Creative Nonfiction Assignment #2
Of the two or three things I know for sure of this I am certain:
smoking improved my social life. In the screened smoking porch of the Shot in the Dark Café I fostered my addiction. I’d be there late night on Fridays, sitting on chairs impervious to all my attempts at comfort, with my laptop open clicking away at my book that never wants to end.
I’d share my smokes, ask for lights and dive into conversations that were as varied and eclectic as the café’s patrons. I’d discuss logical fallacies and writing techniques with the barista Jon, define “non sequitur” to Daniel when I described him as such, talk ghost encounters with my fast friend Alex, all with the haze of smoke lingering over our words and the buzz of nicotine and caffeine running through my veins.
The mere presence of the cigarette pack resting beside me was an open invitation to all who shared my minor vice. The spark of a lighter was a ready excuse to make an introduction which had always been my social weak point. From there it was an easy transition into friendly banter or debate. The cigarette between my fingers gave my nervous hands something to do as I worked pass my initial shyness at new acquaintanceship.
The café’s baristas Barry and Jon became my closest smoking colleagues. Barry, with his lopsided Mohawk and goatee that he stroked in that mad scientist manner, shared my love for science-fiction. We’d talk of the books that opened our eyes and kept us up late nights and the horrible movies made of them. I sucked down American Spirits and dark roast coffee drowned in cream and sugar while Barry would nurse a clove cigarette half the night while we shared our thoughts on the logistics of space travel.
Jon was a hard working creature of leisure in flip flops and uncombed hair that could knock out three cigarettes in the time it took me to polish off one. We discussed writing styles more then we did books, discussing the finer techniques of our favorite authors during the slower hours of the night.
Some nights Jake the Snake (the living incarnation of Snidely Whiplash and server at the Grill around the corner) would come in for candy bars and cigarettes. The Grill’s towering cook Cody might accompany him and I’d crane my neck upwards to talk to him even when he sat. I’d ask if any new drunken patrons of their restaurant had induced any new shenanigans and share my horror stories of working the graveyard shift at the Waffle House.
Other nights I’d listen to the rambling stories of people’s lives, they’d let it out in a torrent of words pausing only to take another hit off their cigarette. I’d sit and listen often without comment to monologues of absurd circumstance, borderline murderous family relations and trumped up tales of achievement. I have had more conversations with strangers since I took up this vice then in all my years previous.
By sun up I’d have written anywhere from a hundred to a thousand words and share one last cancer stick with my nicotine accomplices before heading home and to bed. I have no illusions about cigarettes and have no desire to start a lifelong habit, but this is one bad habit I shall not regret. There are too many friends and too many conversations I owe all to the spark of a lighter and the haze of smoke.