ALIEN PERFUME: Anthony Policastro March 18, 2010

“When are you going to quit looking at that river and get back to your studies?”
asked Paul Elliot. He was sitting at his desk typing a term paper and every now and then
he would look up and catch Bobby Canary looking out the dormitory window at the
Raritan River. Canary had pulled over his chair and was sitting in front of the window
and he seemed to be mesmerized by the river and had forgotten the business law book
that was opened and lying on his desk across the room.
“Look! There are two rowing teams on the river,” said Canary as he rose and
stepped closer to the window. “I think I should go out for rowing, next semester, what do
you think?”
“I think it’s a ridiculous idea,” sneered Paul. He stopped typing and looked at
Canary. “You don’t have the time to join a rowing team. Add the time you would have to
invest in rowing to the time you already put into ROTC training, your grades will fall
faster than the stock market on an off year.”
Canary laughed and sat down again in his chair and watched the men rowing and
sliding across the surface of the river.
“Why are you so fascinated by that damn river, Bobby? You’d think it were a
curvaceous woman the way you look at it.”
Canary laughed again. “Now you’re being ridiculous.” He reluctantly turned away
from the window and sat at his desk across the room and glanced at his business law
book. He sighed and, after a few minutes, he said, “I will admit, Paul, I’m fascinated by
rivers – the Mississippi, the Congo, the Nile, the Euphrates, the Hudson, the Raritan --.”
He neglected to mention the Severn, the Thames, the Amazon, the Lena, the Hwang or
Yellow River, the Yangtze, the Ganges, the Tigress, the Snake and the Rio Grande, the
McKenzie-Peace, and the Mekong. Canary would come to know firsthand the life and
death stories of soldiers from the deck of a Swift boat on the Mekong Delta.
“Perhaps, you might change your major from business to marine biology or one of
the other disciplines in the science field?” said Paul, looking up from his typewriter, then
reaching over to turn on his desk lamp.
“I don’t look at rivers in a scientific way, Paul,” said Canary, and then, after a few
thoughtful moments, he added, “I look at them in the way Langston Hughes looked at
them when he wrote The Negro Speaks of Rivers. He wrote:

“I’ve known rivers:

“I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in
human veins.
“My soul has grown deep like the rivers.”

Canary grew silent and returned to reading his law book. A few minutes later, he
rose from his desk and walked over to the window again and looked at the setting sun, its
reflection shimmering across the surface of the water.
Evening was approaching and he realized that it was Saturday night and that soon
Hardenbergh Hall, one of three dormitories that was built on the banks of the Raritan
River, would be jumping with bands, music, beer, and girls from Douglas and Princeton.
“It’s getting late,” said Canary as he watched a seagull skim the surface of the water,
lower its bill, and pluck a fish from its depths, and then fly off. “Are you hungry? Let’s

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go to dinner before it gets crowded. You know how crowded it gets on Saturday night
whenever the dorms and frats are having mixers on campus.”
Paul finished his term paper, pulled a sheath of paper from the carriage of
the Olivetti, and then rose from his desk and looked at Canary who was still staring out
the window. “Yeah, it going to get crazy around here.” And then, after a few minutes, he
said, “I suppose you’ll meet up with Patricia and bring her back here to the mixer
tonight.”
Canary turned away from the window and looked at Paul with an expression that
conveyed annoyance and disappointment.
“No, I have other plans for tonight,” said Canary as he walked over to the closet,
slid open the door, and reached for a light windbreaker. He pulled it on and then leaned
against the door and waited for Paul to get ready.
“You have other plans?” asked Paul, raising his eyebrows in disbelief. “I don’t
believe it. Didn’t you call Patricia earlier this weeks with the intention of asking her to
the mixer, or was I just dreaming that?”
“Actually, I was planning to take her to the student center this evening. The film
club is showing Sergei Bondarchuk’s film, War and Peace, and I thought she’d like to
see it.”
“But that film’s in Russian with English subtitles! And, it’s a freakin’ long film.
Six hours of Natasha, Prince Andrei, and Pierre and the French is more than anyone can
--.”
“I know,” said Canary. “But I figured that since Patricia is Russian – her
grandparents emigrated to the states from Saint Petersburg, just before the revolution –
and since she can speak the language rather fluently, I thought she’d enjoy the movie.”
“She might enjoy it, but you’ll have to read the subtitles to know what’s going on.
You won’t have time to look at the film or even whisper in Patricia’s ear, unless you’re a
speed-reader. You’ll tire your eyes out…you’ll get a cramp in your neck from moving
your head up and down and around the damn screen. ”
“Tell me about it.”
Canary scowled as Paul collected the pages of his term paper and threw them into
the top drawer of his desk. He then reached for a sheath of translucent plastic that lay on
his bed, carefully unfolded it and used it to cover his Olivetti typewriter. When he had
finished, he turned off his desk lamp and went to his closet for his light denim jacket. He
adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose and said, “Well, I’m ready, shall we go?”
They walked to the end of the corridor, passed several rooms, their doors left wide
open, and walked down three flights of stairs to the lobby. They exited the main entrance
and walked across George Street making their way to the Brower Commons Dining
Facility.
“Well, did Patricia agree to go to the film with you?” asked Paul and there was
more than a hint of curiosity in his voice.
“Not exactly…actually, Patricia never returned my phone call,” said Canary, his
voice was filled with disappointment and chagrin. “I left several messages with the girls
at her sorority, but I guess she either never got my messages or she’s still angry and
refuses to see me.”
“I thought you two patched up your differences over the summer,” said Paul.

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“I thought so, too. I called her over the summer and chatted with her on the
telephone, but we never really went out together again since running into her and her
friends last year at the Bicentennial Rutgers and Princeton football game at Palmer
Stadium in Princeton. Do you remember that day and night?”
“How could I forget? Frank nearly lost a finger, and Ira was nearly killed by one
of her girlfriends. That was a hell of a night. The next day, we had to explain everything
to Dean Crosby and we nearly got suspended. If I had been suspended in my freshman
year, my parents would’ve murdered me, and then, they would’ve forced me to transfer
to another school – Columbia, NYU or Fordham,” said Paul, as they entered the
Commons and made their way down a pedestrian ramp to the lower level, where they
stood in a queue with other students and then passed in front of several steam tables, and
filled their trays with dishes until its sides overflowed with food.
They found a table in the back corner of the dining hall and commenced their
meal. Canary laughed as he recalled the incident which had become known around
campus as the “the fours girls in a Volvo.”
“Why won’t Patricia see you, Bobby? What the hell did you do to her?”
“Nothing and that was the problem…I did nothing,’ said Canary and he scowled
and looked down and pushed his carrots around the plate.
“I suppose Patricia and her girlfiends are still pals and hanging out together?”
asked Paul.
“They’re all members of the same sorority, so I’m sure they’re pretty tight.”
“Wow!!! Patricia Pasternak, Susan Crane, Judy Robinson, and Denise
Duveneck…what a motley crew. I think Denise was the meanest of all of them. She
could’ve killed Ira with her knife, you know, and then we would’ve been in real trouble. I
was surprised the campus police never arrested her.”
“So was I. However, I imagined Dean Crosby censored and squashed any report
and publicity that might’ve tarnished the university, and I don’t blame him one bit,” said
Canary as he looked up at Paul’s weak eyes and scowled. “Look, if you were in Dean
Crosby’s position – between a rock and a hard place – you’d have done the same thing.”
“Perhaps,” replied Paul.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, while Dionne Warwick sang I’ll Never
Love This Way Again. And, for a while, Canary was lost in her words and felt as if a rush
of melancholy had overwhelmed his senses.
“Bird Man stopped by this afternoon while you were at the library and invited us
to his frat house. He said they’ll be having a wild party this evening, but he was really
concerned about Ira.”
“Frank Catalano’s concerned about Ira?” said Canary and he stopped eating to
contemplate the meaning of Paul’s statement. “So when did Frank start looking after the
well-being of Ira?
“They weren’t exactly bosom buddies last year when we were all living together
as freshmen in Tinsley Hall.”
“Well, ever since they pledged the same fraternity house, and became frat
brothers, they’ve become inseparable,” sneered Paul, and then he laughed and Canary
joined in on the laughter.
“But, Ira?” said Canary and he was more than a little bewildered and befuddled
by Frank’s sudden show of concern for Ira.

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“So, what do you think? Perhaps, we should stop by there after dinner and see if
there’s anything we can do to help Ira?”
“Paul, he’s insane, a lunatic! I was through with Ira last year. After he came out of
the infirmary, if you remember, I wanted nothing to do with him or his roommate,
Kenny, who used to play Blood, Sweat, and Tears, and that awful song Spinning Wheel
over and over again, nonstop. Kenny literally drove me to tears playing that song and if I
had ever gotten my hands on his record, I would’ve smashed it over his head.”
“I was your roommate last year in Tinsley Hall, and I was subjected to the same
torture that you were--.”
“Yeah, I remember, but somehow you were never really affected as much as I was
from hearing Spinning Wheel. He played the damn song day and night on his damn little
record player. You were either immune to the music or you were wearing earplugs.”
Paul laughed and slapped his thigh with his hand and shook his head and then
adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose again.
“Forget about Kenny. He’s a lost cause. But, Ira has potential and Frank said that
he locked himself in his garret at the frat house and won’t open the door,” said Paul.
Canary sighed loudly and then said, “Why not? Why won’t he open the door?”
“I don’t know. Nevertheless, Frank believes you’re the only one who might
convince him to open up before he does something stupid.”
“Why don’t Frank and his fraternity brothers just break down the door?”
“They’re afraid they won’t have enough time to stop Ira from doing whatever he’s
planning to do,” said Paul rather seriously. “I think you should go over there…we should
go over there and see if we can convince him to open up his garret door and find out what
this is all about.”
Canary looked at Paul and frowned. “After dinner, I’m going to the student center
to watch a Russian movie --.”
“And what about Ira?”
“As I said, Paul, I’m through with Ira since freshman year. If you want to help Ira
and get him out of his rat hole, then that’s your decision. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll
have nothing to do with him,” replied Canary with anger in his voice. And, then he added
for emphasis, “I’m going to the student center to watch a Russian movie.”
They finished their dinner, disposed of their trays, and plodded up the pedestrian
ramp until they came to ground level. Leaving the Commons dining facility, they crossed
College Avenue and entered the student center, which was located adjacent to the gym,
and across from Stonier Hall. Canary and Paul made their way to the all-purpose room,
which had been converted to a theater for the evening presentation of Sergie
Bondarchuk’s epic version of Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace.
By now, it was five minute to eight o’clock, and the theater was rather crowded
with a horde of students and faculty members from Rutgers, Douglas, Cook, and
Livingston Colleges. There were only a few seats left toward the back of the room.
Canary weaved his way through the crowd and claimed two seats in the last row for
himself and Paul. Then, Paul noticed the four girls sitting off to his right and in the row
ahead of him.
“Look!” whispered Paul, anxiously. “Isn’t that Patricia and her girlfriends –
Susan, Judy, and Denise?”

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Canary turned his head to the right and saw four girls sitting ahead of him at the
end of the row. He scowled when he recognized Patricia, and she smiled wanly at him
when she turned her head in his direction and saw him staring at her. For a moment, he
saw her dark brown eyes flash coldly.
Then, the lights in the theater dimmed and the movie had started and, before long,
everyone was gawking at the silver screen as a young Natasha Rostova burst into a huge
drawing room, and interrupted Count Ilya and Countess Natalya’s soiree, where, as a
debutante, she would eventually be introduced into society and meet the formidable
Prince Andrei Bolkonsky and the lovable and incorrigible Pierre Bezukhov. They were
speaking in Russian and Paul was straining his eyes trying to read the English subtitles,
while Canary watched Patricia. He saw her lean close to Denise, who was sitting beside
her, and whisper something into her ear. Then, they laughed and simply ignored him,
giving their full attention to Countess Natasha and her elder brother, Count Nikolai.
During the intermission, Patricia and her girlfriends went to the vending machines
for snacks and coffee. It was not by accident that Canary had followed Patricia into the
lobby. She continued to ignore him, until he said, “Hello, Patricia.”
She feed a few coins into a vending machine and pressed a button for
decaffeinated coffee. The machine made a rumbling noise and as she waited for her
coffee to appear, she said, “Hello, Bobby,” paying him as little attention as possible.
“Why didn’t you return my telephone calls?”
She turned, gave him a stern look, and said, “Bobby, I was busy, all right? I was
at the library most of the day researching information for a term paper that I have to
submit to my one of my professors next week, and by the time I returned to the sorority
house and learned of your phone messages, it was too late to return your calls.
“And, you needn’t leave a dozen messages. One message is sufficient,” snapped
Patricia.
“I only thought--,” said Canary.
But, Patricia interrupted him and he never had a chance to finish what he wanted
to say. “Look! The movies starting up again…I have to return to my seat. Goodbye,
Bobby.” She reached for her cup of decaffeinated coffee, removed it from its grotto and
walked away, leaving Canary a forlorn miserable wretch in front of the vending
machines. Paul was standing a few feet away and saw the whole frightful and hideous
brief encounter. He furtively sidled up to Canary.
“Phew! Boy, did she shoot you down! You wanna go back inside and see the rest
of the movie?’ asked Paul, as if the ugly scene he had just witnessed was an everyday
occurrence and meant nothing to one’s sensibilities.
“I don’t think it’ll do any good. I’ll call her tomorrow and invite her out to
breakfast,” said Canary.
“That sound like a plan that might work,” said Paul, gravely and somberly, his
voice filled with skepticism.
They stood to the side of the lobby and watched the horde of students and faculty
shuffling their way back into the theater as a cacophony of chattering voices bounced off
the walls and the vaulted ceiling. After a few moments, Canary said, “Look! Why don’t
we stop by Frank and Ira’s frat house and see if we can talk Ira out of his garret?”
“Sounds good to me, because my eyes and neck are killing me,” said Paul, as they
made their way out of the student center and sauntered along College Avenue, heading in

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the direction of fraternity row. They made their way to Union Street, which ran between
Hamilton and Mine. Ira’s frat house was located in the middle of the block. It was a
colonial with whitewashed pillars, a large front porch, and a gabled roof. There were cars
parked on the street and on the front lawn. Music was emanating as if by osmosis through
the windows and doors, which were wide open. Every light in the house was ablaze and
fraternity brothers and girlfriends were either standing on the porch or inside the house
drinking beer, and snacking on hors d’oeuvres that had been prepared by several
industrious frat brothers in the kitchen a few hours earlier.
Canary and Paul ascended the steps of the front porch, nodded to the frat brothers
leaning against the wooden railing, and lounging in rickety wooden lawn and folding
chairs, and went inside the house, where the party was in full swing. Canary looked
around the drawing room and when he didn’t see Frank Catalano, turned to one of the frat
brothers who was chatting with his date and said, “We’re here to see Frank Catalano and
Ira Bloom, do you know where I can find them?”
“Check upstairs on the third floor,” said the frat brother, a huge, young man with
arms of bulging muscles and steel. Then, he turned away and smiled at the girlfriend and
said, “Would you like another beer?” They suddenly disappeared as Canary and Paul
turned to the staircase and climbed awkwardly over the bodies of young men and women
sitting on the steps. Upon reaching the second floor landing, they walked to the end of the
hallway, where they found an arched doorway and a narrow, wooden staircase, leading
up to a garret.
“Frank! Where are you?” shouted Canary.
“Up here!” replied Frank Catalano. Canary and Paul entered the archway, looked
up and saw Frank standing on a small landing at the top of the steps. A dim, incandescent
lightbulb was the only source of illumination. Paul squinted and pushed his spectacles
farther back on the bridge of his nose.
“Damn,” grunted Paul as he ascended the steps, which creaked and groaned under
his weight. “I’m out of shape.”
“Ha...ha…ha,” laughed Canary. “You’re too thin and scrawny to be out of shape.
I would think you could run a marathon and never once feel as if you’re out of breath.”
They reached the top landing, where Frank was standing in front of a locked door.
He was a slender boy with dark, wavy hair, light brown eyes, an aquiline nose, and a thin
upper lip. His countenance glistened and his wavy hair had become stringy under the heat
that was trapped just below the gabled roof.
“Damn, it’s hot up here,” exclaimed Paul, wiping the perspiration from his
forehead that had suddenly formed at his hairline with a pocket-sized handkerchief.
“How is he?” asked Canary.
“I thought he was dead in there, but he finally woke up,” said Frank. Then,
suddenly, he turned and hammered on the door with his clenched fist and shouted, “Ira!
Open up the door! Open up, Ira! I’m about to do something that I haven’t done in a long
time – I’m about to lose my temper.” Canary and Paul looked at one another and
shrugged their shoulders. “Bobby and Paul are here and they want to talk to you, so open
the door before --.”
Canary stepped closer to the door. “Ira, this is Bobby, open up the door.” Canary
heard the sound of someone shuffling across the floor and then it stopped. “Ira! Open up

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the freakin’ door! If you don’t open the door, Frank, Paul, and I are going to break it
down.”
“Ha…ha…ha…I’d like to see you try it,” croaked Ira, his voice was harsh and
dry.
“At least he’s alive,” interjected Paul.
“Not for long… when I get my hands on him,” snapped Canary. “All right, he’s
leaving us no choice, but to bust down the door. Put your shoulders to it, men, on the
count of three.” Canary, Frank, and Paul looked at one another rather skeptically and then
nodded when they were ready. “Okay, on the count of three. One…two…three!” They
lunged for the door with their shoulders, but the door gave way so easily that they flew
across the room and crashed hard into one another and a wall which sloped at an acute
angle to the floor, mirroring the slope of the gabled roof. Canary felt like one of the
Three Stooges, as he rose from off the floor and glanced around Ira’s garret room. It was
littered and filthy and sparsely furnished with a twin-size bed, a small square refrigerator,
a desk, a dresser with a mirror, and small closet in the corner.
“This place is filthy, Ira! Why don’t you clean it up a little? Why must you live
like an animal?” said Paul, scowling with disgust. He looked at a pile of dirty laundry
lying on the floor, papers wrapper from old candy bars, empty crumbled bags that used to
contain tortilla, corn, and potatoes chips. He saw a discarded box of Koffee Kake Juniors
from Tastykake. He wrinkled his nose and frowned.
Canary looked at Ira and said, “You look like a refugee from Woodstock wrapped
in that quilt. Why don’t you put on some clothes and go downstairs and enjoy the frat
party, instead of locking yourself up and sleeping all day long in your garret?
“Don’t you have any school work to do? How do you expect to pass your classes
and become a wealthy doctor living in the suburbs if you don’t do your work?”
Ira dropped the guilt onto the floor and stood there naked, and that was when
Canary saw the six-inch scar that stretched pencil thin across Ira’s bicep.
“Is that Denise’s calling card on you arm? I could hardly see it from here,” said
Canary.
“Yeah,” grunted Ira and laughed. “It’s nothing more than a thin red line, now.”
His right hand absentmindedly went to his bicep where his fingers lightly touched the
scar tissue. “Remember when that bitch, Denise, slashed my left arm in my room at
Tinsley Hall following the Bicentennial Rutgers and Princeton football game?
“Of course, I remember. Your room was right next door to mine. You were
bunking with Kenny McBride and you kept me up all night playing your music. And,
after this incident occurred, you nearly got all of us suspended,” said Canary frowning.
“Yeah, that’s right. Ha…ha…ha,” laughed Ira.
“Refresh my memory, Ira, what was the hurly-burly all about?” asked Paul.
“I’m still kind of fuzzy on what kicked her off. All I remember is that we were in
my room making out when I nonchalantly and inadvertently mentioned that she reminded
me of a girlfriend I was going with back in high school and then the next thing I knew
was that she was going bonkers on me…berserk…slashing me with her dirty little dirk,
which she had concealed somewhere on her luscious body.
“You can tell Patricia Pasternak for me that I think she hangs around with a nice
bunch of girls…yeah, a real nice bunch of girls.” He sneered and Canary detected the

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sarcasm in his raspy voice. Canary shrugged his shoulders and said nothing in reply to
Ira’s comment.
Throughout his speech, Ira was standing naked in the center of the room looking
rather conspicuous and ludicrous, and, for a moment, resembling Michelangelo’s statue
of David. The image was shattered when he walked to the corner of the garret where a
pile of clothes was lying on the floor, sorted through a few pieces of linen, found what he
was looking for, and then pulled on a pair of boxer shorts. He then ran his hand across his
face and pushed aside his curly black locks. He was handsome despite his glaring red
eyes and pallid, plaster-like complexion. “Is that better?” he said, as he looked at the
faces staring at him.
“As long as you’re not going downstairs,” said Frank. “There’s a party going on
and if you show up half naked and it gets back to Dean Crosby, we could lose our chapter
and you’d have a lot of frat brothers angry with you.”
“You’d have to leave the state,” said Paul.
“Maybe, the country,” said Canary.
“Maybe, I should join the ROTC, Bobby, and sign up for a tour in Southeast Asia,
like you’ve done,” sneered Ira.
“Don’t be a smart-ass braggadocio, Ira. If you think it’s the right thing to do, then
do it and don’t just talk about it.” Canary walked across the littered floor and looked out
the garret window. “Can you see the river from here?” He stared out the window for a
long time and then said, sadly, “No…no, you can’t. That’s too bad. This could’ve been a
decent room if you had a glimpse of the river.”
“What happened last night between you and Gwen? You two were making a hell
of a racket up here. How was the city?” asked Frank. He sat down behind Ira’s desk and
dumped paper wrappers into a wastebasket.
“Uh…” Ira groaned and he reposed on his bed, and ran his hand over his face
again. He closed his bloodshot eyes and thought for what seemed like a long time before
his mind could assemble a more cogent answer. “Actually, Gwen and I had a great time
in the city. We stopped for dinner and afterwards we attended a Broadway play.
“After the play – I think it was shortly after eleven o’clock – we were walking
along Fifth Avenue when we were stopped by a vendor selling tawdry trinkets and divers
perfumes. I was hoping that he’d be selling pretzels or skewered meats because I was
feeling a little hungry after the play. When we turned and started to walk away, he called
me back to his kiosk, and asked me if I might be interested in purchasing a bottle of alien
perfume.”
“Alien Perfume?” said Canary and now he turned away from the garret window
and looked at Ira rather curiously. In his mind, he was questioning Ira’s sanity, when he
noticed the NASA pictures that were fastened with thumbtacks to the battered closet door
and sighed sadly. One picture was a photograph of the Apollo 1 crew – Commander
Virgil I. “Gus” Grissom, Command Pilot Edward. H. White, and Pilot Roger B. Chaffee.
They were standing in the foreground, dressed in their white spacesuits with the Apollo
Command Module and the tremendous booster rockets and tower in the background.
Below this photograph was a picture of the crew dressed in blue fatigues adorned with a
circular patch of the NASA insignia. They were standing in front of a table with the U. S.
flag hugging the left border of the picture frame and resting on the tabletop was a model
of the Apollo Command Module. He remembered the day – January 27, 1967 – as if it

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was only yesterday. It was a tragedy. It was the day the Apollo 1 crew perished in a fire
in the Apollo Command Module during a preflight test at Cape Canaveral. They were
training for an earth-orbiting mission to be launched on the 21st of February.
He thought he knew Ira. He thought he was a solipsistic suburbanite from a
wealthy family consisting of doctors and lawyers, and when on campus dressed like a
rebellious and defiant hippy. But, now, he wondered if really knew Ira. Just when you
think you know someone, they do something to surprise you. He never imagined that he
might be interested in the space program.
“What the hell is alien perfume?” asked Paul and he laughed. “Perfume made
from the sweat of Martian women or from the water of Martian rivers and canals? Ha…
ha…ha…. Now, I’ve heard everything.” He opened Ira’s refrigerator, a small box, that
was tucked in one corner of the room, looked inside, wrinkled his nose, and then closed
the door. He then pulled up a chair and sat down at a small round colonial table made of
fine oak wood that had seen better days and had received better care in the past. Now, its
varnish was faded, and the flattop surface was marred by nicks and strained with circles
of dried up beer and wine.
“Something like that…of course, he was a mysterious old man with dark sunken
eyes sockets, a large beak nose, and a scraggly beard. He wouldn’t reveal how he
obtained the vial. He said he had a reliable supplier and that how it was manufactured and
acquired was a trade secret. He said, ‘If I tell you, then I’ll have to kill you.’”
“How much did you pay for it, dummy?” said Frank,
“Not much…a hundred dollars,” said Ira, as he closed his eyes and groaned. “I
know…I know…you’re going to say I was swindled…” and now he sat up on his bed and
looked at Canary, Frank, and Paul with eyes burning red as hot embers, “but I wasn’t.
That vial contained the strangest liquid I ever saw. It had a reddish hue, reminding me of
the red planet. It also emitted the strangest and most heavenly fragrance this old
proboscis had ever inhaled.”
“You actually used that vile liquid?” asked Paul.
“I didn’t, but Gwen did. When we got back to the garret, she grabbed the vial out
of my hands, twisted off the cap, and splashed a few drops on her arms and behind her
ears and along the curve of her dovelike neck. I’m certain some of the alien perfume
ended up on me, because all of a sudden I was beginning to feel strange and light-headed,
as if I had been drinking or something.
“And, its fragrance was heavenly--.”
“That’s funny,” said Frank. “How come I don’t smell anything except your socks
and dirty laundry in the corner on the floor?”
“Can you describe it for me?” asked Canary.
Ira sat on the edge of the bed thinking for a few minutes, and then he said, “It’s
impossible to describe. I can tell you that it didn’t smell like roses, or oleanders, or
bougainvilleas. It was something else…something just heavenly.”
“And the noise? Was that you and Gwen having a wild time after dousing
yourselves silly with a vile bottle of alien perfume?” asked Frank.
“I suppose it was Gwen and myself…but, I really don’t remember. After Gwen
rubbed the perfume over her body and I began to inhale her heavenly fragrance, I must’ve
passed out on the floor. The last thing I remember was that I was lying on the floor and
looking up at Gwen. She was standing over me, but it really wasn’t Gwen.”

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ALIEN PERFUME: Anthony Policastro March 18, 2010

“If it wasn’t Gwen, then who the hell was standing over you?” asked Paul.
“You’ll think I was high on something…and I was… I was high on the heavenly
fragrance of the alien perfume, which had commingled with Gwen’s natural musk. It did
something to me, because when I looked up, I no longer saw Gwen, but Sigourney
Weaver, in other words, Ripley!!!”
“You’re mad,” said Frank, “by God, I think you’re mad, off your rocker.
Whatever it is you’re taking, you better get off it quick.”
“Where’s the vial of the alien perfume, Ira? If there is anything left in the vial,
you can take it to your chemistry lab class and have it analyzed.” Paul performed a
cursory search of the garret and found nothing. “Gwen must’ve taken the alien perfume
with her. I don’t seem to be able to find the bottle.”
“She did…she took the vial with her…I gave it to her,” said Ira. “Uh…I hope she
returns tonight with whatever’s left of the alien perfume. Perhaps, if she hadn’t already
used it all, we can duplicate what we had last night.”
Now, Ira’s mind started racing wildly. “Of course, I could always hurry back to
the city, retrace my steps on Fifth Avenue, find the vendor at his kiosk, and purchase
another vial…no, ten vials…his whole supply of alien perfume. Perhaps, he’ll give me
the name of his supplier…wouldn’t it be a blast if he told me his supplier was from
Mars…ha…ha…ha…?”
“You’ve been reading too many books by Ray Bradbury, and Robert Heinlein,”
sneered Paul.
“No…no, I haven’t - not recently. But, I have to admit that when I was in high
school, I couldn’t get enough of Ray Bradbury and his novels: The Martian Chronicles
and The Illustrated Man, or Heinlein’s The Red Planet, Starship Troopers, and Strangers
in a Strange Land.”
Ira rose from the bed and walked over to the window and gazed down at the cars
on the lawn and the students loitering on the porch, drinking beer, and chatting with their
girlfriends. A full moon hung in the sky like a large clock on the wall. Then, he turned
and rummaged through the pile of clothes that littered the floor and found a faded pair of
denim jeans, a raggedy tie-dye t-shirt and a worn-out pair of brown loafers. He then went
to his small closet in the corner of the garret, reached inside, and pulled out a navy-blue
windbreaker.
He put on his jacket and was heading for the door when Canary grabbed him by
the collar, which momentarily stopped his forward motion, and looked in his dark, bleary,
rheumatic eyes. “You’re not thinking of going back to the city, are you?”
Ira looked at Canary with a fatuous grin and said, “Of course. Don’t you see, I
have to go back to the city, so I can purchase another vial of that wonderful perfume, the
wonderful alien perfume. It’s the only place you can acquire it, except on Mars.
“I’m going to change my major…no…no…I’m going to become a doctor, and
then I’ll join NASA and become an astronaut…and, maybe, I could volunteer for a
mission to Mars…visit the rivers and canals of Mars, bottle the water, and use it to make
my own version of alien perfume… I’ll patent the formula…create several lines of
perfumes…I’ll open up manufacturing plants on Earth and on Mars…throughout the
galaxy…I’ll be rich and famous…and best of all I’ll be able to conjure up Sigourney
Weaver, whenever I want to, like a genie in a bottle…just rub the lamp three times and
make a wish…”

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ALIEN PERFUME: Anthony Policastro March 18, 2010

Then, Ira, with the speed and flexibility of a snake or an eel, surreptitiously
slipped his arms from the sleeves of his windbreaker, and rushed down the steps of the
narrow hallway, leading to the second floor landing. He nimbly weaved his way through
the crowd that had gathered there, and, then, rushed down another flight of stairs that led
to the ground level, and passed a crowded drawing-room to the door, which was still
opened wide, like a gaping maw.
“Come back here, Ira,” shouted Frank, and without saying another word, Frank,
Paul, and Canary ran down the steps in pursuit of the fleeing madman.
Canary saw Ira rushing out the front door and heard him shouting boisterously,
“Gwen, wait for me! Wait for me, Gwen! I’m going to the city for another vial of alien
perfume… wait for me!” He then disappeared around the corner, heading south on
Hamilton, and east on Easton Avenue until he came to the train station, purchased a ticket
from a vending machine, and then boarded a local commuter to the city.
Canary, Paul, and Frank never made it beyond the front door, where they ran into
Gwen. She was standing at the threshold of the door when Ira had run right by her
shouting something over his shoulder. Frank stopped short in his tracks and Canary and
Paul collided with him as if they were the Three Stooges again. Canary looked at Gwen
and thought she was beautiful…thought she was more than beautiful…he thought she
was gorgeous. She was Chinese and she was petite with slender arms and legs, and long,
black, silky hair, that hung to her waist, and almond-shaped eyes of green above a small,
delicate nose. When she saw Frank a delightful smile blossomed upon her countenance.
“Ira is such an impetuous young man, Frank, he’s just out of this world,” said
Gwen.
“Hello, Gwen,” said Frank suddenly feeling shy and embarrassed. “Glad you
could make the party. It might be a while before Ira gets back, why don’t you have a draft
of beer and make yourself comfortable?”
“Thanks, Frank.” She smiled and entered the drawing room where the band was
playing Traces of Love, and where the frat brothers and their dates where hugging one
another and dancing slowly to the music.
They watched her saunter into the drawing room, and then Frank turned to Canary
and Paul. “Well, Ira seems to be fine and back to himself again. I guess it was a false
alarm. I hope I didn’t ruin your evening. Why don’t you hang out here with Gwen for a
while…have a few beers and listen to the music…maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll meet a
chick…and --.”
Paul nudged Canary and nodded with his head in the direction of the drawing
room and the dance floor, “Bobby, isn’t that Patricia and her girlfriends? I guess the
movie’s over. I didn’t know Moscow could burn so quickly.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Frank, his voice filled with astonishment and wonder, “that’s
Patricia and her girlfriends, and she’s dancing with Ray Stoll, he’s the current president
of our chapter.”
“I hope he knows what he doing,” interjected Paul.
“I thought you and Patricia were dating,” said Frank. “I’m flummoxed.”
“No…obviously, we’re not dating,” replied Canary.
“Ray’s an okay guy. I only hope he doesn’t get hurt,” said Frank, and then he
added, “You guys wanna beer?”

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ALIEN PERFUME: Anthony Policastro March 18, 2010

Canary scowled and shook his head. “Thanks, Frank, but I’ll pass on the beer. I
think I’ll just return to Hardenbergh and call it a night.”
“Suit yourself, buddy,” said Frank. “How about you, Paul, wanna a beer?”
“Maybe, next time, Frank. I better go along with Bobby, just in case he decides to
throw himself into the Raritan. At least, I’ll be there to drag him out and save his sorry
ass.”
“All right, guys…thanks for helping me get Ira out of his garret…I had no idea
what he was planning or what he might do…thanks again,” said Frank, as he walked
Canary and Paul to the door and out onto the porch, where he drank a draft of beer and
watched them meander along Union Street toward Mine and back to College Avenue.
They took Bishop Place to George Street and walked along George, which gave Canary a
spectacular view of the Raritan and the three dormitories on the banks of the river –
Frelinghuysen, Hardenbergh, and Campbell.
The mixer in the lobby at Hardenbergh was in full swing, but Canary wasn’t in
the mood to party for the sake of partying. He was thinking about Patricia and wondered
if she had followed him to Frank and Ira’s frat house. He thought that was a ridiculous
assumption, and then he took the stairs to the third floor, opened the door of his room,
and went inside. He turned on his desk lamp, pushed his chair to the window, as he had
done earlier in the afternoon, and stared out the window, meditating and watching the
river and the currents moving swiftly along its banks. He stood that way for a long time,
before reciting aloud the last stanza of Langston Hughes’s poem.

“I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.

I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to
New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the
sunset.
I’ve known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.”

The river and the poem seemed to have a hypnotic effect upon him, soothing his
raw nerves and transporting him into a state of peace and tranquility. Paul frowned when
he came up from the lobby with two draft beers and saw Canary at the window. He gave
him one of the drafts and watched him drink it as if it was soda pop.
When he had finished, Canary rose from his chair, and bunged the paper cup into
the wastebasket that stood next to his desk. He then turned off the desk lamp, stripped to
his shorts, and crawled into bed.
Paul retired as well and after a few minutes, he uttered from across the room, his
voice traveling through the darkness, “When are you going to stop pining after Pat?”
There was silence.
“You said you did nothing to Patricia and yet she’s angry with you. Bobby, you
had to have done something, what was it?”
After a long silence, Canary uttered in disgust, “I made a mistake, all right? I
made a stupid mistake.”

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ALIEN PERFUME: Anthony Policastro March 18, 2010

“Well, I’m certain it’s not the first mistake you’ve ever made in your life and I
sure it won’t be the last,” said Paul. “You know it won’t do you any good brooding over
her and thinking about her, day and night. You should start paying more attention to your
--.”
“I know…I know…you’re right…I should pay more attention to my studies.
Now, shut up and let a fellow get some sleep.”
Silence had returned to the darkened room and they fell asleep, while the mixer in
the lobby continued in full swing, while, across town, on fraternity row, Gwen became
acquainted with Patricia Pasternak, Denise Duveneck, Susan Crane, and Judy Robinson –
the four girls who drove around campus in a Volvo - at Ira and Frank’s frat party, and
while Ira, bleary-eyed and exhausted, stared through a cracked window on a local
commuter train at the fleeting dark landscape and the houses with their dim lights shining
warmly through gossamer curtains and opened windows, and thought about the city, and
the vendor on Fifth Avenue who was selling little bottles of a vile liquid that was none
other than the mysterious and heavenly alien perfume.

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