Cigarette
Hank couldn’t smoke in his room, nor anywhere in the building. You would think, he often said to himself, that in treating one big addiction they would let him enjoy some little addiction, for a while anyway. But no. Still, he was free to come and go in the mornings when, they must have figured, there would be the least temptation, or the fewest dealers out on the street.
Giving the guests mornings showed trust, and an expectation of responsibility that they would have to prove themselves up to if they ever wanted to get out of the program. Everyone was expected back by lunch, as the afternoons were for sessions, both individual and group, and evenings were for dinner and however they cared to occupy themselves in the community room. For eighteen hours a day they were on lockdown—the word he always used, with a bemused chuckle—but from six to noon he was free.
He woke, like most mornings, with a taste for a cigarette. A taste, almost a longing for a smoke. Within minutes he was out the door, the cool darkness gradually yielding to the warmer glare of morning. The facility receded behind him as he slowly made his way down Lafayette Avenue, the buildings of downtown to his right and the railroad embankment to his left. He wasn’t going downtown. Too many eyes, too many questions about a smoke that really was nobody else’s business.
He crossed Hatcher Street, then Osborn and then Kendrick, each time peering down the side street and through the viaduct for any activity beyond, Not that he was looking for any activity or anyone. Both were to be avoided; solitude and peace were what he wanted. He again felt the taste of tobacco on his tongue, the warmth of the paper tip against his lips, the rush and calm as the nicotine kicked in. Soon. He patted his pocket, and felt the reassuring crinkle within for the third or fourth time since he left the facility that morning.
When he reached Perkins Avenue he turned toward the viaduct and entered its damp shadows. Looking up he noticed the corrosion that blanketed the steel beams, and how the beams were splotched here and there with bird shit. He heard the coo of an unseen pigeon and instinctively hunched his shoulders to avoid any splatter, even as he realized that if the pigeon couldn’t be seen then he was probably safe.
He reemerged into the sunlight and began to cross the broad parking lot where only one bus idled, empty. As he passed he read the sign in the side window—INDIANAPOLIS. Nowhere I want to go, he thought, nor anywhere else. He was comfortable here, and didn’t come to the bus station for any bus. He eyed the building as he came closer, looking to see whether the janitor had made his rounds yet.
He stepped to the entrance door and glanced inside, seeing only a few people as he moved on, off to the side where the cigarette receptacle stood at the minimum posted distance from the entrance. Lifting the receptacle, he was pleased by its heft. Inside it he found dozens of butts, most of them burned down to the filter but quite a few smoked only halfway, as if discarded in a rush, leaving behind plenty of tobacco.
He sat on the loading dock of an abandoned factory, his legs dangling in midair as he tore open each butt and delicately flicked the precious leaf down into the folded sheet of paper in his lap. The facility didn’t allow rolling papers—which couldn’t be used for anything other than smoking—either, and so he hoped that the thin sheet of copier paper would do. When the butts were exhausted he rolled the sheet, tight but not too tight, and twisted the ends. He open the matchbook, tore out a match and was just about to strike it when he remembered.
Hank paused, reached down with his free hand and pulled his shirt over his head and off, and tossed it aside. He couldn’t risk the shirt smelling of smoke when he got back to the facility, and lose the few morning privileges he had. He put the cigarette to his lips, struck the match and lit up. He sat, shirtless and legs dangling, puffing as slowly as he could. Making it last, enjoying the taste and finally the gentle kick, and savoring his morning.