The President of the local chapter of the They Might Be Giants fan club?

Miss Edith, as you might imagine, every now and then finds herself in the heart of her beloved city, and she takes pleasure in checking out her fellow carbon based life forms, most of the time. Some of the time they’re just appalling, to be honest, and it’s all she can do to not go home and weep into her Martini pitcher. (You don’t need olives if you’ve got tears – isn’t that right, Mr. Lecter?)But often someone just makes my heart sing -- a charming hat; a particularly well-trimmed sideburn. It's the little things, you know.
Today I found myself waiting for a street light to change in my favor on Whitney Avenue. Whitney Avenue is one of those streets – like, say, Broadway in Manhattan – where, basically, if you spend any time around here, you will spend time being spotted there. (Chapel Street and Broadway are also excellent “see and be seen” streets in this fair Elm City. The stories Miss Edith could tell…)
So I’m standing there in my snappy Mary Janes, waiting for the light, when I notice a young man schlumping along in my direction – not toward me specifically, just in my general direction. He had the mien of one of those sad, sad characters who don’t have nearly enough friends. The kind of person who, when I was in college, would have taken Mystery Science Theatre 3000 waaaaaay too seriously. (And I say that as someone who genuinely enjoyed MST3K.) The kind of person who games – I mean, plays role playing games, and uses “game” as a verb. The kind of person to whom the letters "SCA" mean something really cool. This is the sort of person I should be paid to make fun of, not because that’s a nice way to spend time, but because I’m just so gosh-darn good at it.
The young man was wearing ill-fitting jeans (natch) which went with his unkempt, ill-cut hair; his t-shirt was neatly tucked into his jeans, and over this ensemble he wore a loose flannel shirt. (I know we’re in New England, but it is mid-June; no one needs flannel shirts right now.) He was smoking a cigarette. I thought, “Huh, that’s not what I’d expect.” Most of the kind of geeks I associate with this physical type are too… too… nice to be smokers. Not that smokers are unkind people (though often they are, and professionally so), but… well, let’s just say I was surprised, and leave it at that.
The young man walked past me, and I was able to see that his t-shirt bore an emblem that read They Might Be Giants. Now, at this point, I began to feel bad: Notarius and I count ourselves as fans of They Might Be Giants (spit if you will), and I was saddened to think that I’d been entertaining myself by being snarky about someone who, to be fair, I might easily chat with happily at a They Might Be Giants show. For all I know, this guy’s got a sharp wit, and unguessed-at gifts along the lines of, oh, cabinetry or something. Maybe he writes brilliantly funny essays and I ought to be nice to him because someday he and I will find ourselves at a cocktail party and rely on each other for conversational comfort because everyone else is such a patent asshole. You never know.
So I revised my estimation. I thought, “All right, bad jeans, bad haircut, but probably a nice enough guy.”
And then I sniffed the air. The cigarette the young man was smoking had emitted just enough smoke to hit Edith’s twitchy little nose. And my little nose, my schnozzette, was shocked to realize what I was smelling. That young man’s cigarette?

Cloves.

I returned to my original snotty position, and I stand by it.