Diesel fumes remind me of airport buses, specifically of the time I went to the airport when I was 19. I felt like a real big boy traveling out of state all by myself. I was flying to Boston to see my high school girlfriend in a desperate attempt to save our then-long-distance relationship. I basically had an eating disorder at that time and looked frail, but hey, I had a full head of long, blonde hair.Â
I stayed at a fancy hotel, and she could barely make time for me, as I had barged in on her life (”surprise!”). We had sex. I was so heartbroken to leave the city. It hurt to not have a reason to live in a beautiful place, to not have been adequate enough to go to a fancy school out of state, to learn about how to pursue my dreams of being an artist. What was my future going to look like? There was none.
We broke up. I submitted some “raw” (terrible) poetry to a literary magazine, in which I unloaded my horrible pain and sense of inadequacy that I couldn’t keep up with my high school girlfriend.
Still, the diesel smell doesn’t remind me of feeling like a failure. It reminds me a giddiness that anything was possible for me and that I would overcome all obstacles – whether they be difference, class, or my own terrible academic record. I wish I could go back and talk to that kid.














