Notsorandomman's Journal (original) (raw)

You are viewing the most recent 25 entries.

24th August 2005

4:17pm: Have you seen this man?

24th November 2003

11/21/03 - Canton, OH - Total Living Center

Praise the lawd! This show was held in a church... but it looked like more of a community center. This show was also the first all ages show that we played in Canton in over two years! That's a good thing, because all of the other all-ages shows that we played there went very well; as did this one. Nick had some techincal difficulties before the set, so I was forced to do some very poor stand-up comedy. I teased the Ohioans that the Buckeyes were going to lose on Saturday, and lucky for me.. they did! I don't even know too much about football, but one thing that's interesting is that you can talk about football in front of a crowd at a rock show in Ohio and it's totally accepted. Try pulling that shit in Michigan and you'll get funny looks all night.
Mike from Kill Franklyn let Nick use his amp, and the show began. The PA had a very old reverb tank in it, and whenever we jumped too hard, it rattled like crazy through the whole system; it was kinda funny, but more annoying. Regardless, the place was packed and we had a great time. Kill Franklyn played excellent that night, and the crowd was OUT OF CONTROL! A big thanks from us to KF for the show. We'll be bringing them up here to Detroit soon, so be sure to come check them out.

11/22/03 - Flint, MI - Flint Local 432

This show was being held at the Metropolis for reasons I don't know, but I actually liked it was better than the original local and original Metropolis! The monitors weren't too great, but I really liked the layout of the building (not to mention not having to load up that flight of stairs like before at the Mertopolis). There were a lot of kids there, and every band gave it their all. We made many trips between the local and the bar across the alley called The Torch, which is a cool little hole-in-the-wall bar that serves some mean jalapeno poppers.

Every band performed well... I can only say that these bands played their asses off so many times.. hopefully anyone who hasn't seen some of these bands yet (Torrid, Hearsay TAO, Crackjaw, Jettared) will come see us all at Jamestowne Hall this Saturday the 29th. Don't take my word for it; see for yourself.

Also, we have booked another show in Canton. It'll be our first basement show in FOUR YEARS! Here is the flyer:

![](https://imgprx.livejournal.net/1a6ba1e5f4abb65a00fc64ae3e5a2b44540bb80c/RNDmAyztQK46IZ-xj-u_jROia7uty6_Qbs6UT7e-QK1Lpc8q_Sv3Zr1gensTSDpF9WZOSvkgHMaNxsaNT4-lrQ)

21st November 2003

12:06pm: Show updates

11/18/03 - Ann Arbor, MI - The Blind Pig

I've been hearing about the blind pig for years, and this was my first gig there. One thing I noticed as soon as we walked in was the lack of cleanliness. Now, I know that bars aren't exactly the cleanest establishments, but when I walked into this building, I just got that instant feeling of having a film of dirt over my entire body.

I knew this place was grunge.

Anyway, we set up on the tiny stage, and Johnny had to improvise with cinderblocks to get his rig to stay on stage. The sound guy was real cool to work with, which is always nice. The place wasn't full, but there was a decent amount of people there, plus a few people who had seen us at our last Ann Arbor show.

We played fairly well, but during the sixth song, there was music playing over the PA! I suppose that was our cue that we had gone on too long. It didn't seem to phase us. We finished the song without err.

11/19/03 - Hamtramck, MI - Small's

Small's is a great venue; they're very cool to the band and the building is great. But people just don't want to seem to go to Hamtramck! We took advantage of the situation and played a very concentrated set, because they just hooked up a stereo mic by the mixing board to tape shows. We didn't exactly walk away with a mass of new fans, but we got one hell of a live recording! We talked with the management a bit and we're planning on booking a show there in late January; we want to make this show HUGE, so keep your eyes peeled for the flyers.11/20/03 - Mt. Clemens, MI - Emerald Theater

This was our second time playing here, and both shows have been great. Bands are treated respectfully and the shows are run very professionally. The quality of shows that we have been playing lately definitely seems to be improving, and that is great.Matt Busch did an INCREDIBLE job putting this show together, and the turnout was phenomenal. We played very well, and one thing that I found interesting is that we really don't know quite what to do with such a big stage! Looks like it's time to get a wireless reciever so I can gallop around like James Hetfield.

Shows: 11/21/03 - Canton, OH - Total Living Center 11/22/03 - Flint, MI - The Metropolis 11/29/03 - Saginaw, MI - Jamestowne Hall 12/6/03 - Grand Rapids, MI - The Liquid Room 12/11/03 - Flint, MI - The Machine Shop (Double Header:) 12/12/03 - Lansing, MI - Impulse II (first) 12/12/03 - Lansing, MI - Temple Club (second) 12/18/03 - Akron, OH - VooDoo 12/21/03 - Detroit, MI - The Magic Stick

16th November 2003

3:32pm: Show Update First, I humbly apologize for the lack of updates lately.

( 11/14/03 - Canton, OH - (Whiskey Lounge?) BB Mclain's Collapse )

( 11/15/03 - Toledo, OH - Headliner's Collapse )

Upcoming Shows:

11/18/03 - Ann Arbor, MI - The Blind Pig
11/19/03 - Hamtramck, MI - Small's
11/20/03 - Mt. Clemens, MI - Emerald Theater
11/21/03 - Canton, OH - Total Living Center
11/22/03 - Flint, MI - Flint Local 432 (temporarily located next door at the Metropolis)
11/29/03 - Saginaw, MI - Ye Olde Jamestowne Hall
12/6/03 - Grand Rapids, MI - The Liquid Room
12/11/03 - Flint, MI - The Machine Shop
12/18/03 - Akron, OH - VooDoo
12/21/03 - Detroit, MI - The Magic Stick

Please visit arizing.com for further details on the shows, as well as news, multimedia, downloads, Arizing Store, and the Arizing Message Board.

11th July 2003

10:36am: Arizing CD Release Show (update) I'd just like to inform you all that it might be a wise idea to order your tickets for the CD release show (Wednesday, July 30th) in advance. At the CD release show for "Womb," we pulled in approximately 325 people. Small's only holds 250. I guess that's why they call it Small's!

Additionally, we have established a store release date of Tuesday, August 5th. Be sure to pester the managers at your local Best Buy stores to keep the CD on the shelves!

The respose so far for False Semester has been

amazing

, and we'd like to sincerely thank all of you who are helping to spread the word.

Also, we have a very thriving message board. Please join if you haven't already.

12th December 2002

10:56am: This is your final warning:

d_klein

6th December 2002

8:45am: Be sure to meet the new me.

d_klein

5th December 2002

11:55am: I've certainly outgrown the "Evilmachine00" moniker, and therefore, this will be the final entry in the evilmachine00 Livejournal.

I thought I'd select a screen name that I will never grow out of, so my new livejournal anti-alias is d_klein.

4th December 2002

12:42pm: Uncle Rick Ahhh, Christmas. A very memorable time of year for me. I'm a bah-humbugger, and people often give me a hard time about that. I've only told a select few people why I feel this way. Let me tell you about Christmas in '95.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My Uncle Rick was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis at the age of nineteen. Prior to that, he was a fully functional human, like you and me. His father was an abusive drunk. Uncle Rick's eighteenth birthday present from his father was a ten dollar bill for cab fare to wherever he was going to move to. He didn't have a choice in the issue, but I'm sure that he wanted to get the hell out of there anyway.
Not too long after his diagnosis, his health steadily declined. By '87 he was in a wheelchair, his spine curved so badly that he could no longer walk. He lived in a shitty house in a shitty neighborhood, surviving off the meager disability checks he was getting, combined with the little money our families could afford to give him. We visited him often because he was a pretty lonely guy, and he needed help with many things around the house. As much as I hated doing chores in my own home, I did anything that uncle Rick asked me to do, no questions asked. I didn't even complain when I had to clean up the rat shit that could be found in almost every corner of his house. We weren't allowed in the basement because the rat problem was so bad.
Uncle Rick was an incredibly sweet man with an awesome sense of humor, which was deeply appreciated because it was so rarely seen. Depression usually got the best of him.
During one visit, my uncle Mike and Aunt Audrey had to help him with the device that he used to urinate because is was broken. They sent us kids in the other room. How embarrassing it must have been for a fully grown man to need help urinating? Uncle Rick was an alcoholic, and I don't think I need to explain why.
In the winter of '92, some people broke into his house and beat him badly before stealing his TV and VCR. They beat him some more because he didn't have anything else worth stealing. Days later, he moved in with us. I admire my mother for taking him in, because at the same time she was dealing with the divorce. We were really the only ones who had the room though.
In the summer of the following year, I was waken up daily by the wailing cries of uncle Rick. It was a cry that could not possibly be made by someone who hadn't gone through what he had. He never told us (probably because we never asked), but the cries were probably a product of severe depression. It was disturbing, to say the least, and I never got used to it. This was the only thing that made me look forward to the end of summer break; He usually woke up at nine o'clock, after I was already in school. I had a hard enough time making and keeping friends, so I didn't dare invite any of the few I had to stay the night in fear that they'd be turned away by the cries of uncle Rick.
Uncle Rick had a book of about 20 photos, all of himself when he could still walk. He was doing something active in each photo. I saw him looking at them each morning, while taking swigs from a bottle of Absolut. We never would have bought alcohol for him, but he had a handicapped-equipped van that he could drive around whenever he needed to go somewhere. I'm not really sure where he ever went, but I know that he at least stopped at the Buscemi's by my house.
One of the worst things I've ever done was take the book away when he wasn't looking. I hid it under my bed, hoping that taking it away might help him. I was wrong. The crying was louder and more prolonged than ever before, and he his drinking got even more intense. I put the book back, and despite his prodding attempts to find out who took his pictures, I never confessed.
In the spring of '94, all of our family vowed to pitch in and rent him an apartment specifically designed for the handicapped. He became noticeably happier, but his drinking problem never got any better. At least now he had assistants to help him with his every need.

Christmas '95. Festivities were held at Aunt Audrey's house, in Royal Oak. It was a one-story ranch, and there wasn't really enough room for all of us, but it was her turn to host the gathering. Holidays were especially tough for uncle Rick, and even worse for his drinking problem. Every holiday reminded him of sour memories of his lush father.
Around four o'clock Rick had been in the bathroom for quite a long time, but we thought nothing of it because of his condition. A few times he was asked if he needed any help, but each time he declined the offer. We could hear him sobbing in there, which also wasn't too uncommon. We decided to let him have his time alone.
Just before it was time to eat, we heard a crash come from the bathroom. We all rushed over to the door, and my Uncle Mike knocked and asked if he was alright. -No Reply- Uncle Mike stood back and gave the door one solid kick, breaking it open. Lying on the ground was a bleeding uncle Rick. His wheelchair was lying on it's side, next to him.
"Call 911!" My uncle Mike exclaimed. My Aunt Jan spoke to the operator with a trembling voice. It was clear that the cuts to his wrist were self-inflicted, with a razorblade. The cuts were deep and long. That's one thing I remember best about Uncle Rick; he

always

meant business. The sight of the sliced flesh made me cringe as I imagined what it would feel like if the skin was my own. Uncle Mike wrapped uncle Rick's wrists with towels and held him in his arms until the ambulance came, rocking him and trying to revive him. It was too late. We watched uncle Rick bleed to death on the bathroom floor. I've never seen so many people crying for so long in my entire life. Those of us that hadn't lost our appetite that night ate a cold Christmas dinner in complete silence.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So if you ever hear me speaking of any "Bah Humbugs," please just ignore it and refrain from trying to give me a little Christmas cheer. When I think about uncle Rick, I hate Christmas. When I was younger, I'd go through the neighborhood destroying lawn ornaments and whatnot. It was clearly not the right way to deal with the anger, but it was the only thing that made me take my mind off it. Now I know better, but sometimes I tear down the garland that they hang up near my cubicle at work because it still makes me feel just a little bit better.

I fucking miss you, uncle Rick.

8:17am: When I was nine years old, I would look through our photo albums and see all these pictures with my father's face cut out of them. It was his way of dealing with the separation. What I saw was a smiling young me with a jagged hole where a father's face should have been.

Only when I reflect on instances such as these does it makes sense that I often feel the way I do.

They plant these seeds when we are young. They cultivate the seeds without even knowing it. Only when the weeds are growing out of our eyes, ears, nose, and mouth do they know. No matter how hard I pull and how much I dig, I can't tear these deep roots out; they are embedded forever. The smell of freshly cut vegetation twists the knife hard.

I take after my father, for better and for worse. And I just might cut my face out of this picture soon.

3rd December 2002

12:10pm:

We are very serious about our career.

11:57am: Annoyed yet? One thing that really annoys me these days is all the senseless violence that can be seen on television.

2nd December 2002

10:00am: Relief Last Saturday, the 30th, we played a show at the Wired Frog. Afterwards, I was packing my gear up when Becky ran up to get me, telling me that Matt had seen someone trying to break into my van. I quickly walked outside and Matt told me that he had seen someone tampering with my driver's side door, and ran away when Matt saw him. Upon further investigation, the man had broken into the truck next to me and had come very close to making it into mine as well. Fortunately for the owner of the truck next to mine, nothing had been taken. He had a couple of guitars in there, so it was obvious that this guy was after cash. What a dumb criminal, looking for cash in the cars of people who go to the Wired Frog. Nevertheless, I felt glad that he didn't make it into my van. It's a pretty shitty experience having your vehicle broken into.
I thanked Matt and Becky for being on the lookout for me (as I would have been for them, or any of my other friends). As I went back inside the building, I thought to myself how I really wished I would have caught him in the act. I thought about all of the things that I would have done, planning it from beginning to end in case the opportunity ever arose again. Not only would I use him as a scapegoat for the last time my van got broken into, but also as a scapegoat for anyone whom I ever wanted to beat the hell out of. I sure was disappointed that I hadn't caught him though. I shrugged it off.
I began wheeling Nick's bass cabinet outside, and when I got to the trailer, I was the only one outside. For safe measure, I walked over near my van to see if the thief had come back. My heart jumped- he was crouching next to my door!!! I silently observed him for a few moments as he was plunging a long, flat metal object into my door, parallel with the window. He was a black man wearing a dark-colored hooded sweatshirt, and by my best guess, he was in his late twenties. By this time, my heart was racing. Even in the freezing cold, I could feel my palms begin to sweat. What had only been a few seconds felt like days remaining motionless. I considered what I had planned in my head, and knew that I had to act. I began running toward him. The sound of my footsteps gave him a head start; he didn't even look towards me to acknowledge that I was after him; he knew. My adrenaline must have been flowing full bore, because I don't think I have ever run so fast. My prior planning told me that it wasn't likely that he had a weapon, but just in case, I withdrew my pocket knife and opened the blade. I clenched it in my fist, blade pointing downward and the sharp edge away from my body; the proper way to hold a knife in hand-to-hand combat (that way you can still punch, and use the sharp edge without having to change your grip. It adds a bit of weight to your fist as well, causing a bit more damage).
He led the pursuit down an alley, which could have been bad if he had a weapon; an alley would be an ideal place to use it. With that thought in mind I considered stopping; and at that very instant, he hit a patch of ice and slid to the ground. This was the moment I had been waiting for! I leapt into the air and landed just the way I wanted to, with my knee gouging into his side, just below the rib cage. He yelped like a wounded dog. The kidney-shot was effective, causing him to lose his breath. And after a chase like that, he could have very well passed out. But now that he couldn't breathe, I had him right where I wanted him. My heart was beating so hard and fast that I thought it was going to burst right out of me, like in a cartoon. I tried my best to keep my cool. I was kneeling on top of him, and I packed my right fist so tightly that it was one with the knife that it was clenching. His face was turned to the right, and I sledged my fist into it so hard that I felt his cheekbone collapse with the blow. It was a snapping sound that made me wrench just a little bit. I had put my whole body weight into the hit, and of all the times I had imagined punching someone, it was never as intense as this punch had turned out to be. The recoil slammed his head into the concrete. His prior vigorous squirm was reduced to a sedated shuffle with just that one hit. I paused; and thought about getting up and walking away. But I just didn't feel like my thirst for vengeance had been quenched. I thought about this man breaking into my vehicle, wanting to take my hard-earned possessions from me so he wouldn't have to earn anything on his own. I thought about this man bragging to his friends about how he broke into these stupid white punks' cars and took their valuables. 'Not fucking mine,' I told myself.
Overcome with a fit of rage and power, I turned him over and stood up over him, with one foot on each side of his body. I began slamming my right fist into his face repeatedly until I was out of breath. I think I hit him about 15-20 times. My hand was throbbing with pain, but because of the adrenaline and cold air, it was easy to ignore. I looked as his badly swelling face, and by now, he was slipping out of consciousness. His eyes were rolling back into his head, but he was still squirming a little bit. I had forgotten about the knife in my hand. I thought about how statistics show that even after being caught, thieves usually commit crimes like these time and time again. I thought that giving him a permanent reminder would be the right thing to do. I plunged the knife into his flesh just in front of his left ear with a bit of reluctance. I felt the blade hit bone. He let out a weak grunt, not convincing enough for me to stop. I dragged the blade down his cheek, and once over the side of his mouth, the blade slipped completely inside his mouth like a hot knife through butter. I had felt the blade grate against his molars. Honestly, that scared me a little bit and I knew that no more damage should be done. I pulled the knife out and stood up. I didn't move for a few seconds, in utter disbelief of what had just happened. I looked at my bloodied hands and felt the most primitive form of animalistic victory. I felt proud and empowered.
I took his hooded sweatshirt off of him and used it to clean the blood off of my knife and hands. I couldn't get all of it off, but I got the bulk of it. I threw his sweatshirt back on top of him and walked away. Not a word was said throughout the entire event.
After that, no one knew I had been gone. No one saw the blood on my clothes. No one saw the blood on my hands. Only one person questioned why my knuckles were freshly cut up, and I lied by saying I punched a wall like an idiot. They instantly wrote off any other blood that they saw on my hands as my own. I felt no urge to tell anyone what had happened. No one needed to know. I went home that night and slept better than I ever had.

I'm still a bit nervous that someone might have seen what happened, or that he might tell the police. But what would he tell them? I attacked him for committing a crime. My actions are probably excessive in someone else's eyes, and I assaulted with a deadly weapon. But I'm not worried that he'll go to the police. For all I know, he could have bled to death right there in that alley. That doesn't bother me. What does bother me is knowing that I can do such a thing with incredible focus and ease, and feel no remorse for it. I've never felt better. I hung out with some people and didn't get angry about a single thing. I came in to work today, and I feel great. For all the times I had to suppress my anger, I released it on this man, and I think it was very therapeutic. I purged out all of the anger that I usually have to keep inside me. As long as I catch someone in a heinous act against me every five years or so, then I think I'm going to be a very happy person.

There is still some dried blood on my hands, and I don't want to wash it off. I wear it like a trophy.

Current Mood: energetic

30th November 2002

12:49pm: Need something to do? Just a friendly reminder that Arizing will be playing tonight, November 30th at the Wired Frog with Jettared, Pooch, and Downtown Brown.

Hope to see you there!

29th November 2002

8:48pm: It's true....

I'm not too tough for hugs.

28th November 2002

3:38am: This fluff's for you: When I was younger, we would have bicycle races and I'd lose. We'd play tag and I'd get caught in a matter of seconds. We'd play football and I'd get crushed and fumble all the time. One day Jonathan kept tackling me much harder than necessary, so I bent his glasses. He cried. I went home.

Things are different now, no one can catch me.

When I stop running, I notice that they've long since stopped chasing.

If you want me to be your tetherball, smack me around a little bit. If you don't want me to be your tetherball, please cut my string and hit me one last time.

Because I don't want to hang here forever.

27th November 2002

1:19pm: The only thing that makes work enjoyable: getting lunk on my drunch break.

26th November 2002

11:09pm: My leaps of faith begin on nights like those in late August and end on nights like these. The turbulence is intense!

If you're going to the show this Saturday at the Wired Frog, then you might want to bring a helmet.

6:56pm: Here's a good one.

I didn't have to go straight to the studio today, so I stopped at Kroger on the way home to pick up a pumkin pie and a pecan pie to bring to Nana's for Thanksgiving. Waiting in the checkout line, I noticed some coupons that you could scan to donate money to go towards feeding the hungry. I thought back to earlier in the day when I was hungry at work and didn't have a dollar to buy some food from the snack machine. I chose to donate a dollar to the hungry. It felt nice.
I stopped at the ATM on the way out, and after waiting for the man in front of me to finish, I noticed that he had left his card in place! My first thought was to stop him, and then for a brief moment, I considered how easy it would be to empty his account for him. My better judgment told me to call him back for his card, which I did. He wasn't too appreciative... fucker.

Two nice things made me feel pretty good. I didn't have the best weekend in the world, but I always forget that doing nice things for other people puts me in a better mood.

I get home and for the first time in about a month, I had the chance to make myself a meal and enjoy it without having to rush through it. I made two nice, big sandwiches, and complimented them with some Triscuit whole-wheat crackers. I poured myself a tall glass of water, and sat down on the couch to enjoy. I sank my teeth into one of the two sandwiches and reeled before I spat out the slobbery chunk.

The meat was rancid.

Angered, I disposed of the sandwiches and Triscuit whole-wheat crackers, fearing that the Triscuit whole-wheat crackers would have been contaminated by the rancid meat. I poured myself a bowl of honey-nut cheerios and opened the refrigerator door to discover that we had no milk. Not that it mattered now, I poured the cereal back, not surprised that there was no milk.

So I ate two granola bars for dinner. YUM!

Maybe it's just me, but that equation doesn't seem to compute quite right. 2 good deeds = 2 failed attempts at eating and enjoying a home-made meal.

5:28pm: Eternal guaranteed happiness is going to cost me roughly $2000 that I do not currently have. I suppose that eternal guaranteed happiness will just have to wait. Maybe I'll play the lotto...

I think I can force it until then. And there's no shame in that.

12:12pm: I must be dyslexic today. I've been skimming over everything, but nevertheless, Will Haven merchdise is on its way.

I need some good news. Anyone have any?

25th November 2002

12:10pm: The weak cling to the weak.

Seeing you two so happy is so cute... I really mean that, it's cute. God bless you.

The weak cling to the weak.

9:04am: I'm looking for a new job, and these are my requirements:

Intense amounts of physical labor and emotional strain/trauma, constant traveling, interaction with as few human beings as possible. If you know of any position of the sort, please notify me as soon as possible. I will start immediately.

That is the job of my dreams, and that is no joke.

22nd November 2002

11:37am: Orange Highlighter I wake up to the smell of my mother's cigarette smoke. I usually have a difficult time waking up, but that smoke wafted through the half-inch gap between my door and the carpet, and I made it clear to myself that I wanted to be out of that fucking house as fast as my half-awake body could move me. My mother tells me to wake up my sister. I open my sister's door and retch; her room smells like a bowling alley from all the cigarettes that she smokes. She's sixteen. I get dressed and head downstairs. I pass by my stepfather on the stairs and hold my breath to avoid inhaling his exhaled cigarette smoke.
I remember my father telling me: "Don't tell your stepmother." He'd smoke cigarettes when we went somewhere, confiding in me that I wouldn't tell his wife. He'd use bottle-deposit money to buy cheap-ass poor man cigarettes so my step mom wouldn't notice. He tried hard.
I passed the TV on my way out the door, and saw the Phillip Morris anti-smoking commercial. I began driving to work and decided that I'd stop and buy some orange juice. But then I remembered that I don't have any money. There was a time when I was about fifteen and worked at a party store; I would steal packs of cigarettes and sell them at school for five dollars a pack. I'd surely have money for orange juice if I was still in that business.
So I finally make it into work and by about eight O'clock I'm sick of being here. I watch a co-worker go outside for the ten minute smoke break that they are entitled to. I keep working. Later, I go to another co-worker's area to ask a question. I acknowledge the fresh, minty smell in their cubicle that comes from the saliva that they expel while chewing smokeless tobacco. He has two cold sores on his lips.
I left work at three thirty, and at a red light, I looked to my right and saw a very attractive female. She raised a cigarette to her mouth and took a sincere and passionate drag. I sure wished I was that cigarette. The light turned green after I realized that I was feeling more alone than ever before. Actually, I had never felt so depressed. I spent the remainder of the ride home compiling a list of things that I could do to help cheer myself up.
Nothing worked. I played guitar, rode my bike, watched TV, played video games. I felt even worse than before, actually. I had to leave the house. By then it was pitch black out. Overcast and rainy, still. I bought some coffee, and as I sipped the piping hot liquid, I decided that this habit was getting burnt out. Besides, coffee tastes just like ashtray water after you've been in enough freeze-dried-since-1972-smoke-filled-diners. I finished the coffee anyway. I got on the expressway with no destination.
I was about sixteen miles from the Ohio border when I exited I-75 and pulled into the truck stop parking lot. As I was approaching the gas station portion of the building, a trucker nodded at me. I stared right through him and stamped out the cigarette butt that he just threw on the ground. I hesitated; then entered the gas station. "Hard Pack of Marlboro Reds," the woman in line said to the gas station attendant. I waited my turn, then stepped up to the counter, staring at the female clerk. I waited for a greeting that I knew would never come. She raised her brow, implying that I was wasting her time. "Hard Pack of Marlboro Reds," I said. "And a lighter."
I walked to the trucker diner attached to the gas station and was greeted by an old woman, probably in her sixties. I noted the subtly worn rectangle in her left apron pocket where years of cigarette packs had outlined their comfortable little space in her life. "Smoking or Non," she questioned in a voice devoid of friendliness. "Smoking," I replied. There was a glare in her eyes that I had never seen from anyone prior to that moment. There was some sort of connection, but I wasn't sure what exactly it was. She sat me down and I understood that the empty portion of the restaurant was the "non" section; the ceiling wasn't brown over there. I ordered a cup of coffee. A repeating slapping noise drew my attention to a booth to the right of me. I mimicked the fat man's actions, packing the cigarettes as naturally as I could. I hoped no one would suspect that I was new to this. I put all of my sliver money into the tableside jukebox and picked all of the Johnny Winter songs that they had. I lit up a smoke.
I smoked the whole pack. I spent hours analyzing and trying to figure out what exactly I had been missing out on. The cups of coffee came and went, and the ashtray filled. I didn't say a single word the entire time. I was there for what seemed like weeks. The odd part is that nothing else seemed to exist. I was deep in thought, as deep as the deepest trench in any ocean. I took the last drag of the last smoke, which was consumed all the way to the filter; just like the rest of them. I paid, tipped insufficiently and left. I got in my van and sat there. I felt calm, numb, and emotionally taxed. Tired. Fed up. Guilty, ashamed. These things streaked across my face like razor-sharp fingernails for the entire drive home. I felt hopeless.
When I got home, I parked my van and cut the engine, but didn't exit the vehicle. The rain pattered on the roof, and I suddenly burst into tears. It felt great. It squashed the sadness into a small foam cube that I could squeeze in my fist therapeutically. I don't know how long I wept for, but the sadness came back as the tears dried, leaving trails of weakness and proof of instability on my face.
I entered the house at about 5:47 am, about the time that I wake up for work. I pressed the puffy bags under my eyes in the mirror downstairs, hoping that my mother wouldn't acknowledge them. I could smell my hands and they reeked of cigarette smoke. I went upstairs and as I was about to enter my bedroom to change my clothes, I heard the flick of a lighter come from my mother's room. I paused and remained motionless for about a solid minute. I realized that for the first time in my life, I finally felt close to my family. I finally felt like we had something in common. I no longer felt alone. I was re-born as the man that I always wanted to be.