



I was losing my mind. It wasn’t the constant fear of failure or the way I am paralyzed. It wasn’t my withdrawal from the city I fell in love with. It wasn’t the thousands of dollars I owe people, or the tens of thousands I owe institutions.



I was out of cigarettes.



The weight of the world can be staved off one puff at a time. I can pass a whole week in bed smoking, listening to and watching comedy and trying not to cry. I love whiskey, but I don’t need it. I need this.



Like the addict I am, I ran through every option in my head to think of how to end the suffering. I only had forty cents. I don’t know anyone in my building, save for the young kid who bummed me two once when I was carrying laundry – but he didn’t his answer his door, if I even remembered the apartment number he gave me correctly. I called in every favor from every person who doesn’t owe me one. I took stock.



A coupon drenched in irony for $3 off of two packs of cigarettes, and four full, working lighters I had received gratis from the twenty-four hour corner store for previous packs I bought. I still have shoes and a coat, thankfully. And forty cents.



So I left my apartment for the gas station. I knew there was an older woman who worked the cash register there, who had more kindness than straight teeth. She was a smoker. She would recognize me from buying off-brand cigarettes with quarters and dimes. I had a plan.



I left the house – something I hate doing anymore. But I had a mission. I walked on the icy path toward the corner; toward salvation.



I thought, “This is stupid. What do I expect is going to happen?”



But there is a relentless optimist inside me. He lies on cold basement cement, sputtering and choking on his own blood, begging me to let him live because in his heart he believes maybe tomorrow I won’t thrash him with medieval torture instruments again. I’ve had enough of his pleading. I want to finish the job. I want him dead.



Weakly, he replied “You don’t ever know what’s going to happen until you take the steps to find out.”



I turned to cross the road. I saw a man ahead of me in the night, already doing so. He looked like he had just come from the store and had something in his hand. I kept walking forward. I began to approach him, hoping not to scare him by my sudden decision. He pulled a glorious white cylinder from the rectangular oasis in his grasp.



He was an older man with a winter hat on. He had a pack of Eagles – even I don’t know what the hell those are. “Hey, man. Can I buy a smoke from you?”



He said, “You can just have one.” He handed it to me. Ah, the Cancerous Code. I’d have a small fortune for all of the dollars I have refused from a fellow addict in need.



“Well hey, listen. Would you trade me a couple? I have these…,” I pulled the rainbow of four plastic lighters from my pocket, “they are full and they work.”



“Sure, how many do you want?”



“I dunno. Three?” I expected him to pull out two more plus the one I gripped ever-so-gently for fear of breaking it.



“I’ll give you four.”



He handed me four more. I thanked him profusely and explained the situation, but he was disinterested and already walking away. I followed him back to my apartment, slowly so I didn’t scare him again. I watched him open the door to my building and disappear inside it. Part of me thinks these people don’t even exist; that they are angels sent from God to help me feel better about leaving a little faster from a life I can’t seem to properly live anyway.



I smoked three of them in the time it took for me to write this.



But tonight, I kneel carefully beside the optimist, and whisper in his ear, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I walk up the creaky wooden steps, turn out the light, and close the basement door.