My shoes have the peculiar smell of stale popcorn, remnants of a movie theater concession stand job I held over winter break during my sophomore year. Every Tuesday, after clearing the trash, I'd slip behind the candy counter, where a hidden stash of stale kernels would accumulate in the ventilation unit. It was there I discovered my affinity for 1980s elevator jazz – someone left a dusty CD player behind, and its speakers seemed to materialize from my memories of walking to music practice. Now, every time I wear those scuffed-up shoes, it's as if the scent awakens the sounds of that elevator music, swirling me back to Tuesday nights, alone, beneath that creaking ventilation system.
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