Mind If I Smoke?

Act I

No, not all, mind if I bum one?

They were standing in a makeshift smoking section next to a long plastic tube cemented in a five-gallon bucket serving as the ashtray. The sun was shining in early March, as early as any March can be. There was a play running for the last handful of days, a production by one of the Universities in town, and today was the finale. A Matinee, middle of the day, a black box theater, and nothing to do. He purchased a lonely ticket online a week before and now found himself on campus. Stoned to the bone he felt old looking round at all the students. He was one of them once, years ago; he regrets the bachelor's degree that sits unframed in a closet behind old sneakers and forgotten sweatshirts. The diploma remains in the container that arrived in the mail those years ago.

What brings you out today? She asked, twirling the cigarette between her fingers and playing with the smoke.

The play, I suppose. Not much happens around here; it's nice to imbibe the arts when possible.

Cool, well, I hope you enjoy it.

It wasn't his first cigarette conversation. Smokers have a way of finding each other. Maybe it's in the way they are outcasted by society, the castigation shouted from those shoveling food by the king size down their ruptured gullets. Smoking bad!

There was a pause in the flow of their conversation, not a plateau, but rather a moment where the two engaged in speaking have nothing to say at the moment. He noticed her looking long over the open field, staring straight out into the vast expanse of space, seeing straight into the Blues.

Where are you from? He asked, directing his eyes toward her and ripping the heater.

Loma Linda.

Gotcha, I hear they live forever over there.

Yeah, maybe, at least, those who don't smoke these things.

Yeah, maybe. I wouldn't have expected you to be a smoker. No offense, I just wouldn't gauge you as such.

Thanks?

He laughed a little, and when his eye caught hers, she chuckled and ripped the cig, smoke escaping her mouth sporadically through the haze of a smile. He quickly realized how beautiful she was, standing in the sun smoking, dressed in a red sweater and beige khakis.

So, are you in the play?

Yeah, I have a part.

Oh, cool, I don't think I've ever met an actor before.

He reached out his hand to shake, and hers met his in a delicate collision, a soft contact like holding a baby bird, and his heart went soft.

Henry

Jane

He knew this would never work despite their shared affinity for cigarettes. After all, it wasn't just cigs Henry consumed, even on a day like this, where the sun is so bright the worms buried in the dirt might feel the glow.

I left my bouquet at home.

People don't actually throw roses on stage, you know that, right?

He did not know that.

Yeah, of course, I was only joking.

She wore this smile on her face that said she was amused by Henry's naivety concerning performances. He interested her because he was local to this town where she went to college, and while familiar with her peers, Henry was something else. He wasn't like anyone she had met before; she lived a sheltered childhood, and cigarettes were her one act of rebellion while maintaining devotion to a religious life. Jane felt like most of her life she was straddling the line between what her parents and the good book taught vs. following the thing inside her, inside all of us, that asks the question: where does this road lead? What happens if I do what feels right?

The urge prodded at Jane like a fly buzzing around your head, impossible to ignore despite the hand waving and swatting. She had no time to contemplate, the play was live in eight minutes.

You'd better go grab a seat we'll be on in about seven minutes.

Yes, of course, the play! I almost forgot.

It was nice to meet you, Henry.

Likewise, Jane, break a leg.

Act II

Before taking his seat, Henry grabs a playbill and rifles through, searching for a picture of Jane. He was surprised to learn she was the lead. Impressed, he settled in, slipped a nic pouch in his upper lip, and folded his hands in his lap. The next hour or so was about Jane and the sudden intrigue sparking in his stomach.

At once, the lights lower, and the stage goes dark; two individuals, a man and Jane enter the stage and stand in repose, waiting for their mark. The lights brighten, and Jane glows with such luminous shimmer Henry thinks he may be in love. Pushing the thought aside, he searches for flaws in her physiognomy and finds none, only perfection. That fly is now buzzing around his head, and despite his effort to shoo away the bug, alas, there it buzzes.

The sheen from Jane's face was blinding, and Henry couldn't help but look despite the sharpness of light. It felt like he was staring straight into the sun and to look away would be to betray his cornea and iris, his soul and spirit, his head and his heart. Henry thought about the lonesome days when there was no one to smoke cigarettes with, no one to explore the sky so cloudless and blue. Henry thought about the Blue Mountains and how lonely they look, off in the distance, a visual pleasure but the solitude so severe he regards them as dangerous. With Jane, however, the Blues seemed easier to traverse, like maybe the only thing he lacked was perspective. A lonely mind can paint pictures that do not exist or at least fill in the space with colors that are often drab or dull, washed out, and grey. Henry felt invigorated while the play played on, and the more he heard Jane's voice, the less afraid he became of what awaits him on the outside, the thing that awaits us all, eventually.

Flying by like the wind that melts the snow and pushes the leaves against fences, the street was clear, the path brightened by that sheen invading his brain like a parasite, but one welcomed, an invited invader. The play, nearing denouement, places Henry in an impossible position. He would trade his soul for more time in the seat watching her but the devil wasn't taking any offers. If this feeling Henry felt for the first time in however long was to be prolonged, he would have to do something to extend the opportunity of seeing her again. He wondered if he was good enough and if another cigarette would be worth it to Jane. Henry felt like a little boy; he was naturally melancholy, feigning a strange indifference, but he was lying to himself. He believed that what he wants and what he needs are two separate things.

The stage went empty, the lights turned down, and the audience applauded. Jane was the first to come round the backdrop, smiling; an acute dot of light shined from her sclera. Henry, the black hole, swallowed all her light, and a little brightness came from him. Despite the size, the shallow flame burned against all the darkness inside him. The rest of the cast took their turn bowing and waving; the audience in an uproar, but all he sees is her. The end, fin, only an empty stage sat in front of him while his aisle mates and other viewers collected their things, and stood to rise. Henry was still rooted in the padded folding chair, holding the playbill. Henry half wishing they would run it back again, but to his extreme displeasure, the play was as good as dead, and so was he.

Henry collected himself and stood, his coat over his arm, heading for the exit. Henry felt like he lost again, but what exactly did he lose? Henry thought he lost potential, the potential of something yet written, something unset in stone. There comes a time for a man to cut his losses and carry on. Henry felt that sometimes a heart needs a jump like a dead car battery. Henry had his heart jumped started, and even if he never sees Jane again, the simple thought, the potential of it all, reminded him of his existence and the responsibility inherent in living. Henry felt alive amidst all his pessimism; what's another failure? At least he is not so numb to ignore it, not so desensitized to the stimulation that it passes over him, and all he can do is watch; no, Henry was in the saddle again, riding the beast of misfortune and bad luck into the dark night of the soul.

Act III

Henry pressed ahead through the double doors and met the sun in the parking lot. He was thankful for the sun; it had been a long winter, and the warmth of a premature spring did more than raise his internal temperature.

Hey!

Henry turned round to find Jane twenty feet from him.

Mind if I bum another?