D elbert P. Axelrod, better known as Stinkfoot, came struggling through the doors of Doreen’s 24 HR Eat Gas Now Cafe with his arms around a large cardboard box. None of the Hunting Club members moved a muscle from our large corner table.
For the first in a long time, the cafe was empty except for us. It may have been the wind, or the blowing rain, or the hour. Ten in the morning is usually busy, but the cafe seemed strange and even dark on the other side, even though the lights were on as usual.
“Thanks for your help.” Delbert dropped the heavy box on the table, jolting our coffee cups. A clatter of glass sounded like something inside broke.
“You’re welcome.” Doc plucked a napkin from the holder and soaked up spilled coffee.
“There better not be anything alive in that box!” Doreen called from behind the counter. It was a good thing there weren’t many customers, because the coffee maker was on the fritz. It overheated after one or two cups and shut off. Then she had to stand there and push the on button over and over again until it came back on. Her frustration level was about to exceed her medication dosage.
Doreen came by with the coffee pot. “One of you guys needs to go outside and scrape your foot. You stepped in cow mess, and I don’t want any customers to have to smell your stinkin’ feet.” She went back to aggravate the coffee pot some more.
“You have to burn that one for the effect.” He dug a lighter out of his pocket and lit the wick. It burned fitfully for a second, and then the entire interior of the jar burst into flame. That’s when I realized he’d mixed twigs and leaves in with the wax. I quickly slapped the lid on top to choke it down as a billow of smoke filled the room.
It really did smell like an autumn leaf fire, except the sides of the jar were already hot.
“What is it?” Jerry Wayne asked.
I put it back, unopened.
The wax was dark, and a label covered the contents. Delbert placed the candle on the table and lit the wooden wick. We were immediately engulfed in a scent that relaxed us all. It filled the air with a blend of mesquite smoke, grass, dogs, gun oil, animal musk, and somehow, clean air.
She didn’t, but we all went home with his Hunting Trip candle.
I figure he’ll make a million on that one alone.