4:55am on Technical Tuesday

this is why i smoke. let me step back. there are a number of reasons why i smoke. there are also a number of reasons why i'd like to re-quit, but that's not nearly what this post is about.

this is why i smoke:

the change between 4:00am and 5:00am is a strange time because it's hard to declare it the middle of the night or the very early morning. it's a time that only exists after nightmares or inexpensive flights-- which are sometimes one and the same.

but i was awake, dicking about with the potential colors of our dragon, and went for a cigarette break from it all. everything can kill you: too much alcohol, too much oxygen, and even too much dragon. i needed a break.

the least censored version of the dragon color test i can show you.

"that's what i'm talking about," a drunken 30-something stumbler said as he sort of fell toward my apartment building.

he was wearing a pastel green collared-shirt and i couldn't tell if his eyes were red with anger or marijuana, but he was unquestionably in a bad mood. generally, i go outside less to smoke and more to talk with the night-owl neighbors-- there's a really great lady with an overweight pug who only walks around 4:00am and a homeless man who sounds like mr. bean's character in rat race and tells me the secrets to life.

but i didn't want to talk with this drunken man.

"you got a pbr, smoking a cigarette," he said as he grabbed my shoulder for a mixture of balance and feigned male camaraderie.

"how's it going?" i asked, knowing i only had to survive about six minutes before my smoke would be done and i would have a perfectly good reason to go inside.

"hey," he slurred, "can i have a cigarette? give me a cigarette."

i gave him one slightly out of fear. i'm not afraid of the ghetto characters because they're so used to being scary that they've almost forgotten how to scare someone who isn't scared before they try. and i'm not afraid of the crazies because half the time they're just lonely-- and the other half the time, you can practically jedi mind-trick them into forgetting they're mad at you.

i'm scared of the drunk yuppies-- the ones at the end of their line, working an soulless job and drinking till they can't stand. you never know what they're going to do.

"thanks," he said as he put the cigarette in his mouth, "man, fuck that. fuck that. yeah, that's what i'm talking about man. thanks."

"you need a light?" i asked.

"you're a fucking kid," he growled, as he took the lighter, "you're a fucking kid, you motherfucker."

he lit his cigarette and i smoked mine.

"i am," i laughed, "it's got its upsides and its downsides."

he glared at me as if i had said the worst thing any man had ever thought of saying.

"fuck you," he said, "you motherfucker. fuck you. how old are you?"

"twenty-five," i said, "what's up?"

"yeah, you're a fucking kid," he spat.

the man was upset, but i couldn't get passed his drunken ways to find about what. he was just mad and i was just a kid. that was all.

"i'm just going to take a few drags of this," the man said, swaying, "then i'm going to put it out. no offense."

"do what you're gonna do," i said.

"fucking kid," he snarled, "i'm training for a race. a mountain-biking race. i'm such a newbie. my capillaries are such rookies. it's like my first cigarette ever-- i'm such a newbie-- but it feels so good."

"at least you're getting your money's worth," i said, "at least you feel something when you smoke."

he sat down on my steps in the same way an eleven month baby might sit before his toys. there was a sort of clumsy plop to it all and i knew he was getting the spins. i immediately regretted giving him the cigarette because it was likely going to cause him to vomit, but as long as that happened after i was back inside i suppose it wouldn't matter.

"so what are you doing up?" he asked from my steps.

"drawing," i said.

"rolling?" he asked.

"drawing."

"rolling?"

"drawing," i said again, convinced he must be more than drunk and-- perhaps-- rolling, "with a pen?"

"oh," he said, "you're an artist."

"mm."

"so," he shouted, "tell me some funny shit!"

"i got nothing, man," i said, "i've just been upstairs drawing. i haven't talked to anyone in the last four hours and i'm not really in the entertaining zone."

"that's it?" he asked, "you got nothing for me? man, fuck you. fucking kid."

and then he stumbled across the street to talk with two other insomniacs or drunks who were out having a chat.

hopefully they weren't fucking kids, too.

both ways, that was way better than anything i could've watched on youtube while breaking from dragon-drawings and more interesting than most of what's in our fridge. it was a random occurrence; it was a story with no particular middle or end-- just the universe sneezing out some meaningless chaos that i happen to be awake to participate in. and then he was off.

this is why i smoke.