Smoking Is A Subculture Part Une

[izeveryboyin]

***I started smoking maybe.... 4, five years ago, to mediocre effects. The first time I tried, it just seemed like something to do to pass the time, and besides, they had this kick-ass Russian brand that looked good between my fingers--- or so I thought. They reminded me of a Mike Leigh film "You want smoke? Russian cigarettes... no cancer!" Of course that was ridiculous, and I knew it, but what the hell did I care, it was youth, it was the ideaology that somehow, I needed something to do on a regular basis, it was the genuine attraction that all of us weirdo bohemian hippie freaks have to be addicted to something. If not drink then smoke, if not smoke then smack, if not smack, then well.... "What doya got?". This story is not really about smoking, hell, I'm not even sure if I even showed the two fringe characters smoking in this piece, or well, the first part anyway. The main character, Chuck is a literary re-incarnate of a guy I dated when I was 16 or 17, something like that, and he was this "wild and crazy white guy with goddamn it too fucking much to say and too many fucked ways to say it" as he often described himself. The story is fiction, but it is based on two characters that are real. That kooky cousin Michael, believe it or not folks, actually exists in exactly this manner (although I changed his name). I had the uhhh... pleasure of running into him again recently, and he inspired me to write this piece, so with out further ado, here it is:


We were somewhere between Denver and Las Vegas… on our way to fantastic LA. The weather was gradually improving as we rode away from the sharp, snow-covered mountains and into the slow... wide desert... and then eventually to the smooth shores of the ocean. The radio hummed some buzz of inaudible jazz that I silently willed to come in clearly because I was quite tired of Mike's wailing. The entire trip he'd been hollering about anything and everything that seemed to have no real grounds for contest. I sighed behind the wheel of my '65 Rivvy, and kept on driving.
"...A fucking rest stop, man…that's what we need. Been in this goddamn car for 10 goddamn hours, man. Fucking shit." That was the general idea of his conversation.
From Chicago... it'd been a long ride. Some half-wit hustler and a girl I was supposed to be seeing had shanked me. I was on the corner of Belmont and Broadway while I was waiting for her when it happened. Somehow... they'd gotten away with $350 cash... and a few of my credit cards, as well as a mint-flavored condom that I had planned on using with the girl. I was in such a shit mood two days later, that I ended up missing my flight back home, and had to call my cousin Michael to come fish me out of that shithole in my car. Now we were riding back home to LA… and let me tell you, it had been one hell of a ride.
The drive was planned to be exactly a day and 4 hours long… depending on traffic and weather conditions. This was now the 3rd hour of the second day... and we still had at least 4 more hours of driving in store. The trip had begun lightly enough. Michael came and scooped me up from the J. Ira Hostel in downtown Chicago. I was standing down near the front door with my bags in my thin coat... freezing my ass whenever someone came through or left out the door. He burst in with a fit of calm and quiet so strange and foreign to his character that I even asked him what was wrong. I think I said something like...
"Fuck's the matter with you?" He shook his head.
"Well why are you so damn quiet?" He shrugged his shoulders, grabbed my bag, and tossed it in the trunk.
He took the passenger's seat… and I took the driver's. I started the engine, and then he said he had to take a quick piss before we left, but that I should stay there with the car to let it warm up. This is where it all went madly wrong. An unpleasant 12 minutes had gone by with still no sign of my beloved cousin. There was a strangely large crowd gathering in the center of the lobby, and I saw people laughing, or gasping, coming in and out of the place. This is bad. I asked one of the girls who were standing outside if she'd watch my car. She asked if I would give her a ride out to Moline, Illinois.
"Sure," I told her. "Why the fuck not?"
So I raced in the lobby and there was Michael... face down on the floor... crawling on his belly like a damned snake in the grass... and the clincher, he'd removed his pants. He was singing Jefferson Airplane's "Somebody to Love" with a madness that screamed to me the word... "Coke".
I grabbed him up, and apologized to the best of my ability for the inconvenience, found his pants and tossed him with all the strength that my 5"6, 167 pounds could muster, into the car. I nodded to the woman in the passenger's seat, and then drove off. I remember her asking something like...
"What the hell's wrong with him?"
"He's got hay fever love, it's getting to him."
"Is it contagious?" She asked.
"Hell no, just as safe as shit... you'll never catch it. Have to excuse him, the sick fucker. Gosh." I said and shook my head in a farce dismay.
She nodded and I drove on.
"What's in Moline for you Ms...."
"My name's Ana, and I'm going to see my mother."
"Ah, yea... those family members, man... always wanting you to come over for a visit. I'm Chuck, by the way."
"Pleasure." She said, seemingly quite the opposite of pleased.
"Much the same." I replied, and drove on.
Moline came slow and drawn out, with Michael in the back screaming and sweating like a pig in heat. He looked pitiful laying on the back seat in nothing but an unpleasant pair of tighty-whiteys. All of a sudden, he shot up with a start.
"Fuck me, Chuckie boy... what the hell you doin here… musta dosed off… I had a dream that I was just on my way to scoop ya... fucking shit. I thought uh… where the fuck are we anyway? Jesus. You knock me out er some shit? Feel's weird man. Where the fuck's my pants man? You steal those too? Jesus Christ man… you needed some money you shoulda goddamn asked, man."
I sighed and kept on driving. Ana's stop was coming soon. It just so happened that in looking about to discover the source of the loud scraping emanating from Michael's spot in the backseat, I heard Ana scream something like...
"Jesus, stop the car!" and so I punch the brakes as quick as they go.
The fact remained that I was a day late and a dollar short, and so we made a nice...simple collision with an unfriendly owner of a CTS Cadillac. My head and my good sense told me a few things.
"Chuckster," they said, "We like ya, boy, and we know ya don't have no damn insurance. So what we suggest is your simple hit and run. Now let the fool exit his car, see, and this is when you floor it... and take off for dear life. Cuz if this rat bastard catches you... you're two steps further up shit creek without the rubber gloves, man."
And so I nodded. "Yea" I thought. "That's right". But my heart... see my heart was different. My heart says to me, he says...
"Chuckie, I know you're a good boy and all, but business is business. So here's what you gotta do... run his ass over!" I scratched my head at that one.
"you sure?" I mumbled.
"Chuckie", it said, "If some jerk-off hit your Cadillac and ran... would you give up chasing his bastard ass?" I shook my head.
But my better sense just wouldn't let me run the guy over. It did however strenuously persist that I take off on the guy, and so when I saw his fat ass wobble out of the car, and towards me, I pressed the gas, did a quick U and was off. It took him more than a little while to get back into that car of his, and follow after me. He'd shut his engine off and everything. I was praying to God almighty that the fucker hadn't caught the license plate number. I did some crazy maneuvering, cut the wrong way down a one-way street... went backwards down an alley, and even parked in some evil, fussing, jerk's garage to avoid the creep.
I dropped Ana off with quickness, and checked the clock. Minus about 45 minutes from the high-speed chase, and 15 more from the episode with Michael in the lobby of J. Ira's, we were still making good time. I was proud of us. We were just making our way outta Moline and on to Des Moines, were we would stop for some grub at a local dinner or McDonald's or something, and take a few piss breaks. Michael was being himself, bitching and complaining, but I was getting the better end then. He was making jokes and I was laughing.
"That Ana chick, man... wasn't she hot. 'The fuck you take her back for? I'da kept her with me in the backseat. She could call her mother... or more like be calling for her. Hehehe, fucking shit. Crazy man. Damn."
And so we rode on for a while, until we found a McDonald's and stopped to eat. I ordered us a couple of Big Macs, two orders of super-size fries, and three of those apple-pies each. Once I got everything down on the table, I noticed Michael wasn't there. He was over at the counter talking to one of the customers.
"Holy fuck, what is this prick about to do now?" I thought.
And so I make my way near. The girl is laughing at something he says, she's about to slap his chest, the jester to signify a genuine interest by interpreting the sheer hilariousness of whatever the hell it was you'd just said. I didn't want the poor girl to be fooled by Michael's good looks and charms... I needed to make it clear. He WILL frighten you. He WILL fuck you, and he WILL precede to make you feel like a worthless piece of shit. I grabbed the woman's arm and stopped her just in time.
"Uh, no Ms. you wouldn't wanna be doing that. Dangerous man and all, he is. Better off taking your food and on your way. He has hay fever you know, very contagious."
She cringed and scurried away. I nodded at the woman, and Michael took a slug on me. This is bad. Michael is a high, towering, 6"3, and about an even 200 pounds, give or take, so to me… that was heavy hitting. I fell back like a domino in a bout of bad wind. The whole of McDonald's had their eyes on us, and so we were ordered to take our food outside and leave the premises immediately. There was no way in hell I'd be able to fight the big fucker back right then, for several reasons. "Ah well" I shrugged. "I'll get the bastard when he's sleeping"
-To Be continued.

[stilltrucking]

That kooky cousin Michael, believe it or not folks, .... he inspired me to write this piece,

Thanks cuz that was a pretty dam good inspiration

[izeveryboyin]

hmmm, you can always count on those kooky junkie/hipster types for a certain amount of literary inspiration!
Season's Greetings form the land of Coffee and Cigarettes