There’s an interesting story about the scarf, which I’ll write about shortly.

The deodorant at the local Walgreen’s is in aisle seven. I reached for the Speed Stick. When I was twelve years old, I asserted my need for deodorant like the bigger guys used, and my mother purchased a green Speed Stick for me. I’ve seen no need to reconsider my mother’s original deodorant choice since then.

But then, my eye was caught by the deodorant immediately to the left of the Speed Stick. It was in a funky black container. Black is the color of power and manliness; it is not the color of marshmallows or back fat. Black is the color of coffee, except when there’s cream or something in it, which there is not, in any coffee that is drunk by me. Black. And there was a funky sharp logo on the deodorant, kind of blue with a lot of edges on it. As though you’d cut your armpit on it if you tried to use it under your arms. The name of the deodorant was: Axe. Cool, I thought. This deodorant is dangerous. A fireman could break a door down with this deodorant.

I compared the price of my old standby Speed Stick (three dollars ninety-nine) versus the new black spiky blue deodorant (four fifty-nine). Darn, I thought. As cool and black with the blue spiky logo on it as this new deodorant is, my old friend Speed Stick, which I know and respect so much since my mother bought it for me when I was twelve, would save me sixty cents. Speed Stick is the more fiscally responsible solution. I shall not change my deodorant.

And then, I remembered the commercials for Axe. You do too. They describe in medical detail the Axe Effect: if you wear this new deodorant Axe, random women on the street will molest you. This process of random molestation operates based on a series of chemicals, many of which are called pheromones. Pheromones are a type of chemical which is composed of molecules. All living things are composed of molecules generally, and many living things react in specific ways when exposed to molecules. Pheromones are used by some animals such as moths and jaguars to find mates in the wild. There are a number of double-blind scientific studies investigating these points. Groundbreaking work is being done. Anyway, there are new deodorants which take advantage of these so-called molecules in ways that make women want to wander up and rape you. There are, for example, commercials of the guy who wears the Axe deodorant and he carries around a little number clicky counter thing, and when he gets checked out by a random chick on the street, he clicks the clicky, and by the end of the commercial he had like 104 women and 1 guy checking him out. I understand the commercial was filmed by employing actors, but apparently the commercial premise is based on a series of double-blind studies at prestigious universities, such as Harvard. I went to Harvard.

I reconsidered, looking at my old deodorant. True, the Axe was sixty cents more than the Speed Stick. But, what is the cost of scientific advancement? Can it be counted in cents, or dollars even? Can the future of pheromones be conclusively excluded from modern society based entirely on the financial implications? Should we even try to stop molecules?

I purchased the Axe deodorant. I paid four fifty-nine for it. When I opened it and smelled it, it smelled spicy, clean and fresh, like a mass-market pheromone-enhanced deodorant ought to smell. I was a little worried, when I applied it to my own underarm area, that the Axe effect might apply recursively to myself, and I might be suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to make out with myself. While I occasionally do make out with myself, I am able to schedule these things in advance on weekends, and it would have been inconvenient and time-consuming before work to be thusly compelled. Fortunately, the designers of the Axe pheromone system have taken this conundrum into account, and I felt no unnatural urges to self-abuse during the deodorant application process.

At the Sega office I wandered about, getting my usual vending-machine Diet Pepsi, waving discreetly at the receptionist, nodding politely at the marketing chick clique. They greeted me with measured low-wattage smiles. I found this reaction, or perhaps I should say lack of reaction, puzzling. Perhaps the so-called Axe effect required some further interaction with the molecules in my own body. I did not recall what the Axe packaging indicated was the expected time for the Axe effect to “kick in” as they say. No matter, I thought, in the name of scientific advancement, I am fully prepared to wait.

A few hours later, trying to look busy on my laptop, babes wandered by my cubicle, all without paying any particular attention to me. Later, one of them did actually say “Are you in or out?” but that was because I was blocking the elevator door inadvertently with my body. Perhaps we had a moment, as she pressed the Ground floor button on the elevator. What was she trying to say to me, by pressing the G button? That she desired a grounded relationship? That she wanted a man who pressed upon her G spot? It was difficult to analyze the dynamics of the situation entirely, what with the elevator doors crushing my shoulder blades.

After the aspirin had kicked in, I retired to my cubicle to reassess. My temper was subdued. The performance of the molecules in the Axe deodorant product that day had been, all in all, somewhat lackadaisical.

I sat there, gazing at the sprinklers and fluorescent lights on the ceiling. And as I gazed, ever so slowly, a subtle, unsettling realization came upon me. I realized that the Axe company does not actually warrant the performance of the molecules. In truth, now that I had the time to consider the matter rightly and in detail, I realized that nowhere in the print ads, Web ads, or TV ads did the Axe company actually promise that the Axe effect would be consistent in my case with the results of the double-blind controlled studies, at Harvard and other prestigious places.

As I thought longer, my mood became blacker. The final, horrible realization came upon me: The Axe effect can only charitably be called an exaggeration. Perhaps the term “lie” is too strong; after all, I do believe I definitely shared a moment with that woman as she was pushing the elevator button and telling me to step away from her. And yet, in retrospect I feel that the Axe corporation truly must be held accountable for the performance of the pheromones and other molecules in their product.

I am sadder and wiser now. And yet the forward march of scientific studies in the study of molecules continues marching forward. All things are possible for those who have the patience to wait.

Update: My wife heard me read the aforementioned story, and said, “I dunno, sweetie. Not your usual writing style. Flabby, overly verbose, not very funny. Kind of the same joke over and over.” I responded that people who are currently living in glass houses ought not throw stones so much at one another repeatedly.

Hi N,

Thanks for the call. With regard to your contract changes:

Section 4. Deleted 4. and renumbered the contract points per your request.

Section 5. The computer services and tools clause only covers items that you need me to purchase as a condition of the work. I presume you’re going to let me use your dev equipment, software and PCs. Home-use equipment is my cost, unless you specifically instruct me to buy it.

I would like to consider this document final. I would like to ask you to please print 2 copies of the enclosed, sign them both, and send them to me. I’ll countersign and return an original to you.

The wife and I spent Saturday and Sunday driving around the OC looking for houses. Huntington Beach is high on our list.

Thanks for everything, N.

Lolly nervously looks at the bubbles through the doorway. She shifts a bit in the makeup chair. Her half-blonde hair cascades in ideal waves around her face. She’s thin and gorgeous.

Aurore has laid out an array of powders, bases, brushes, salves, creams, towels, and papers on the oak desk. Aurore dapples bits of foundation and color around Lolly’s eyes. Aurore has a Left-Bank accent and an unassuming demeanor, with imperfect skin and big moo-cow brown eyes. She learned her craft on the Paris runways.

Aurore dotted Lolly and stood back. “It is nice like that, yes? No?”

Lolly peered into a compact. “My eyes. I think you’ve made them pop too much. I look white.”

I picked the pecans off a huge bear claw, dipped them in my coffee.

Aurore fluttered. “Oh I am so sorry, my. Again?”

Ten minutes later, more powder, more base. Lolly checks the mirror again. “Um. You see, if you look here, under my eyes. You’re trying. I know you’re trying. Can you see what I’m talking about?”

Aurore twitches. “Oh my. Yes. We can most definitely.”

I overhear an argument around the claw-footed bathtub. “Because, goddammit! If we do the shot with all four of ’em toasting, it’ll be just like every other goddamn champagne advertisement out there! Been done a thousand goddamn times! We need to stand out! And I hired you to be creative! To think out of the box!”

An hour passes. Aurore makes up Lolly four more times. I keep quiet.

A tuft of brown hair has fallen out of Aurore’s tight twist, and she is sweating. Lolly twists in the makeup chair. In the bathroom someone barks about market segmentation and the thirty-something psychographic.

Aurore blinks at Lolly and brushes her hair out of her eyes. “Perhaps, this is good? Perhaps I have done another mistake? Is this what you want?” Aurore flashes a pleading look at me.

Lolly’s face is a thick haze of peach and iridescent glaze. A fermata of concern is perched on the center of Lolly’s forehead. She looks at me fearfully and asks, “How do I look?”

“Honestly?” I ask. Lolly nods.

I peg her dead-on with look number 17 (masterful diabolical confidence) and I say:

“You. Are. Fucking. Gorgeous.”

Lolly gives me a broad, true smile. She undoes her robe and marches directly into the bathroom. Every single man on the shoot follows her into the bathroom.

Every single man except me, that is. I take Aurore outside and play some Kyo on guitar with her.

Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Thursday night at Bogart’s American Grill. The dance floor is starting to get crowded. I slide up to the bar, flag the bartender, and grab a martini. Four belles, tan and smiling, grin into a digital camera and take pictures of themselves.

“C’mere, gimme ‘at camera and y’all get together,” I say.

They cuddle up and I snap some shots. One of them points the camera at me. I make a face and she snaps a picture, and she screams with laughter. “Look!” she giggles. “Look how funny you look raht there!”

“You think I look funny?” I say. “Well, take a look at this!” I grab a menu off the bar. “There. That’s my picture at the top of the menu.”

The girls inspect the menu. “No way,” says one confidently. “That’s not you.”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “That’s me raht there. Did the photo shoot. In California.”

“No, that guy duddn’t look like you at all,” says the brunette in the red dress.

“If that’s really you, how come ya have to pay fy’own drinks?” says the redhead.

“Well, um, they already paid for my dinner…” I say meekly.

“You look really old in this photo,” says the brunette. “Ahya really that old?”

I mumble something, but I don’t remember what. Their eyes glaze, and I become invisible to them. I pound the martini and try to steal the menu, but the bouncer takes it back at the door.