Regress
I was standing out at the Citgo across from the highway eating a cup of frozen yogurt the other day when I had this vision of Taylor Hanson standing beside me, smoking a cigarette. At first I mistook the delusion for possible schizophrenia until I realized it was simply inspiration. After recovering from the mental health scare, I went back to my room and penned the story. This is what I came up with.
I'm pretty impressed with how it came, for the most part at least. Curious to hear my writer friends' opinions and everything.
Much love,
Eve
Regress
When I pulled up to the run-down gas station at the end of my street, I saw him standing there holding money out to a man- desperation in his blue eyes. The man shrugged him off and walked away. He sunk to the ground and began kicking his boots into the dirt and throwing stones at his shoes. He didn’t look up at my large SUV when I pulled up- just concentrated on the growing hole in the ground before him.
He did finally look at me when the nozzle clicked and my tank was full. His face went pale and he looked down at the ground again, refusing to make eye contact with me. As I approached the gas station mini-mart, I noticed he kept his head down but his eyes up to watch me. He peeked around his long hair that fell in front of his eyes.
“What are you doing out here?” I asked him as I stood next to him, feet away from entering the mini-mart. “What are you asking people for?”
“Cigarettes,” he mumbled, still refusing to make eye contact.
“You can’t just walk in there and buy a pack?”
“No sir, I can’t.”
He fumbled a crumpled five dollar bill in his hands and dug his heels into the ground, not looking up at me once.
“Gimme your money,” I finally told him and he gratefully looked at my face in surprise and shoved the bill into my hands.
I trudged into the muggy building and shoved his grimy bill into my pocket, ducking my head at the man behind the counter who sat there watching a fuzzy show on a small television- chewing tobacco loudly.
“Filled up,” I nodded out at the window at my car and tossed my credit card down on the counter.
The man smacked the tobacco in his mouth and grunted in response. As he rang me up I scanned the cigarettes lined up behind him.
“And one pack of Marlboros… light.”
When I stepped back out into the setting sun, I tossed the box of cigarettes at the lost boy and muttered, “You shouldn’t be smoking.”
“I know,” he replied, eagerly tearing off the plastic and shoving it into his pocket.
I watched him expertly take a cigarette from the box, place it between his lips, and pull a lighter from his pocket. As he took a deep drag, it was obvious he’d been smoking for years.
“That’s why you smoke right? Is it some faint effort to slowly destroy your voice and your health?”
“Yep,” he nodded, cocking the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and looking out at the fast-moving highway.
“Taylor, you’re 22 years old. Why are you bumming cigarettes off of people and sitting around this empty gas station like a kid who has nothing better to do?” I sighed. I will never be able to completely understand my second eldest son. He is a breed in himself.
“Because I’m sick of it. I’m sick of being 22 years old,” he shrugged, blowing smoke into the wind before he looked me in the eye. “I’m 22 years old… and I just found out I’m expecting my third child. I’m too young to feel as old as I feel.”
I frowned. Not following.
“Dad,” he sighed, holding out his pack of cigarettes and offering me one even though he knew for a fact I didn’t condone smoking. He continued when I shook my head. “When I was 14, 15… 16 years old… I was traveling around the world working 18 hours a day. The next thing I knew I was married with kids. I blinked… and I was grown up. Don’t you ever get sick of being grown up? Don’t you ever wonder if you got to completely enjoy your childhood?”
“I guess,” I attempted to relate.
“I know that I didn’t. I know I missed out. I just wanted to go back… go back in time and take a day… hell, just take a few hours to relive the teenage years I never really lived at all. So I started walking, and I ended up here. And I sat and decided I’d ask someone to buy me the cigarettes I should have asked for when I was young… the cigarettes I was too busy to bum.”
His monologue was powerful. I looked at my son and for the first time I saw the old man he felt like. He had wrinkles around his eyes from stress and exhaustion- wrinkles around his mouth from years of smoking. His hair was pulled into a lose ponytail and his skin was rough and dry. I had no response adequate enough for his confession, so I just opened the door to my SUV and motioned for him to join me.
“Get in. Let me drive you home. It’s starting to get dark out,” I told him. “Home is two miles away, Tay.”
He held his cigarette at his side and shook a few ashes off into the wind. He shook his head.
“Cars are too fast, Dad. I just want everything to slow down.”
He gave me a thankful nod nonetheless, turned towards our street, and with a puff of his cigarette began walking home.
I'm pretty impressed with how it came, for the most part at least. Curious to hear my writer friends' opinions and everything.
Much love,
Eve
Regress
When I pulled up to the run-down gas station at the end of my street, I saw him standing there holding money out to a man- desperation in his blue eyes. The man shrugged him off and walked away. He sunk to the ground and began kicking his boots into the dirt and throwing stones at his shoes. He didn’t look up at my large SUV when I pulled up- just concentrated on the growing hole in the ground before him.
He did finally look at me when the nozzle clicked and my tank was full. His face went pale and he looked down at the ground again, refusing to make eye contact with me. As I approached the gas station mini-mart, I noticed he kept his head down but his eyes up to watch me. He peeked around his long hair that fell in front of his eyes.
“What are you doing out here?” I asked him as I stood next to him, feet away from entering the mini-mart. “What are you asking people for?”
“Cigarettes,” he mumbled, still refusing to make eye contact.
“You can’t just walk in there and buy a pack?”
“No sir, I can’t.”
He fumbled a crumpled five dollar bill in his hands and dug his heels into the ground, not looking up at me once.
“Gimme your money,” I finally told him and he gratefully looked at my face in surprise and shoved the bill into my hands.
I trudged into the muggy building and shoved his grimy bill into my pocket, ducking my head at the man behind the counter who sat there watching a fuzzy show on a small television- chewing tobacco loudly.
“Filled up,” I nodded out at the window at my car and tossed my credit card down on the counter.
The man smacked the tobacco in his mouth and grunted in response. As he rang me up I scanned the cigarettes lined up behind him.
“And one pack of Marlboros… light.”
When I stepped back out into the setting sun, I tossed the box of cigarettes at the lost boy and muttered, “You shouldn’t be smoking.”
“I know,” he replied, eagerly tearing off the plastic and shoving it into his pocket.
I watched him expertly take a cigarette from the box, place it between his lips, and pull a lighter from his pocket. As he took a deep drag, it was obvious he’d been smoking for years.
“That’s why you smoke right? Is it some faint effort to slowly destroy your voice and your health?”
“Yep,” he nodded, cocking the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and looking out at the fast-moving highway.
“Taylor, you’re 22 years old. Why are you bumming cigarettes off of people and sitting around this empty gas station like a kid who has nothing better to do?” I sighed. I will never be able to completely understand my second eldest son. He is a breed in himself.
“Because I’m sick of it. I’m sick of being 22 years old,” he shrugged, blowing smoke into the wind before he looked me in the eye. “I’m 22 years old… and I just found out I’m expecting my third child. I’m too young to feel as old as I feel.”
I frowned. Not following.
“Dad,” he sighed, holding out his pack of cigarettes and offering me one even though he knew for a fact I didn’t condone smoking. He continued when I shook my head. “When I was 14, 15… 16 years old… I was traveling around the world working 18 hours a day. The next thing I knew I was married with kids. I blinked… and I was grown up. Don’t you ever get sick of being grown up? Don’t you ever wonder if you got to completely enjoy your childhood?”
“I guess,” I attempted to relate.
“I know that I didn’t. I know I missed out. I just wanted to go back… go back in time and take a day… hell, just take a few hours to relive the teenage years I never really lived at all. So I started walking, and I ended up here. And I sat and decided I’d ask someone to buy me the cigarettes I should have asked for when I was young… the cigarettes I was too busy to bum.”
His monologue was powerful. I looked at my son and for the first time I saw the old man he felt like. He had wrinkles around his eyes from stress and exhaustion- wrinkles around his mouth from years of smoking. His hair was pulled into a lose ponytail and his skin was rough and dry. I had no response adequate enough for his confession, so I just opened the door to my SUV and motioned for him to join me.
“Get in. Let me drive you home. It’s starting to get dark out,” I told him. “Home is two miles away, Tay.”
He held his cigarette at his side and shook a few ashes off into the wind. He shook his head.
“Cars are too fast, Dad. I just want everything to slow down.”
He gave me a thankful nod nonetheless, turned towards our street, and with a puff of his cigarette began walking home.