litter

May 29, 2008 - 18:45 PM PST

I asked him how old he was. He said seventeen. I told him, I don’t support underage tobacco use.

I turn and leave the store. Steven follows me, “Come on, give him one…I always do when I have some…he’s a good kid…”

“And what will you give me if I do?” I ask.

“Something…” He smiles, looks at my tits and moves his hips toward me.

“I already sampled you, isn’t worth an entire cigarette… free candy, next time I come in.”

“The sooner the better…” He says.

I hand him two menthols. He looks down and smiles.
“One is for you to give to him, the other one is from me – tell the kid he owes me.”

We smile at each other.

“You know, you can have candy anytime you want it.” He says.
“I know, we’re friends aren’t we?” I say, as I walk away.


Steven is smart enough to know he isn’t smart enough to be my anything.

And I walk along the side of the road. Breathing in deeply, concentrating.
Where I should be is in class. Where I should be is trying to get a job. Where I should be is standing unified with other do-gooder's changing the world.

What I’m doing is smoking.

The kids waiting for the bus stop are making out. The old lady is staring at me.
I want to hug her.
Seven years ago I would have.
Now I just stare back.

When I was 12 I found a puppy dying. It looked like it was dying. And at 12 appearances are everything.

I’m walking home from school, with this bloody puppy in my arms. I’m crying, big crocodile tears. I’m telling the puppy to wait until I get home to die, because at 12 you need permission to do anything.

---

I let the cigarette butt slip through my fingers and onto the pavement. I’m littering. I don’t want it to look like I’m littering.

At 24, appearances are everything.