The River

Monday, January 26, 2004


I go outside for a cigarette. Roll-your-own type, not because I’m cool, just because Drum is the only tobacco I truly enjoy. The fact that it makes me look cool is a bonus. Of course, the chinos and button down shirt sort of negate that.

I stand looking at the day, 5-story brick and glass corporate outpost at my back. Gray-white sky and lots of bare-limbed trees. I exhale, adding my own puffy cloud to the mix. It’s Monday. Back in the flow. Good to get away from the computer, where I’ve spent the morning. I’m trading one addiction for another. This one, the smokey, smelly, tactile one, seems healthier at the moment. The other sends me through the glass, down into a world of power and politics, schemes and machinations that are both fascinating and debilitating.

It’s nice to do nothing but pull on this cigarette. I feel the paralysis of information overload progressively dissipate with each cancer-causing drag. My clothes slowly loose their warmth, take on the smell of outside. I wonder how long I can stand here, if anyone will miss me until my 3 o’clock meeting. I could just commune with these trees, this sky. Ask them who they’d pick for President. See what they think of public welfare and private gain. These trees, this tobacco, me. I breathe it all in, I let it go.

The cigarette’s a nub, looks just like a roach. I decide to leave it on the concrete at my feet, let people wonder: Did somebody get high here?

Comments: Post a Comment