Excerpt from something unknown.

Excerpt, written at 2:00 am this morning. 

By Chase Winter

 I wish it would’ve rained today. Nothing big like a summer storm, perhaps just a quick pelting on the rooftop of the cab, a drizzle on the pavement. Something to cool the air a bit, dampen the world burning around me. The drama of it all would be perfect for today. 

I told the cabman to take his time and let the ticker go once we arrived at the address I gave him. He knew the building when I told him. Go figure. Probably lots of guys like me talk to guys like him on the way to places like this. We’re a chatty bunch, really. And we love to tell you our story. 

I hadn’t been to this spot in years, though I probably should have gone before now. Maybe if I had, then I wouldn’t have to today. 

It was hard to be back here. On the street, beneath the steps, just outside of the gate. But it was harder to get off of the leather seat of the cab and onto the concrete. If I told him to keep going, he would, but maybe he’d judge me. Would he try to persuade me to go in? Is he one of us too? He looks gruff, maybe forty with a seven o’clock shadow. I smelled cigarette in the front somewhere- menthols. That unmistakable iced tea smell. 

“Could I-“ I asked. He held up a blue pack of the kind I smoked. Didn’t have to finish my sentence, didn’t need to. He knows.

I traded him the pack for a fifty dollar bill and told him to keep the change. He wished me luck and drove off without hesitation. I watched the ads on the back of the car turn to a blur, then it all was a yellow blur beneath the autumn trees down the way. 

My watch told me I was early. Early enough to cruise back up the street and hail another cab. Between me and the pavement, I might’ve given it consideration, but if I remember right, the street my cabman just went down is a one way that turns right, then right, then right again. Leading him to the intersection of the downtown area I would hail a cab from. 

I imagine he’d be disappointed if he saw me again. He’d furrow his unibrow, tell me to head back and go inside. His accent alone would convince me- he talks like he’s a close friend. A brother. 

I did walk down the street, but only as far as the nearest park bench. The same wooden one I used to sit on all those years ago. I had etched my name on the armrest with my zippo after my first full year. Carve out my legacy, leave my mark. I was so young.

Someone had painted over it in glossy black paint to match the park fence behind me. I ran my fingers over where I thought I wrote it but I couldn’t feel it. 

Then I switched sides of the bench to feel the other arm- maybe I misremembered. Damn the city for erasing it. It’s a juvenile attachment, but the sentiment still burns. 

After some time of not smoking, you start to get some things back from the addiction. First thing I noticed was that my sense of taste got better. Coffee smelled like coffee again, cake was sweeter. I could smell cigarettes out in the wild, and decipher what kind they were. Like a cancer sommelier.

Then I could breathe better. My nose wasn’t so clogged up all the time, and days like this were a charm- minus the city’s gasoline stench of course. September was crisp in my lungs like a juniper tree. 

I wasn’t fatigued as easily, wasn’t coughing going up the stairs. No breaks during sex or panting like a mad dog after a run. Fresh air and full lungs again. 

Finally, there was pocket space. No more box in my pants and no more losing my lighter. All I carried was my cellphone, my wallet, and my keys. An extra pocket meant I didn’t have large awkward bulges in my jeans all the time. 

It also meant I had no way to light the cigarette I had dangling out of my mouth.

Ten minutes had gone by, and across the street the light above the door went on. A few taxis drove by dropping people off like me. None waited as long as mine did.

Like clockwork, a group started to form by the gate and up came puffs of smoke. Like a big chimney, or a bunch of little chimneys I guess. 

I figured since I’m headed there anyways I might as well get a light from one of the guys. Or girls, if I’m lucky. 

I moseyed across the street, walking like a stranger in a strange land. Slow, forcibly misguided, long swaying steps. Part of me still wanted to bolt down the street and get picked up again. Surely my cabman was long gone. He’s probably picked up two people by now. People not much different than me, just without the issue at hand. 

The orange part of the cigarette was getting soaked in the corner of my mouth. If I didn’t light it soon, it’d probably disintegrate. Maybe I could just chew the tobacco- it can’t be much different than a tin can of chew, I reckon. Just dryer. Take a bite of the stick and  avoid talking to anyone, and I wouldn’t be smoking for the first time in months, and I could run down the street and never look back. Get picked up by a different cabman with probably the same accent and head back home. Far, far away. 

The gate opened up and a few people huddled on the other side of it now, off of the street. I remember one night we all came  to meet and we were on the sidewalk for too long, and the custodian from the apartment building adjacent to this one came and yelled at us for blocking his way. He was just passing through. Him and his red polo shirt. Then we got a notice to keep it on the inside of the lot as much as we could. So we crammed in the little courtyard and puffed away at hundreds of cigarettes. 

A man in a black puffer jacket herded me through the gate. I was slow to cross the threshold, and I was resistant to acknowledge where I was. 

“Do you need a light?” He bumped me with his elbow. I nodded, and he lit my cigarette like they do in movies. Cupped hand around the flame, eye contact, a wink. The wink threw me off but I tried not to dwell on it. It was narcissistic to think anything other than friendliness. 

“I haven’t seen you here before.” He pointed out, blowing smoke to his lapel. I shook my head and kept smoking. I forgot how much I like the dry air at the back of my throat. 

“First time?” He asked under his breath. Newcomers don’t always like answering that question, especially not to strangers. I shook my head again. “Just first time in a while.” 

Another elbow bumped me, this one smaller.  A short guy, probably twenty years old. “Hey man,” he started, “I hate to be this guy, but can I bum a cigarette?” 

He didn’t hate to be that guy. I never did. Nobody does. They hate the idea of getting rejected, but they don’t care either way about asking for something. The cigarette grabs hold of you and you can’t stop asking people for it. You got a cigarette? Can I go smoke? Did I bring my smokes? Where’s my lighter? 

I couldn’t go back to that, so I gave him the whole pack, minus one for the road. He looked like I was Santa and I’d just given him an Xbox. He thanked me over and over, and then I never saw him again. Didn’t even ask my name. 

A woman opened the door on top of the stairs and people started filing upwards. One at a time, slowly. I smelled coffee wafting down the stairs. 

The guy who’d asked me those questions had vanished in the crowd. I guess I didn’t think to ask his name either. Nor him me. 

At last, it was me alone outside. Just me and the stairs. The last person shut the door but it wouldn't lock. 

I stood facing the granite steps, one foot on the step, the other on the ground pointed at the fence. The bottom of the stairs weighed me down. All I had to do was climb them. 

Climb them, and go inside, grab a coffee, and listen. 

The sun had set behind the buildings and I was left under the light of two yellow lampposts. Me and the last few drags of my cigarette. I coughed up some phlegm and spat it on the stairs. As it arced in the light,  I felt disrespectful. I clamoured up the first three and wiped my boot on the glob that rested on the fourth. 

The rest of the way up was easy. Well worn.

Inside, they’d began without me. I hustled past the main room to the kitchen and filled a styrofoam cup up with the dregs of the coffee pot. The thicker stuff with all the soot. 

Then I shuffled to the room and found a seat next to the kid who’d asked me for a cigarette. He smiled when I sat down and thanked me again. I’d made it in time for introductions, and his name was Daniel.

I don’t think they’d changed the setup since I was last here. The plastic chairs are just as squeaky as I left them, and the floor still needs new tiles. All new faces though. 

Then it came turn for me to speak. 

“Hey, my name is John, and I’m an Alcoholic.”