6.25.2008

The day the morgue ran out of bags.

I was already half in the bag
when I noticed him working the door
from across the bar. When he went
out for a smoke I decided to follow
since it had been about ten years
since I'd seen or spoken to him.

By the time I made it through the crowd
and out to the dimly lit sidewalk
he was already halfway done with his Marlboro.
"Jesus, you in a hurry, Tyler?"
I was surprised I remembered his first name
after all these years, but couldn't recall
his last for the life of me, though I feel
it was something Slavic-sounding.
He looked up at me and started speaking
like he'd just seen me yesterday
and knew my full name and blood type
which I don't even know.
"It's a habit I picked up overseas.
We didn't have much time to smoke
since a red dot in the dark
becomes a target for the towelheads."

I had no idea he had joined the service.
The lasting impression I had of Tyler
was an image of him skating around by himself
in his rollerblades, long after the trend was cool
with a cheap plastic helmet on, to boot.
He had inadvertently made himself an outsider
though he was always trying to edge his way in
with his blonde hair and purple lips that seemed to be
squished together all the time, two flushed
caterpillars clinging to his peachy face
just under his clear blue eyes and nondescript nose.

"Those things will kill ya, kid. It'd be a shame
since you made it back from Hell in one piece,"
I assumed foolishly without taking non-physical casualties
into consideration.

"Yeah. I didn't even smoke until I went over there.
Seeing a pack of Marlboros reminded me of home, though."
I lit up my clove cigarette and moved closer to where
he was standing to hear him better, his back glued
to the brick wall out of some trained survival instinct
not yet unhinged from his day-to-day mode of living.

Inhaling the distinct, pungently sweet aroma
of my clove cigarette his eyes lit up as if
brought back to some memory of a better time
that the sense of smell often triggers.
I saw the covetous look in his pale eyes
and made him an offer since a hand-out
would probably be turned down
and it had been awhile since I'd had a Cowboy Killer.
He drew the red pack back out of his pocket
and handed me one of his cigarettes in exchange
for one of mine.

"I was going to start smoking these when
I got back from Iraq. I figured
it'd be a good way to quit
since they're not tobacco leaves
and therefore not as addictive."
That's when my face lit up
in that drunken expression of excitement
that transforms me into a caricature of myself.
"That's my plan, too!" I blurted enthusiastically
as I exhaled smoke from the seventh cigarette
I'd had that night already, thus disproving our theory.
But still, we had the same plan!
The two of us, without seeing each other for so long
and walking such different paths in life
wound up at the same half-assed conclusion
about how to kick the habit without
all the inherent failure of going cold turkey.

Both of us trailed off in thought for a few seconds
presumably over the irony in the situation, at least
on my part, and then laughed a little to break
the uncomfortable atmosphere that suddenly falls upon
two men who never really knew each other and find it hard
to pretend otherwise ten years after the fact.
The conversation died as I tried to picture him
with a machinegun posing for a macho picture in the desert
and he tried to figure out what the Hell happened to
the promising young honor student
who had covered his arms with tattoos for some reason
developed an affinity for rum-and-Coke and clove cigarettes
stopped caring so much about what others said he should
and started looking people in the eyes when he spoke.

We weren't quite drunk enough yet not to care
about the inability to find a safe topic of discussion.
My ride came walking outside shortly after
saving us from the building tension.
It was time for my friends and I to leave.
Tyler offered me another Marlboro since a clove's street value
is clearly equal to at least two regular smokes
but I declined; it was the least I could do for a veteran.

I shook Tyler's hand and said it was good to see him
good to know he made it home safely
but part of me wishes I'd never gone out that night.
I'd much rather picture him in those ridiculous rollerblades
and that mama's boy helmet that we made fun of him for
instead of a desert camo kevlar helmet designed
to protect whatever could be left of a life
after the innocence of age fourteen.

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