1.
smoking at 3AM on the porch reminds me that 23 years ago when i last smoked i once did it seated on the trunk lid of a chevy nova naked in the woods after parking with a woman older than i was by ten years in the deep summer and i was too coked up to notice the mosquitoes feasting on me.
she sat next to me not smoking but sucking down a budweiser while downing percodans. she had a broken leg and on another night soon enough i would carry her out of the place where we got stuck to a house to awaken a man who pulled us off the sandbar with his truck.
that was the same night mike was stabbed to death about a mile and a half from where we were — pulled off arthur by a well meaning friend in the middle of a fight and arthur then got up bloodied from the ground and stabbed him once in the heart.
i did not learn of this until the next afternoon when i awoke and refused to believe it until i was shown the article in the paper.
2.
smoking at 3 AM on the porch reminds me that 23 years ago when i last smoked i had a clear singing voice that was decaying rapidly under the tobacco and cocaine assault. everything in my head was a constant drip and hack. i expected it to stop of its own accord and it never did.
when i tried to sing along with a southern rock band at the local roadhouse i croaked like a bullfrog. i stood in front of the speakers and swayed while screaming along at the top of my lungs.
in those days we could smoke indoors. i recall going to the machine and buying my fourth pack of the day, then lighting up on the dance floor while i tried to be cool for yet another remotely interesting face.
there were times when i knew the face was trouble and yet i danced anyway.
3.
tonight, the porch is lonely and cold. i am trying to recapture every dangerous and wonderful moment and it’s not working. i remember the faces and the music. it was the last time i thought marshall tucker was even close to ok. i would have fucked anything with a cowboy hat and valenti jeans.
all the time i lived a better life elsewhere — in legion posts in worcester and dank bars in providence and boston there were bands that played no song longer than two minutes. i never picked up anyone in those places but the music was sexier than a long neck beer because it made me hurt.
i liked to hurt. i liked to bash my head against the music. i liked the way i rapidly forgot the girls of the roadhouse, the chevy hanging in midair on the embankment, the blood on mike’s shirt. i forgot it all in the clean pain of admitting i knew this music better than my birthright.
i don’t recall smoking in those places, although i know i did.
4.
in a small town your cigarette is your banner. are you a marlboro man, a salem smoker, a newport fan? when you offer a seatmate in the bar a light, are you betraying your faith? do you know the secret handshake? can you blow a smoke ring or do a french inhale?
these days i switch brands on a daily basis. back then i had a main brand, a backup, and brands i would not smoke at all. i like this better because it allows me to pretend that i am still a dilettante when it comes to smoking — all that history seems so quaint when i light one up from the next of an endless variety of packs.
and as for music — tonight i’ve got parliament on the box in the bedroom. somewhere out there i’ve got a girlfriend who likes jimmy buffett. a wipers CD sits unplayed on the shelf and there are a hundred reasons why there are no southern rock CDs anywhere within reach.
smoking again at 3AM and i bet i will want another cigarette after this one’s gone. i always have, no matter what comes between them.
Dark Matter 