It now smells "not as bad," which is three steps up from "Check your shoes, I think someone stepped in something -- oh, wait, no, that's just the car"

I like to keep items of meaning. Items I'm not done with. Items I'd like to get around to using. Items that look good. Smell good. Are useful.

Dave likes to keep items. Period. Just items.

I was unprepared for June 11th. So sue, I was caught off-guard; it's a fake anniversary of a fake event, so I didn't think I'd actually need to have something to give.

And, OK, what follows also has a little to do with my hiding from Dave, who was carrying 25-lbs. bags of stone to the back yard and was soon to yell "Hey, can you come'mere for a second?"

I decided the nicest gift I could give him would be my gift of obsessive compulsive cleanliness.

Yes. I cleaned out his car.

Wait. Make that read "I gutted his car."

Because that's what it felt like. In the 90-some degree heat, I stepped out onto the driveway, an empty plastic grocery bag in one hand, and a cloth "keep" bag in the other. I got in his grimy Cavalier and went to work ... And almost gagged. There were items in there that predated me. Insurance cards from 1999. A letter from the University of Toledo welcoming him to another semester of classes. CDs that were so scratched beyond repair that they could be used to sand gritty wood. French fries. Half-worn-away Rolaids. Chips. I hope they were chips.

Basically, if you could fit it in a car, it was there. And old. And covered in coffee, mud or sometimes both.

"I really appreciate you doing this," Dave said as he handed me the Dust Buster that weighed what felt like five pounds more and rattled like a cheap musical instrument when I was done with it.

"I couldn't stand it anymore. I was so embarrassed," I said, which probably went over his head. Why, I'm sure he thought, would I find nine pine tree-shaped air fresheners hanging from the rearview mirror embarrassing? "Here," I said, handing him a scarf, a jacket and a window scraper. "Put these in the trunk, will ya?"

I popped open the latch from the driver's seat and heard him throw the items in there. "Whoooa," he said. "I'll do the trunk some other time. I won't make you do that."

And because I'm pretty sure they don't make vaccines to save people from whatever could be found in the trunk, I just agreed. What? It's not like I can see it, anyhow.