King's Eye Land: Fighting used car smell traumatic

There was a point during the last year or so when I found myself so disenchanted with my old car, I wanted it dead.

As a gesture of my ill will toward the infernal machine, I stopped getting oil changes. I thought neglect could ruin the car. I thought I could kill it. Alas, that only made the car stronger.

I even stopped washing the car. At one point, I went three years without a car wash, just allowing nature's elements and bird droppings to weather my car into oblivion. I thought it would fall apart. Alas, it only held together better.

Sometimes we just have to let these things go and move on.

After a year-long search for a different car and the lifelong search for actual money needed to purchase one, I found both thanks to the keen, discerning eyes of my dad, who raids junkyards all the time.

Sure, there were catches - there are always catches with used cars. I noticed one right away. I call it "The Smell."

I could only describe The Smell as "wet dog mildew," which, I have determined, will also be my punk band's name, should I ever start one.

Have you ever smelled wet dog mildew? If you go around smelling wet dogs, you've probably smelled the interior of my car the day I bought it.

In a word, The Smell was overpowering. I could roll the windows down and smell it across a parking lot.

Taking the feeble advice of a few friends, I attacked The Smell, using three bottles of Febreze, a bottle of Lysol and three different types of car air freshener.

The Smell lived on.

I attacked the car with industrial-strength mildew killer in hand. I scrubbed and killed and cried humongous fume-enhanced tears and in the end, I failed again.

The Smell lived on.

Finally, I resorted to an entire box of Arm & Hammer carpet cleaning powder, which I sprinkled hither and thither until my car's interior looked like a drug heist gone terribly wrong.

I left the car to bake in the sun and returned with a vengeance and a vacuum. I swept and cried and sweated and screamed and cursed until neither Arm nor Hammer remained.

Then, I backed away, vacuum nozzle in hand, like a brave soldier returning from sweeping his car out. Sniffing closely, I could only detect the odor of a spring garden. I had emerged victorious over The Smell and could only slump to my knees and sob as the horror of war caught up with me.

Alas, wet dog mildew remained in my nasal cavities for days - a lingering reminder of the unfortunate, but potent dog who had apparently made the interior of my car its home.

People ask what keeps soldiers going in battle. Some read love letters over and over. Some look at pictures. Some think of their families, or of their favorite memories.

Through it all, I just kept thinking, "Even smelly, it's better than my old car."