SUICIDE BY CIGARETTES

Full Moon Over Raintown / 2017 / Collage by RCS

It was a suicide by cigarettes kind of night. Drizzle and fog dampened my hat brim as I ambulated through alleyways, looking for an after-hours joint named No Name. Contrary to popular and legal opinions, smoky dives still exist. They’re hidden from view, but they can be found. Turning into Nowhere Alley, I’ve arrived at my destination. No Name was a bar for the in-crowd currently on the outs, though far from down and out. “Can I get a smoke from you, pal?” asked the woman stationed by the front door. She’s tall and her head’s shaved. Wearing a crooked grin, a “don’t piss me off” attitude, and a leather jacket and black boots. I pulled out a pack of Lucky’s and offered her one. “Are you the bouncer?” I enquired. “No, I’m your long-lost sister,” she whispered around the cigarette as I lit it. “How much?” I asked. “Usually, the cover charge is fifty in cash. But since you gave me a smoke and a light, I’ll make it half price.” Seemed fair. I pulled twenty-five out of my wallet and handed it to her. She stepped sideways and pointed  downstairs at the entrance with a flourish. Of course, there’s no name on the sign above the below street level door. In this life, there’s some places you never find, and others will never leave your mind. My eyes adjusted to the hazy interior weather, and I breathed in a cloud of human-generated smoke enveloping three large rooms with walls of wood and wallpaper from a past century. Jammed with people smoking cigarettes, or joints. Patrons perched on every possible surface. On benches in corners pushed up against pink and red glowing jukeboxes, circled around graffitied and carved into round wooden tables as if they were heading westward settlers warmed by a campfire for a freezing night out on the high plains. In pairs and clusters, along the sinuously curving bar sat conversational smokers emitting oceans, and streams of words along with smoky dialogues. Leaning against walls, lighting up one cigarette after another – feeling the conversation flowing through and enlivening the room, caring not how late it might be. Taking part in a ritual for the most hidden-away communal social activity left in society. Slow motion smoky suicide in a large group of fellow humans – talking as fast or slow, or releasing no words whatsoever all under the early morning covering of nighttime turning to dawn, as all the sleeping people in the city are dreaming of daybreak.