I wanted money, a bank statement straining with commasI'd never get in the fields with my father and his father.We slapped green tobacco leaves beneath our armsuntil our shirts soaked through with dew. We smelledlike sweat, like DEET, like diesel from the Kubotaand its unrushed putter. I wanted to becomesomething faster than that tractor, to smell like the goldbales in the downtown RJ Reynolds warehouse.Driving by, my father and I cranked the truck's windowsopen and let the warm air ooze in, filling the cabwith a perfume of vanilla, of leather, of honey.That breeze, we knew, was the smell of money.
Matt Poindexter (Fri,) studied this question.