Presenting: An excerpt from a long while ago...
I didn't used to write much, and now I hardly ever. But when I do...it's pretty good, I'd say. This is something I put together last year cause I felt like it.
"So what's it gonna be then?"
They stood on the roof together, he up on the ledge looking down at the gray-white pavement below, scuffing his shoes against the cement, her standing a few feet behind him, watching, waiting.
"I'm going to stop you, you know," she said, almost nonchalantly. "Even if I have to go over with you, I'll still stop you. You're not taking the easy way out."
She was right. As usual. He sighed, a deep, long sigh, like the last gust of a wind after a storm had passed. He stepped off the ledge.
They walked down the metal stairs together, side by side. At the bottom, he pushed open the door and they walked out onto the sidewalk. The clouds were letting in the weakest of sunbeams, and their shadows appeared, faded and transparent.
"Walk with me," he said, and they walked east, heading for the park.
She was silent as they walked. As they stopped at the crosswalk, where the stoplight flashed an insistent crimson-hued STOP at them, she dug into her coat pocket for a minute before digging out a pack of Newports and a cheap yellow Bic lighter. He watched as she shook a cigarette out and, after a few false starts, fire it up. The tip glowed as she inhaled and blew smoke out her nostrils.
"When did you start smoking?" he inquired.
"A week before finals last semester." Both cigarette pack and lighter disappeared back into her pockets like a stage magician finishing his last act. "I was stressed, someone was offering...and I didn't want the hangover afterwards. It helped me relax."
"They'll kill you, you know."
"No fucking duh," she said, rolling her eyes. "I don't smoke all the time, just whenever the pressure gets too heavy on me. This pack I've had since January, so I'm only taking one out every so often."
"Oh." It was nearly May. "How many have you got left?"
"Enough to last me until the end of the school year, maybe even the summer." She took another drag as they crossed the street and down the block.
"Can I get one of those?"
She looked at him, eyebrow raised. "You smoke?"
"Well...no." He hesitated, then said "But with the mood I'm in, I could use a picker-upper."
She just looked at him for a minute, then fished in her pocket. "Knock yourself out," she said, tossing him the pack.
"Thanks." He fumbled with the pack for a moment, trembling, sweaty fingers trying to slide open the lid. He opened it, picked one out, closed it. He passed the pack back. "Can I get a light?"
She held out hers, which was half down. He held out his. "Other way," she said, and he turned it so the filter was facing him now. She touched the still-burning tip of her smoke to his fresh one. It caught and began to burn. "You're all set."
He brought the cigarette to his lips and, after hesitating for a fraction of a second, put it in his mouth the way he'd seen other people do, and inhaled. The burning, ashy taste of tobacco and nicotine filled his lungs and throat, making his eyes water, and he coughed violently, a cloud of smoke escaping his mouth. He stopped walking and nearly doubled over, holding the cigarette in one hand and his heaving chest with the other, trying to stop himself from hacking up his larynx.
"You okay?" Immediately she was by his side, dropping her finished cigarette on the ground. She held his shoulders. "Just try and relax," she said. "Let it all out--the coughing will stop on its own."
Eventually the coughing subsided, and he straightened up. His chest hurt like hell. "Dammit," he said hoarsely, wincing at the pain.
"This was a bad idea on my part." She plucked the still-whole (mostly) cigarette from his fingers and stubbed it out on the ground. "I didn't think you'd have a bad reaction like that, even if it was your first...you have asthma?"
He nodded. "Once, a long time ago, when I was a kid." She walked over to a nearby hotdog stand, bought a slightly-cold bottle of Poland Spring, and gave it to him. He thanked her gratefully, opened the top, and drank. The cool water washed down his parched, hot throat.
They sat on the steps of a co-op, the park so close, only a few blocks away, now never reached. He took another swallow. "I used to need an inhaler and everything," he said. "After a while, though, I just didn't need it anymore...I thought I'd gotten over it."
"I guess sometimes, these things, they don't go away for good," she said.
"Looks that way." There was a bitter taste in his mouth, and he took another gulp to wash it away.
"Are you okay?" she asked suddenly, leaning forward to look him in the eyes, and he knew, this was no longer about the cigarette. It never had been.
He deliberated for a moment. "Not really," he said, his fingers running around and around the ringed cuts of the plastic bottle. He looked at the pavement in front of him. Her eyes remained on him. "I just...made another mistake, I guess."
"We all make mistakes," she said. "It's part of who we are."
"Yeah, well." He shifted, leaning back so that his elbows rested on the step above him, and took another swig. "Seems like...seems like I've made this mistake before."
She said nothing, just looked at him.
"I screwed up...again." Another swig. "I thought...I thought, after so many times, so many errors and do-overs...I thought I could finally get it right this time." His voice dropped, almost to a sigh of resigned displeasure. "But I didn't."
"And nothing's changed. The problem didn't change. The solutions didn't change. That was the normal part of it.
But I didn't change. And that's what killed me. I didn't change. I didn't improve, not really. And I was supposed to. But I...I couldn't bring myself to do it.
It was too hard, having to change. Or it seemed that way, anyway. I just wanted...I just wanted to go back to the beginning and start over, you know? Start again, just one more time, and not screw up the first time.
Because once I made them...they just stuck with me forever, it looked like."
By now the water bottle was almost empty. He lolled his head back, looking up at the sky. He was tired. He wanted to sleep.
There was silence between them.
"You have to learn from them," she said finally.
"I know, I--"
"Yeah, you know. But you don't want to, right? Is that what you said?" She locked eyes with him again, and he didn't look away. "But you need to. You need to want to."
"Look, I know you've made mistakes before. We all have. But that doesn't mean that we should let them define how we're supposed to live our lives. We have to push on...and you have to be brave enough to push on."
"But what if I don't make it?" He asked. "What if I fail? What if I'm only second best?"
"You have to try," she insisted. "Really try. Change is hard, and it's scary, and it takes a long time...but it's all part of living."
"After all," she said, standing up and brushing herself off before holding out a hand. He took it, and she helped him up "Nobody said it was easy."
"No one ever said it would be so hard." he said.
They walked to the subway station. He drained the last of the water and tossed the bottle.
They swiped their cards in, she first, him afterwards. They made to part at her platform while he had to take another flight down to get to his.
"See you in class tomorrow, then?" she inquired, raising an eyebrow.
He tried offering a smile. "I'll be there," he agreed, and turned to go.
"Wait." He turned back to look at her.
"Don't expect a revolution when it comes to change," she said. "It's small, courageous steps that do it, believe me."
He smiled slightly, a better effort this time. "Thanks, Professor."
And he turned and walked away.
"So what's it gonna be then?"
They stood on the roof together, he up on the ledge looking down at the gray-white pavement below, scuffing his shoes against the cement, her standing a few feet behind him, watching, waiting.
"I'm going to stop you, you know," she said, almost nonchalantly. "Even if I have to go over with you, I'll still stop you. You're not taking the easy way out."
She was right. As usual. He sighed, a deep, long sigh, like the last gust of a wind after a storm had passed. He stepped off the ledge.
They walked down the metal stairs together, side by side. At the bottom, he pushed open the door and they walked out onto the sidewalk. The clouds were letting in the weakest of sunbeams, and their shadows appeared, faded and transparent.
"Walk with me," he said, and they walked east, heading for the park.
She was silent as they walked. As they stopped at the crosswalk, where the stoplight flashed an insistent crimson-hued STOP at them, she dug into her coat pocket for a minute before digging out a pack of Newports and a cheap yellow Bic lighter. He watched as she shook a cigarette out and, after a few false starts, fire it up. The tip glowed as she inhaled and blew smoke out her nostrils.
"When did you start smoking?" he inquired.
"A week before finals last semester." Both cigarette pack and lighter disappeared back into her pockets like a stage magician finishing his last act. "I was stressed, someone was offering...and I didn't want the hangover afterwards. It helped me relax."
"They'll kill you, you know."
"No fucking duh," she said, rolling her eyes. "I don't smoke all the time, just whenever the pressure gets too heavy on me. This pack I've had since January, so I'm only taking one out every so often."
"Oh." It was nearly May. "How many have you got left?"
"Enough to last me until the end of the school year, maybe even the summer." She took another drag as they crossed the street and down the block.
"Can I get one of those?"
She looked at him, eyebrow raised. "You smoke?"
"Well...no." He hesitated, then said "But with the mood I'm in, I could use a picker-upper."
She just looked at him for a minute, then fished in her pocket. "Knock yourself out," she said, tossing him the pack.
"Thanks." He fumbled with the pack for a moment, trembling, sweaty fingers trying to slide open the lid. He opened it, picked one out, closed it. He passed the pack back. "Can I get a light?"
She held out hers, which was half down. He held out his. "Other way," she said, and he turned it so the filter was facing him now. She touched the still-burning tip of her smoke to his fresh one. It caught and began to burn. "You're all set."
He brought the cigarette to his lips and, after hesitating for a fraction of a second, put it in his mouth the way he'd seen other people do, and inhaled. The burning, ashy taste of tobacco and nicotine filled his lungs and throat, making his eyes water, and he coughed violently, a cloud of smoke escaping his mouth. He stopped walking and nearly doubled over, holding the cigarette in one hand and his heaving chest with the other, trying to stop himself from hacking up his larynx.
"You okay?" Immediately she was by his side, dropping her finished cigarette on the ground. She held his shoulders. "Just try and relax," she said. "Let it all out--the coughing will stop on its own."
Eventually the coughing subsided, and he straightened up. His chest hurt like hell. "Dammit," he said hoarsely, wincing at the pain.
"This was a bad idea on my part." She plucked the still-whole (mostly) cigarette from his fingers and stubbed it out on the ground. "I didn't think you'd have a bad reaction like that, even if it was your first...you have asthma?"
He nodded. "Once, a long time ago, when I was a kid." She walked over to a nearby hotdog stand, bought a slightly-cold bottle of Poland Spring, and gave it to him. He thanked her gratefully, opened the top, and drank. The cool water washed down his parched, hot throat.
They sat on the steps of a co-op, the park so close, only a few blocks away, now never reached. He took another swallow. "I used to need an inhaler and everything," he said. "After a while, though, I just didn't need it anymore...I thought I'd gotten over it."
"I guess sometimes, these things, they don't go away for good," she said.
"Looks that way." There was a bitter taste in his mouth, and he took another gulp to wash it away.
"Are you okay?" she asked suddenly, leaning forward to look him in the eyes, and he knew, this was no longer about the cigarette. It never had been.
He deliberated for a moment. "Not really," he said, his fingers running around and around the ringed cuts of the plastic bottle. He looked at the pavement in front of him. Her eyes remained on him. "I just...made another mistake, I guess."
"We all make mistakes," she said. "It's part of who we are."
"Yeah, well." He shifted, leaning back so that his elbows rested on the step above him, and took another swig. "Seems like...seems like I've made this mistake before."
She said nothing, just looked at him.
"I screwed up...again." Another swig. "I thought...I thought, after so many times, so many errors and do-overs...I thought I could finally get it right this time." His voice dropped, almost to a sigh of resigned displeasure. "But I didn't."
"And nothing's changed. The problem didn't change. The solutions didn't change. That was the normal part of it.
But I didn't change. And that's what killed me. I didn't change. I didn't improve, not really. And I was supposed to. But I...I couldn't bring myself to do it.
It was too hard, having to change. Or it seemed that way, anyway. I just wanted...I just wanted to go back to the beginning and start over, you know? Start again, just one more time, and not screw up the first time.
Because once I made them...they just stuck with me forever, it looked like."
By now the water bottle was almost empty. He lolled his head back, looking up at the sky. He was tired. He wanted to sleep.
There was silence between them.
"You have to learn from them," she said finally.
"I know, I--"
"Yeah, you know. But you don't want to, right? Is that what you said?" She locked eyes with him again, and he didn't look away. "But you need to. You need to want to."
"Look, I know you've made mistakes before. We all have. But that doesn't mean that we should let them define how we're supposed to live our lives. We have to push on...and you have to be brave enough to push on."
"But what if I don't make it?" He asked. "What if I fail? What if I'm only second best?"
"You have to try," she insisted. "Really try. Change is hard, and it's scary, and it takes a long time...but it's all part of living."
"After all," she said, standing up and brushing herself off before holding out a hand. He took it, and she helped him up "Nobody said it was easy."
"No one ever said it would be so hard." he said.
They walked to the subway station. He drained the last of the water and tossed the bottle.
They swiped their cards in, she first, him afterwards. They made to part at her platform while he had to take another flight down to get to his.
"See you in class tomorrow, then?" she inquired, raising an eyebrow.
He tried offering a smile. "I'll be there," he agreed, and turned to go.
"Wait." He turned back to look at her.
"Don't expect a revolution when it comes to change," she said. "It's small, courageous steps that do it, believe me."
He smiled slightly, a better effort this time. "Thanks, Professor."
And he turned and walked away.