Hollifield: On the road, powder-fresh and sweat-free

Should I sweat like a mule or smell like a woman?
A man on the road has to make tough decisions.
I woke up in a motel outside Baltimore after a blistering day taking in the sights in Washington, D.C. ("If you look to your right, ladies and gentlemen, you can see a congressman snapping nude photos of himself to post on the Internet.")
Soon, our party would climb back into a 16-passenger van and motor on to New York City, where Central Park squirrels were reportedly bursting into flames from the heat wave gripping much of the nation.
I showered away the D.C. grime and dug through my suitcase for antiperspirant. I quickly realized it was sitting on our bathroom counter 500 miles south in close proximity to my wife, who could not make the trip due to work obligations. Usually, when we are traveling and I forget something, I can blame her.
"Why didn’t you remind me to bring my gun? Now I can’t do anything but yell at the guy who cut us off."
This was all on me.
Luckily, there was a truck stop beside the Denny’s beside our motel.
And, yeah, that’s the upscale way I roll when I’m on the road.
To be more precise, this establishment was a "travel plaza." It had the same hotdogs glowing under heat lamps and 18-wheelers idling in the parking lot as most truck stops I’ve frequented. What I didn’t see was a rack of David Allan Coe and the Charlie Daniels $5 cassette tapes. Maybe that’s what made it a travel plaza and not a truck stop.
I found the aisle of personal hygiene products. It was to the left of the beef jerky and two rows down from the motor oil. And, from the nearly empty shelf, it appeared that every male trucker and most female truckers on the eastern seaboard had also left their antiperspirant sitting on the bathroom counter back home. All that was left was a lone, blue wide stick of the product that claims to be strong enough for a man but made for a woman.
It was decision time. A bead of sweat ran down my ribcage.
What the heck, I thought. I’m secure enough in my manhood to smell "Powder Fresh" until I can lather on some "Pure Sport" or "Xtreme Blast." For my traveling companions, I figured it was preferable to "Mule Stench." (Note to Old Spice: I’ve already trademarked that fragrance.)
I was, though, a tad self conscious taking something strong enough for a man but made for a woman to the counter where the truckers were settling up for go-go juice and buying a few groceries to put down their necks. (Yes, I did just steal dialogue directly from "Smokey and the Bandit.")
I had a story ready in case I was confronted: "Yep, hauling a load of nitro up Syracuse way. Got the missus with me on this run. She’s back in the truck. Didn’t want to come in on account of she’s Miss Peterbilt 2008 and she didn’t want to sign any autographs. But doncha know that she went and forgot her goldurn antiperspirant. I said, ‘Honey, don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’ll go in and get you something strong enough for a man but made for a woman who is smoking hot."
No one confronted me.
Back in the van, I was powder fresh and dry as a Baptist church social. We hit Delaware and Jersey and made it into the big city for a few days. I stuck with my powder fresh scent the whole time. I didn’t sweat like a mule, but I did have a strange desire to shop for handbags.
Scott Hollifield is editor/GM of The McDowell News in Marion, N.C.