I Smell Like S’Mores

I just typed an eloquent post about today’s festivities before Katie’s dog Buddy managed to close the window with his little paws. Further proof that animals do not belong indoors. (But impressive that he managed the apple+w keystroke while quickly traipsing across the laptop).

Let’s continue. (Or, in your case, let’s begin). There are a number of things that one might expect to see when exiting the dinner destination of choice in Auburn, Alabama. Khaki-clad college boys. Layered tank top ladies. Lots of things painted orange.

Or maybe your truck on fire.

Wait, I should back up a few steps to build the tension. I came to Atlanta today to see my friend Sarah, who I hadn’t talked to face to face in months, and then to pick my friend Katie up from the airport and deliver her safely to Auburn. Mission(s) accomplished. Once we hit Auburn is where it gets a bit squirrely. Our dinner destination of choice was the always great in any state Mellow Mushroom Pizza. Good food and conversation ensued, as well as semi-decipherable chatting with the three year old girl at the table next to us and her stuffed animal (that somewhat resembled a skunk. Don’t ask. It’s Alabama… that’s all you need to know).

As we exited Mellow Mushroom for a short walk around quaint downtown Auburn, I see my Honda Passport in the distance and realize that the inside is COMPLETELY FULL OF SMOKE and the white puffy stuff is billowing out of the slightly open driver side window. Minor freak out. Katie managed something along the lines of, “Um… I think your car is on fire” in that amazing interrogative tone that attaches invisible question marks to the ends of sentences. 

The following events occurred more or less in the order in which they’re described. I opened the passenger side door and immediately started choking while simultaneously going blind. I then stumbled my way to the driver side door and, having learned my lesson, closed my eyes and held my breath while opening that door and fumbling for the hood release. Surely the smoke is coming from the engine, right? (This is the way someone thinks when they’ve owned an Isuzu Trooper that has blown up on more than one occasion). I pop the hood and… nothing. Welcome to the non-smoking section. The fire isn’t engine-related at all.

“Should I call the fire department?” What the heck is burning? I check under the mats, in the glove box… “Joshua, do you want me to call the fire department?” Something is still on fire. Maybe in the back seat? Nothing… “Joshua…“

And as I open the back tailgate, there it is… a smoldering, smoking, charred TOWEL. Not just any towel, either… one of my favorite towels… ON FIRE. IN MY TRUCK. I toss it out in the street where a crowd of curious onlookers has started to mingle and Katie heads for a nearby bar to procure some water. I stomp out the offending towel as much as possible in my flip flops and turn to see her crossing the street with a pitcher full of water (quite the amazing scene) which she proceeds to empty on the still smoking towel. And thus we narrowly avert disaster. The end.

I figure there are two options. Either someone tossed a cigarette into my open window and it miraculously landed on said towel… or said towel SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUSTED IN THE MIDDLE OF ALABAMA. I vote for option two, as it somehow makes more sense. I have pictures of the entire thing, so i’ll post them on Flickr when I get back home. 

We smell like s’mores and campfire. My truck now has a large charred area in the back and the overall olfactory experience of riding with me will never be the same. Welcome to Alabama.