“You will be in charge of the laboratory stockroom this week,” instructed his university chemistry teacher.

“Me?”

“Yes. You will be measuring the reagents for the next laboratory experiments.”

“Thank you!” he replied, pumping his fists as his heart raced.

With his lab coat on, he entered the stockroom.

“Wow!” he muttered, somehow feeling another foot being added to his 5’7″ frame.

He yearned for such an assignment. He felt that being a laboratory stockroom assistant elevated his stature among the elite group in his class. To be allowed in the room, one had to be knowledgeable about chemicals and reagents, and how to use the analytical scale, pipets, and graduated cylinders in measuring portions for the next experiments. He fit the bill. He was ecstatic being inside the hallowed room.

“Be careful! Don’t breathe!” he whispered as he measured the dry reagents. He kept his hand steady. A crystal or powder as small as a dust particle could easily tip the scale off.

“Whew!” he whispered as he put away the dry reagents in neatly folded weighing paper.

It was now time to measure the liquid reagents. He gathered all the small empty bottles with rubber lids and started to add measured portions into them.

One of the liquid reagents was glacial acetic acid – a concentrated acetic acid, the acid in vinegar.

“Hmmm…I love vinegar. Let me take a whiff of it!” he exclaimed as he opened the 1-gallon glass jar.

“Oh, my God!” he cried!

The strong fumes traveled through his nose, receptors, and to his brain in a split second. He got into a coughing fit as everything around him turned black. He hung on to the edges of the counter as he keeled over. A nearby chair softened the fall. He was on the floor when he came to.

His eyes watered as he gasped for fresh air to replace the inhaled vinegary fumes.

As he regained his composure, he was reminded of an incident when he was a lot younger.

“I’ll do it!” he would offer without hesitation whenever a sister would want someone to get acetone from the pharmacy for removal of fingernail polish.

It was quite a walk, but he didn’t mind. There was something about that acetone that beckoned him.

“Here you are,” offered the pharmacist, the bottle filled to the brim.

Wasting no extra second, he would remove the lid.

“Hmmm…it smells good!” he exclaimed. The long walk back home would turn into so much fun, like walking on air as he continued with his snuffing trip. By the time he made it home, the bottle would be 3/4 full.

“I spilled some on the way,” he would explain to the sister.

He continued being the laboratory stockroom assistant but kept his nose at a safe distance.

His septuagenarian olfactory sense is still quite good, but he is more particular now about what he would like to challenge his nose with.

“Darn! Why did they have to fertilize today?” he said as his car drove through a country road flanked by acres of corn fields one beautiful, sunny day.

“You know, your hoofed relatives and you have something to do with the smell, right?” he mumbled with an accusing stare as the horse stopped from grazing to acknowledge his presence.