Category: diary-x.com posts

Smoking

July 14, 2004 / / 0 Comments

I’m trying not to start smoking again.

Yeah, I said again.

When I lived in England, I smoked quite a bit. I was never too addicted, but there were times when I got jittery and twitchy if I went too long without a smoke. I kicked the habit when I came back to the states and started doing Tae Kwon Do again.

It’s a filthy habit. It makes my clothes, car, and breath stink. I have to go outside to do it because my roommate gets pissed if I smoke in the apartment. It causes cancer, costs me money I don’t have, coats my lungs with tar, and gives me muscle aches and headaches if I do it too much.

And I love it.

I love smoking. It’s idiotic, but I do. Obviously, the negative aspects–and there’s a lot of them–suck. But something that avid non-smokers can’t understand about smoking are the positive aspects of it.

There’s a sense of camaraderie among smokers. Even a casual acquaintance will give you a cigarette if you run out. If you see a stranger with a cigarette in his hand, you can bet that he’s willing to give you a light. We know that it’s ‘us’ against the world. We’re not allowed to smoke in public buildings, or if they’re government owned, within twenty-five feet of them. But we deal with it.

It’s a great way to meet people. If you’re at a party where the host doesn’t allow smoking indoors, you can be sure that you can go hang out with the rest of the ostracized puffers on the porch and strike up a conversation. I’ve known plenty of people whom I never would have met if I hadn’t gone out for the occasional smoke break.

But my favorite thing about smoking is the meditative aspect of them. There are times when it’s just really relaxing to sit down for a few minutes and have a cigarette. I like to go outside and just have a quiet moment now and then, but I always get bored quickly. With a cigarette, I can sit down, relax, watch the world go by, and smoke that Camel down to the butt. I don’t need to think about anything else. I can just relax and watch the smoke float in grey ringlets and curls until it vanishes into the air.

So am I stupid for smoking? Yeah. Absolutely. I need to stop before I get addicted and before I do any further damage to my health.

But for now, at least, I’m going to go have a cigarette.

Widower

July 8, 2004 / / 0 Comments

I was at Kmart yesterday putting away a pile of batteries that had accumulated at the service desk. (The department manager never does shit.) As I was crouching down and searching for a convenient spot to ditch a handful of double A’s, a quiet voice behind me said, “Excuse me.”

I stood up and turned around. A wizened old man wearing a green polyester John Deere jacket and worn overalls stood staring expectantly at me. He had hair growing in tufts out of his nose, and one long hair growing out of the tip. The red bottoms of his eyes drooped considerably. He was an old farmer. Good people. I liked him immediately.

“Hi,” I said, trying to sound cheerier than a restless night and a shitty job allowed for. “Can I help you?”

“Do you know how to work the picture machine?” He asked.

“Sure.”

We have a Kodak Picture Maker sitting next to the camera case. I’ve long since accepted that old people don’t want to bother with technology, so I don’t mind making a picture or two for them. They’re always nicer than any other customers I get, and usually happy with the results. It’s even a little rewarding for me to do it.

I made him an eight-by-ten copy of an old black and white photo of a couple standing in a restaurant, and three four-by-sixes of a blurry woman from an ancient sepia photograph. Surreptitiously looking closely at the couple on the Picture Maker’s screen, I realized that the well-dressed gentleman in the restaurant and the stooped old man standing next to me were one and the same.

He seemed pleased with the photos, and so was I. I realized after I finished the eight-by-ten that I should have made a few adjustments to make for a slightly better photo. Still, it looked good, and I doubted he would know the difference. I rang him up and was about to go about my business when he asked me where the underwear are.

“Oh, they’re over there in the corner.” I pointed in the direction of the underwear, but didn’t bother to walk over and show him. There’s a lot of them. They’re hard to miss.

“Well,” he said, “I’m a little new at this. I lost my wife not too long ago. What size would I need?”

Fuck, I thought. This is an old farmer. They can be really stodgy and traditional. What do I say? Do I say “I’m sorry?” Is that too personal? Would that embarrass him? Are his eyes so red from crying? Does this kindly old man sit alone in his empty house and cry because the woman he loved for forty years died last week? Dammit, what do I say?!

I stared at him dumbly what seemed like an uncomfortable length of time… I’m sure it was only a second. And least, I think that’s what it was. I hope so.

“What waist size are you?”

Dammit. The moment to be act like a normal human being is gone. Saying anything after that will just make both of us uncomfortable.

I guessed that he would probably wear mediums, and he wandered over to the general area I had indicated. I went back to work for a bit until I noticed that he was nowhere near the underwear… and looked confused.

I walked over and showed him exactly where the underwear were, and left him alone again. I know I wouldn’t like having someone standing over my shoulder while I was picking out underwear, and I assumed he wouldn’t feel any different.

I looked up after him as I did my work for the next couple minutes. He’d gone into the fat womens’ section, and didn’t seem to know what to do. He wandered around for a while longer, and eventually began walking towards the exit empty-handed.

Should I help him? Maybe he didn’t find what he was looking for. Does he even know what he’s looking for? Would it be obvious if I came up behind him and asked him if he wants help? Would he even want help? Shit…

As I watched him shuffle away, defeated, I decided not to help him any further. I felt terrible, but I didn’t know what else to do. To try to walk up behind him nonchalantly and ask if he needed anything now would be impossible. To do anything else would let him know that I had watched him try–and fail–to purchase underwear.

I just wish that I would have done something for him. I feel so guilty that I couldn’t do something so simple as get the man a pair of damned underwear.

I hate my roommate

June 27, 2004 / / 3 Comments

The title about sums it up. I fucking hate my roommate, and I can’t wait to get the fuck out of his apartment.

At the moment, I’m living off the lease at his place. He wants–but does not need–a roommate to help with bills before the other guy whose name is on the lease moves in at the end of August. I need a place to live until the beginning of August, so I’m staying here.

Everything about here is temporary for me. I unpacked the bare essentials and nothing more. The walls in my room are bare and virtually all my stuff is packed into boxes. When I want something, I have to find the appropriately labeled box and rummage through it until it turns up.

My roommate, Nick, knows this. Virtually nothing I use–plates, furniture, even my bath towel–is mine. For some reason, he’s gotten extremely possessive of his new apartment, and quietly lords over me the fact that he controls shit around here. If I leave out something of mine, it’s immediately and silently put away where I have to search to find it.

This is compounded by the fact that Nick and I work very different schedules and actively avoid dealing with each other. He’s second shift, and (on the days that I work), my schedule is very random. When he’s home and awake, he barricades himself in his room. I do the same. When we have anything to say to each other, we scrawl messages on the marker board in the kitchen for the other to find.

An example:
Nick: “MARC SUCKS”
Me: “I poisoned your food, fuckhole.”

Yeah. Healthy living arrangements here.

As I was cooking myself some breakfast yesterday morning, I noticed an odd reflection on the marker board, as if someone had written something and then erased it. Looking at it from the right angle and squinting for a while, I was able to read it: “Marc you fucking douche you used all the the propane”. Apparently when I had used Nick’s grill this week, I hadn’t closed off the gas feed properly. He had written this little message for me to find, apparently thought better of it, and later erased it. I bought the bastard another $2.00 propane tank and left it for him to find on the kitchen counter. I was sorely tempted to chuck it at his head (“Here’s your goddamn propane, you asshole”), but there’s another complication to this situation.

You see, Nick is dating my cousin. Although I can’t stand Nick anymore, I love my cousin. She’s probably the closet thing I have to a little sister. It’s obvious they’re in love. From the cooing, giggling, whispering, and other sounds I’ve been unfortunate enough to overhear from Nick’s bedroom, they’re happy as newlyweds. When they’re together, they constantly have the glazed over look of lobotomy patients overdosing on a prozac/xanax cocktail. Beating the shit out of Nick, like I’d dearly love to do, would certainly remove Andrea from my life.

So for the next month, I’m going to be hiding in my room, attempting to avoid any contact with Nick and doing my best to make it seem that I don’t live here.