My Christmas got a little brighter last year when someone gave me a package of scratch-and-sniff gift tags. They came in three holiday scents, and with just one swipe of the fingernail, you could get a hearty nose-full of gingerbread, peppermint or pine needles. I put the tags on all the presents I gave to my family, thinking that they would add to the season’s festive cheer. But even more importantly, these labels took me back to one of the great passions of my childhood.
When I was in the sixth grade, my teacher rewarded good work by placing a sticker on the corner of our papers. It is hard to convey the emotional impact on an 11-year-old of getting a sticker in those days. This was 30 years ago, long before the self-esteem movement came along and every child could have a report card dripping with sticker bling. Oh, no — my teachers subscribed to the Tiger Mom school of education. They were stingy with their praise.
Only truly exceptional work was rewarded with a sticker. And it was a momentous occasion to receive one. By contrast, getting back a sticker-less homework sheet was the 1980s equivalent of having your YouTube video get only 14 views. I suspect that today’s self-esteem movement is heavily promoted by the powerful sticker industry.
But my teacher was a class act. She didn’t just give any old adhesive labels for quality work. She invested in top-of-the-line goods—”Scratch-‘n-Sniff Stinky Stickers,” manufactured by Trend Enterprises, Incorporated. This was the Cadillac of scented rewards. Each one featured a brightly-colored picture of an apple, or hot dog or sports car, with a witty epigram of praise beside it. The onion sticker said, “Tear-ific!” The computer sticker said, “Data Way!” The raisin bread sticker said, “I Loaf It!” You get the idea.
And the best part of all was that eachone had a different smell. Scratch the sticker, and it smelled like raspberries. Or toothpaste. Or pancakes. This positive nasal reinforcement was a big factor in the appeal. It made you want to do your best in order to perfume all your schoolwork. Granted, a few of the smells were rather odd, and some kids never quite got over the mixed messages sent by teachers who gave out stickers that reeked of skunks, old shoes or salami.
Nevertheless, a diligent scholar could amass quite a pungent archive. And, at the risk of being a tad immodest, let me say that my sticker collection was huge. Out of the 104 different flavors available, I eventually got 89, which I carefully arranged into an album. Even though kids could order an “Official 3-Ring Stinky Stickers Album” directly from Trend Enterprises, I saved $7.99 and made my own scrapbook out of a blue folder and loose-leaf paper.
As I got more and more of these aromatic gems, I put them in neat little rows in the folder, with the flavor written underneath each one in No. 2 pencil. My album reflects no particular order—crab is next to taco, and green lawn is next to leather. But I was immensely proud of this collection and have kept it since 1983. While most of the scents have long faded, I was thrilled just now to scratch one and catch a faint whiff of pickle.
Unfortunately, there is a dark underside to this story. Such was the emotional value of these stickers, and such was the desperation of those whose work did not always merit one, that a seamy black market developed. And I blush now to say that I was right in the middle of it. You see, I went to a stationery store one day and discovered my teacher’s source — there was a rack loaded with Stinky Stickers. You got 24 assorted stickers in a package, all for 99 cents. Since you didn’t have to show a teacher’s union card to buy them, I started doing the math.
If I bought a pack of stickers for 99 cents and sold them for 10 cents each, I could clear over $1.40 in profit. So I borrowed my father’s trenchcoat and sunglasses, and each day during recess I hung out on the shady side of the playground. Business was slow at first. But soon word got around that I had the stickers. The good ones. After a couple of weeks, I was the No. 1 sticker pusher at Conyers Middle School. Every day, my pockets were so full of dimes and nickels that my pants started sagging. It’s a little known fact that I single-handedly started the trend of droopy pants that years later would sweep the country.
The gig was good while it lasted. But I got sloppy. I started selling to a clientele that was indiscreet. So one day when I was out of a particular scent, one of my customers went up to the teacher during study hall and blurted out, “Hey Mrs. Myers—I need to buy a coconut sticker.” Remember the World War II posters that said, “Loose Lips Sink Ships”? Well, that guy was my iceberg. Mrs. Myers swooped in like the DEA and shut down my operation. As a reward for my entrepreneurial scheme, I got two weeks’ detention.
But I’ll have the last laugh. The market for vintage Stinky Stickers is going to explode any day now, and I’m sitting on 89 of those babies. Sometimes it pays to be a stickler for stickers.
