by Gary Urey
“Can you smell Strange, little guy?” I whispered. “I bet if you talked, you’d tell me the secret.”
The ear-piercing screech of a wild-haired golden lion tamarin shattered our bond. The anteater flicked its tongue one last time and then scurried out of sight behind a big rock. I moved out of the Tropic Zone and headed for the Sea Lion Pool. A trio of seals swam, splashed, and sunned themselves on rocks. A bunch of little kids made barking sounds, trying to get the seals to answer back.
Temperate Territory, the next exhibit, was filled with snow monkeys, snow leopards, red pandas, turtles, and big, white wading birds. The highlight here was the salty, ammonia tang of snow leopard pee. The unique urine odor of this elusive cat native to the Himalayan Mountains was fresh and new. I quickly added it to my mental scent dictionary.
I breezed through the Polar Zone (the penguins and puffins were kind of boring) and entered the final exhibit called Camels—Ships of the Desert. The first type I saw was an Arabian camel, also known as a dromedary because it only has one hump. A sign posted on the fence warned that camels were notorious for spitting at zoo patrons, so be aware. I had never smelled camel spit before and was actually hoping one would expectorate in my direction. Today wasn’t my lucky day, however, because the animals were all too busy munching on dried hay and small brown pellets to notice me.
A tired-looking mother pushing a baby carriage with one hand and clutching a toddler with the other strolled up beside me.
“Mommy, want ride camel,” the toddler garbled.
A zoo attendant, who was inside the enclosure scattering food for the camels to eat, wandered over to us. “Camel rides are on the main lawn from noon to three p.m.,” she explained. “Cost is ten dollars a ride including photos. You can purchase tickets inside the gift shop.”
The mother said thanks and walked away. The attendant went back to her work of feeding and watering the animals.
I moved farther down the fence and came to another type of camel called a Bactrian, native to the Gobi Desert in Mongolia. There was only one, and it was a lot hairier than the Arabian type and had two humps instead of one. I was about to head toward the Dancing Crane Café for a bite to eat when I noticed a smell—or a lack of smell, to be more precise.
The overpowering potpourri of Strange was fading away, but the single, earthy, vanilla-like ingredient inside the perfume was fuming hard and heavy inside my nostrils. I squeezed my schnozola between the fence’s metal gates and sniffed deeply. There was no mistaking it—the secret ingredient of Strange was drifting inside the Bactrian camel enclosure!
I had to get inside and investigate. But how could I do it? The fence was at least ten feet high. Plus, the zoo attendant was still wandering around. The sudden urge to eat some candy came over me. I was reaching into my pocket for a piece when a sudden gust of wind swept through my hair. My nostrils inflated and my toes lifted off the ground.
“I’m flying,” I said with a grin, and then floated gently over the fence and landed quietly next to a watering trough.
The attendant was a few feet away with her back to me, completely unaware of my presence. However, the huge Bactrian camel noticed me right away. It hoofed over, gave me a quick sniff, and then let loose a wad of frothing camel spit right in my face.
“Ugh!” I yelped, wiping camel saliva out of my eyes. “Be careful what you wish for! This thing just sprayed a goober all over me!”
The attendant spun around. “What are you doing in here? Animal enclosures are off-limits to visitors!” She yanked a walkie-talkie from her utility belt. “Security! This is Emma down with the camels. A boy with a huge nose just hopped the fence. Get here right away!”
Just then the spitting camel’s bowels opened up and steamy clumps of brown dung balls plopped on the ground. The smell was unmistakable. The secret of Strange was inside the poop of a Bactrian camel!
CHAPTER 16
HUMPHREY
“I’m going to be a millionaire!” I snorted with glee.
“You’re going to be arrested and fined,” the zoo attendant growled at me. “Security is on the way.”
I ignored her while my mental scent dictionary quickly broke down camel’s waste product. There was a rich array of minerals, carbon, nitrogen, hydrogen, oxygen, and phosphorous. A few sniffs later, I had completely figured how Bactrian camel dung produced an intoxicating vanilla essence.
“Scientists first separate the chemicals in the dung and then process the different aromas at high heat and pressure. Presto! The end product is completely natural and an amazing alternative to synthetic vanillin!”
“What in the world are you mumbling about?” the zoo attendant said.
With the thrill of finally sniffing out the secret of Strange, I had totally forgotten that I had illegally entered the camel enclosure. My nostrils flared, hoping for a gust of wind to carry me to safety. There was nothing. The once-strong breeze was now a gentle whisper.
Three zoo security guards wearing badges and carrying nightsticks burst through a heavy metal door. The first guard was tall and skinny. The second one was short and plump, and the third guy looked like he was about eighty years old.
The zoo attendant pointed at me. “He’s the one!”
I frantically searched my pockets for a bottle of cayenne pepper, hoping a little sniff could propel me back over the fence. Or at the very least, I could use it to give the guards a peppery sneeze while I made my escape. My heart sunk into my stomach. The only items I found were a half-eaten pack of Sour Patch Kids and a palm full of sticky lint.
A loud grunting sound blasted in my ears. I turned around and saw the hairy Bactrian camel that had hockered on me. The thing was a huge male, standing at least seven feet tall. He calmly chewed on his cud while simultaneously spraying more loads of Strange-scented poop out of his butt. That’s when the idea hit me. Without a second to lose, I leaped onto the camel and landed right between his two fuzzy humps.
“Giddy up!” I shouted, poking his ribs with my heels like I had seen cowboys do in the movies.
The camel didn’t budge.
The tall guard burst out laughing. “That ain’t no horsey, little boy.”
“Camel rides start at noon on the main lawn,” chimed in the plump one. “Get your tickets in the gift shop.”
“Pictures included!” The old guy guffawed through a set of pearly white false teeth.
“Quit fooling around!” the zoo attendant ordered. “Get that kid off Humphrey before he gets hurt.”
Humphrey must have been the camel’s name. What came next made me promise to give Humphrey a big, wet kiss after this was all over. As the three guards closed in on me, Humphrey’s cheeks bulged like a giant prehistoric chipmunk. The camel then took aim and fired three rounds of gloppy, frothy spit right in their faces.
“Gross!” the plump guard cried.
“I just had my uniform dry cleaned, and now it’s ruined!” shouted the old guy.
The zoo attendant grabbed a hunk of braided rope off the ground. She quickly tied it into a lasso. “Come off that camel this instant or I’ll rope you like a suckling calf,” she threatened.
“Open the gate, and I’ll leave,” I fired back. “No questions asked.”
“You ain’t going anywhere,” the tall guard barked, his angry face still dripping with camel saliva. “You broke park rules. You’re paying a hefty fine and then heading to juvie jail.”
The word “jail” sent shivers down my nose. I could see the scenario play out in my head: Dr. Wackjöb paying my fine and then having to tell my parents that I was in juvie jail for breaking into a camel enclosure at the Central Park Zoo. After my prison stint, my parents would probably ground me for a year!
A loud Jeep painted to look like a tiger wheeled up to the camel exhibit. Two more security guards hopped out and made their way in my direction. As the Jeep sat idling, its exhaust backfired like a shotgun blast.
Humphrey went crazy.
With me still on his back, the
camel stampeded through the enclosure. I grabbed a fistful of Humphrey’s coarse hump hair and held on for dear life. We dashed past a bunch of Arabian camels munching on hay. They charged right along with us. Over a dozen crazed camels were now racing straight for the enclosure’s wrought-iron fence. If Humphrey didn’t put on the brakes soon, the collision was not going to be pretty.
I closed my eyes and awaited impact. At the last second, I felt Humphrey lurch to the left. And that’s when I went flying off his back. Like a fighter pilot forced to use an ejection seat, I vaulted over the enclosure’s fence and landed nose first in front of a food cart selling Italian sausages.
“That was freaking awesome!” the guy behind the cart gushed. “I’ll give you ten bucks to do it again.”
“Offer me a million and then we’ll talk,” I said, wiping dirt off my honker.
“I’ll give you sixty days in the slammer!” a familiar voice hollered from behind me.
I turned and saw the tall security guard, his pink face still glazed with camel spit. The guard pulled out a pair of handcuffs and lunged at me. I countered his attack by stabbing my nose hard into his belly. The guard cried out in pain, grabbed his stomach, and then crumbled to the ground.
The other guards rushed toward me. I kept them at bay by using my nose like a sword, slashing at them like an extra from a bad gladiator movie. Just as they were about to overtake me, Humphrey let out a loud grunt. He was staring at me through the fence with his big, sad camel eyes. He then turned around, pressed his butt pressed against the fence, and poured out globs of poop.
That was my cue.
I fought my way to the fence, scooped up two big fistfuls of Humphrey’s million-dollar bum brownies, and sprinted as fast as I could back to the Boathouse.
CHAPTER 17
CHAMEAU MERDE
I was a wanted kid.
An ANB—All Nose Bulletin—went out for me. Every police officer assigned to Central Park was looking for me. Park-goers cleared out of my way as I hurried down the paths leading to the Boathouse. Swarms of flies, hungry for the clumps of poop in my hands, buzzed my head as I ran. After a close call with two of New York’s finest, I finally arrived at the restaurant.
The hostess at the Boathouse refused to allow me inside.
“I told you,” I pleaded with her. “I’m with Pierre du Voleur. He rented a private room off the dining terrace.”
“Leave here immediately before I call the police,” the hostess said, holding her nose. “This is not a soup kitchen. You look and smell disgusting.”
“I am not a homeless person! I am Pierre du Voleur’s guest at this restaurant!”
“Let him in,” a familiar French voice said from behind me.
I turned and saw Pierre. He was glaring at me, his temple vein throbbing and his face as red as a cherry-flavored Sour Patch Kid.
“But Mr. du Voleur—” the hostess protested.
“The boy is telling the truth,” Pierre said. “He is my guest. Show him to the toilette so he can clean himself.”
“Very well, sir,” the hostess said and then reluctantly led me to the restroom.
I locked the door and stared at myself in the mirror. The hostess was right. I looked a mess. My nose was dirty; my jacket and jeans were ripped from flying head first out of the camel enclosure, and fresh hunks of camel dookie were dripping from my hands. However, I took offense at her telling me I smelled bad. What I carried in my hands was one of my most exciting fragrance discoveries since the Gates of Smell and Dr. Wackjöb’s hákarl.
After carefully wrapping the camel poop in layers of paper towel, I scrubbed my nose and hands. My jacket and jeans still had big tears in them, but at least I wasn’t dirty anymore. I opened the restroom door and saw Arnaud waiting for me.
“I hope for your sake, le Nez,” Arnaud said ominously, “that whatever is wrapped inside that serviette en papier is what Monsieur du Voleur so desperately desires.” He then grabbed me by the elbow and tugged me back to our private room.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t crush you like an insecte right now!” Pierre barked in my face.
“Because of this,” I said, and then laid the poop wrapped in paper towels on the table.
“You filthy pig!” Pierre roared. “Get this excrément away from me!”
Arnaud attempted to grab the camel caca from the table, but I stopped him. “Don’t touch it!” I hollered. “This is Bactrian camel dung. It’s the secret of Strange! Jean Paul Puanteur uses it to make the subtle, vanilla-like scent that drives people crazy. But in a good way!”
“You have insulted Monsieur du Voleur for the last time,” Arnaud said. “You will pay a heavy price for—”
Pierre raised his hand, cutting Arnaud off in mid-sentence. “Let le Nez speak. I want to hear more.”
I told him everything. Running to the Central Park Zoo after I couldn’t figure out the smell, illegally entering the camel enclosure, and finally figuring out that the Bactrian camel’s backdoor bricks were the elusive last ingredient that made Strange the world’s greatest perfume.
“I am confused,” Pierre said, scratching his head. “How does Jean Paul turn common chameau merde into a powerful ingredient that smells like vanilla?”
“What’s chameau merde?” I asked.
“Camel droppings,” Arnaud answered.
“The main chemical compounds of camel poop are carbon, nitrogen, hydrogen, oxygen, phosphorous, and various other minerals,” I explained. “Jean Paul must use a machine of some kind to separate the different chemicals.”
“He most certainly uses a centrifugal separator,” Pierre added.
I nodded. “You would know better than me. Anyway, he splits up the chemicals and then processes their different aromas at a very high heat with lots of pressure. What he ends up with is a natural, pleasing, and spectacular vanilla-like fragrance. The man’s a genius. He actually created a brand-new smell!”
Pierre held his hands over his face in disbelief. “I should have known! Human beings have used various forms of merde to make fragrances for centuries. It was common from Roman times all the way to Napoléon III.”
“Jean Paul claims he uses only natural ingredients for his fragrances,” I said. “You can’t get much more natural than good old-fashioned poop. I read a sign at the zoo that says the wild Bactrian camel is only found in Mongolia.”
“This will be bigger than the fortune you made off of the Venezuelan bloated toad,” Arnaud said. “I will call your private jet and put them on standby. We can assemble our men and fly to Mongolia immediately.”
I was just about to ask what a toad had to do with anything when a Boathouse server entered the room. He carried a platter of food with one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
“Just in time,” I said. “I’m starving!”
I reached to grab a hunk of cheese and Pierre slapped my hand.
“Get away from my déjeuner!” he snapped. “Your work with me is fini, ended, over. Leave immediately.”
“When will I get my million dollars?”
Arnaud laughed. “I don’t remember you signing a contract for anything.”
“But you told me I couldn’t sign the contract until I figured out all the ingredients in Strange. Well, I figured it out, and now I’m ready to sign. I want to be a nez professionnel!”
“You will never be a nez professionnel, and you will not receive payment,” Pierre said coldly. “I told you to get out!”
I couldn’t believe this was happening. A camel had nearly killed me and the cops had almost arrested me—all to get Pierre the secret ingredient. Now he was trying to cheat me out of my money!
“Not until you pay me!” I yelled.
“Call the police!” Pierre shouted to Arnaud.
Arnaud whipped out his cell phone. “Hello, 911? The boy wanted for causing a disturbance at the Central Park Zoo this morning is now attempting to rob patrons at the Boathouse restaurant on the lake. Please, hurry!”
“You’re lying!” I cried. “You pulled the poop over my eyes and used my nose just to get the ingredient!”
Police sirens wailed in the distance. They were coming for me. I grabbed a fistful of cheese from the platter, angrily hurled the chunks at Pierre and Arnaud, and then fled the restaurant.
CHAPTER 18
SUPER-VILLAIN
I was so furious that my nose spewed red-hot snot bubbles. How could I have been so stupid? Pierre du Voleur had just been using my gift of smell the whole time. All he wanted was the secret of Strange, and I’d handed it to him on a poopy paper towel filled with camel dung.
Jean Paul Puanteur was right.
Pierre was nothing but a thief and an untalented insecte.
Two New York City policemen on horseback galloped toward me. I dove into the bushes and watched them pass. They were heading straight for the Boathouse. Soon, the whole place was swarming with men in blue. The cops would bust me for sure if I didn’t get out of the park right away.
A familiar scent drifted in the wind, and it wasn’t Strange. Novelty fart spray from an aerosol can. Vivian, the Not-Right Brothers, and Dr. Wackjöb were signaling me! I leaped from my hiding place and dodged the police as I made my way down the busy New York streets. My nose followed the fake flatulence like a bloodhound. I sniffed over twenty blocks until I came to the same building where I had landed the gondola when we first arrived in New York.
After running up twenty flights of stairs, I pushed open the heavy metal door and stepped onto the roof. What I saw made my nostrils bug out of my nose.
“Jean Paul Puanteur,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
The master perfumer, the legendary creator of Strange, was standing less than five yards from me. He was still wearing a black tuxedo with bright red Converse sneakers. Directly behind him were Vivian, the Not-Right Brothers, and Dr. Wackjöb.
Mumps shot a blast of fart spray into the air. “Nothing attracts Schnoz like a funky butt explosion,” he said.
“Thank goodness you made it,” Vivian said. “We were so worried about you.”
