It’s sort of a quiet day. Not by anyone’s choice, of course. It’s simply too oppressively fucking hot to do anything.
“Damn, it’s hot!”
Yes, it is. Typical Donnie.
“You’re still trying to stay clean, aren’t you? That sucks, man.” A nod. An apathetically hissed “Yeahhhhh….”
The important observations out of the way, introductions commence. No one else at the table knows Jeff and Donnie, the always questionably sober pair that just showed up. The only connection here – is me. A run for newcomers’ coffee. I still bask in the glow of importance.
Returning.
“You wouldn’t mind doing us a favor and clean these, though, right?”
…submits Donnie, uninterrupted by his movement. Jeff drops two pipes in my hand. They’re the kind sold as aids to quit smoking (one actually fashioned after a cigarette), one of the more clever and less believable covers out there. They are truly filthy, the walls coated with the kind of resin that belies an impressive commitment to escaping reality. I knew that, anyway – at least regarding the metallic one – as it was an heirloom from another friend, off to college (and already kicked out, as I would find out at the ironic time of “later today”).
Obliging.
Naturally, I have a paperclip. I may not have smoked in months, but I’m always prepared. It’s the best tool one could manage, but I must admit the pipes are still an intimidating case.
“I don’t know how well I can do these, man. But I’ll try,” laughingly setting up for mediocrity in my work.
“Hahaha. Sure, man. We just need something kinda clean for this shit.” Jeff removes a box of impressively concentrated salvia.
“Best 5 minutes of your life, right there,” he grins.
“When I get moved out, we need some of that,” an aside to generally sober Nick.
“Oh, I’m down.”
Conversation drifts into oblivion, still technically there, but no longer alive. Another chemical brother arrives, and meaningless words along with the art he has inexplicably decided to labor over at the coffee shop form a comfortable womb for us to settle into as I work. My hands, moving back and forth, pushing the shaft of metal in and out, again and again, begin to smolder. They give off a heat that no one is acknowledging, but everyone is painfully aware of. They are not here. Trapped in a limbo, just further moments of forced reality. I am in control for now.
Holding. Holding. Holding.
Release. They’ve burned through their sins and want out of purgatory. I’ve done all that I care to for them. Tension between desire and revulsion is finally resolved.
“You done yet?”
“I think that’s the best I’m going to be able to get them.”
“Thank you so much, man. You can keep the resin, too; save it for a rainy day.”
I bum a cellophane cigarette wrapper and seal away the precious balls of tar. I will be keenly aware of it, at all times, until I dominate it. Until it disappears into the reality-cleansing flame, perhaps.
To be honest, most days have been pretty quiet lately. I have a suspicion that it might just be by someone’s choice after all.
The sun bakes on.