Too Old Spice - Just a Dab Will Do

 

The Expiration Date

Gerald Pemberton had been using the same bottle of Old Spice aftershave since 1987. He knew this because he'd written the date on a piece of masking tape stuck to the bottom, right next to his social security number and the combination to his gym locker (which had been closed since the Clinton administration).

The bottle sat on his bathroom counter like a proud sentinel, its contents having evolved from the original amber liquid into something that resembled maple syrup and smelled like a retirement home's idea of rebellion. Gerald didn't mind. He was a creature of habit, and this particular creature had been splashing the same cologne on his cheeks for thirty-six years.

"Still got some kick left in you, don't you, old boy?" Gerald would say each morning, giving the bottle an affectionate pat before applying what could generously be called "aftershave" but might more accurately be described as "vintage face lacquer."

The trouble began when Gerald's nephew visited for Thanksgiving. Kevin was twenty-two, worked in "digital marketing" (whatever that meant), and had the audacity to suggest that Gerald might want to "update his grooming routine."

"Uncle Gerry," Kevin said, eyeing the bathroom counter with the expression of someone discovering a dead raccoon, "when did you last buy aftershave?"

"I don't buy aftershave," Gerald replied proudly. "I have aftershave. Right there. Still plenty left."

Kevin picked up the bottle and squinted at it. The liquid inside had separated into distinct geological layers, like sedimentary rock made of cologne. "This expired during the Bush administration."

"Which Bush?"

"The first one."

Gerald waved dismissively. "Expiration dates are just suggestions. Like speed limits and serving sizes."

But Kevin's words had planted a seed of doubt. That evening, Gerald found himself really looking at his trusty bottle. The label had faded to the point where "Old Spice" looked more like "Ond Splice." The liquid had developed what could only be described as "chunks." When he shook it, it sounded less like aftershave and more like a maraca filled with pebbles.

Still, tradition was tradition. Gerald continued his morning ritual.

The next week, strange things began to happen. Gerald's mail carrier started leaving packages at the neighbor's house instead of approaching his front door. His barber kept finding excuses to step outside for "fresh air" during their appointments. Even his cat, Mr. Whiskers—a creature that regularly rolled in garbage—had taken to sleeping in the garage.

The final straw came during his weekly coffee date with Mildred Henshaw, a widow from his book club who had been dropping increasingly obvious hints about wanting to "spend more time together." They were sitting in their usual booth at Denny's when Mildred suddenly grabbed her chest.

"Are you having a heart attack?" Gerald asked, half-rising from his seat.

"No," Mildred gasped, "but I think my nose is. Gerald, honey, what in Sam Hill are you wearing?"

Gerald touched his cheek self-consciously. "Same thing I always wear. Old Spice. Classic scent."

"That's not Old Spice," Mildred said, sliding toward the wall. "That's Old Spite. It smells like someone soaked a Christmas tree in pickle juice and then set it on fire."

That afternoon, Gerald stood in the aftershave aisle of the local pharmacy, feeling like a traitor. He picked up a new bottle of Old Spice—the packaging looked completely different now, all modern and sleek—and read the ingredients. Half of them he couldn't pronounce, but none of them included "aged essence of bathroom cabinet" or "vintage regret," which he was pretty sure were the dominant notes in his current bottle.

At home, he performed a ceremonial changing of the guard. The old bottle went into the medicine cabinet's hall of fame, next to his reading glasses from 1994 and a tube of Bengay that had achieved the consistency of cement.

The first splash of fresh aftershave was a revelation. It actually smelled like something a human might want to wear, rather than something a human might use to strip paint.

Within days, the mail carrier resumed normal deliveries. His barber stopped hyperventilating. Mr. Whiskers moved back into the house, though he still gave Gerald's bathroom a wide berth.

And Mildred? Well, Mildred suggested they skip coffee next week and go straight to dinner.

As Gerald got ready for their date, he caught sight of his old bottle in the medicine cabinet. He gave it a small salute.

"Thanks for your service, old friend," he said. "But I think it's time I stopped living in the past."

The old bottle sat silently on the shelf, its mysterious contents continuing their slow transformation into whatever comes after aftershave in the great circle of bathroom products. Some say if you listen carefully on quiet nights, you can still hear it plotting its comeback, waiting for the day when vintage grooming products become fashionable again.

But Gerald wasn't listening anymore. He had a date to get to, and for the first time in decades, he smelled like someone Mildred might actually want to sit next to.