"I.D.?"
I passed my driver's license across the counter and he bent down, his spiky, black hair reflecting the overhead lighting.
Yes, that's me. Yes, I have braces in that picture. Yes, I'm in my Catholic school uniform. I was sixteen. Give me a break.
"Okay," he said, passing it back to me as he turned to grab the pack behind the counter.
Dick.
I bought cigarettes for the first time when I was eighteen. I was in college now, a freshman, open to new ideas and new people; it was coincidence that those new people sat along the curbside along the boundaries of university smoking those new ideas.
College: where the innocent go to quickly become fucked up and confused.
That weekend, like most weekends spent my freshman year, I was home, eating the food I had eaten for the past eighteen years, driving the same uneven roads, and watching the same new leaves change from green to yellow and orange and brown, and fall along those uneven roads, leaving the trees barren and cold. On many occasions, I packed those leaves into my suitcase to take back to college, but there was never room for my laptop - a decrepit mechanism constantly needing to be plugged in to stay alive - so, therefore, the leaves were forced to stay.
Maybe it was the season; the air no longer warm and inviting when the sun had set, the stars appearing sooner and sooner till the day could pass in the blink of an eye. Whatever it was, I sat in my parked car in front of the Chevron, fiddling with my keys, the music having long expired.
Give a shot.
No, I'm not like that.
How do you know what you're like?
I know because I know me.
Do you?
I waited in line, standing behind a man in a khaki jacket, bent over his cane. In his free hand, the one not supporting his frail existence, he held a pack of Starbursts and A-1 beef jerky. He turned. I nodded and smiled.
"You can go ahead," he said, looking down at my empty hands.
"No, it's fine. Thank you, though."
"Sure?"
"Positive."
"Wife loves these." He held up the Starbursts, slowly shaking them from side to side. He winked at me and smiled. Dentures.
"She's got good taste."
"I always wondered what was wrong with her."
The old man turned to the counter, placed the Starbursts and the beef jerky on the counter, paid his dues, and walked out, nodding at me as he passed. I was next.
"What can I do for you," she asked, popping her gum as she stared through me.
Yes, do you smoke, if so can you suggest to me some cigarettes to buy because I have no clue what to purchase, and I researched this, but they don't necessarily have reviews on Amazon like they do for all the other things, and I just need to pick something because this is happening tonight, I sat in my car and I waited in line and his wife has good taste, but he's not so sure, and here I am now, so please. Help.
My eyes scanned the rows and columns of endless packs of cigarettes. The colors - red, orange, white, yellow, blue, the most appealing shade of blue like the ocean - and the sizes made my sight blur and fade and my knees grew weak, but I was still standing.
"Can I get those Marlboro Menthol ones? Those right there? The really nice shade of blue ones?" I pointed. "I'd like those."
"Can I see your I.D.?"
I showed it to her. She passed it back.
"Oh, and a lighter."
She grabbed a lighter from the side of the register. I gave her my money. The deed was done.
I drove through the streets of my fair city, the lighter and cigarettes heavy in my front jean pocket. Where could I go? Who won't know me?
The park. I can go to the park. Simon can meet me there and we can do this together.
"Dude, did you really buy cigarettes?"
Simon held the pack in his hands, examining the brand and holding it up to the street lamp to watch the blue shine. Simon had smoked before. He was experienced, or at least more experienced than myself. He shook his head, his mess of black curls bouncing.
"You're crazy, you know that?"
"Just a bit," I said.
"Shall we?"
We each took one cigarette from the carton. They were all white, even the filter. I sighed. That wasn't how they looked in the movies or at school. I fumbled over the lighter. It wouldn't turn on. I couldn't hold the cigarette in my mouth while lighting it without dropping onto the soggy grass. Attempt after attempt until, finally, it was lit and took my first drag.
Abort. Abort mission. Stop. What are you doing? Oh my God. I can't. What is this taste? How do people do this? How can they smoke these? Oh my God.
I coughed. I spat into the grass. I contorted my face into every expression it could manage. Simon peered down at the glowing embers. He was studying it, like he was the first person to smoke these cigarettes in all of human history and his observations would matter for the rest of mankind. For science...
"These taste like shit," he said. His laugh echoed in the empty park. He slapped me on the back and continued laughing.
"I didn't know which ones to get!"
"Any kind, but these, buddy."
"Oh well..."
"We still look kind of badass." He took another drag, and I watched as the glow hollowed out his eyes. He exhaled the smoke and the cold air, and together they rose through the Sycamore trees.
"Just a bit." I smiled and sighed.
"At least you know, right? Now you can say you've done it. You're still you, and I'm still me."
"Yeah," I said.
"We're gonna be alright," he said.
I loved him for that.
"That'll be $6.56."
The cashier handed me the yellow package with Native American on it.
"Thanks, man"
"Have a good one."
"You too."
As soon as I was outside, I pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and walked back to my apartment.
Nights in the bay area were always cold and foggy. The fog rolled in early and stayed till late the next afternoon. The traffic lights - the greens, the yellows, the reds - always hazy in the mist. The streets were empty, save for the few cars that were still traveling home or looking for somewhere to call home at midnight. I walked up the hill, alone, in the fog, in the night, and wanted the leaves to change.
The Internet became slightly better than before the minute you started this blog.
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