
When I get out of my car these days, after I pull into my garage following a long drive, that smell of burning oil takes me back.
Maybe it's time to get my oil changed.
