know that? I think I’d be in someone’s face or something. I’d have to react. This is way too fucked up to not do something. I mean damn.” Another coffee sip. “I always knew I’d learn about the world in college, but I didn’t think it’d be like this. This is just plain fucked up. Damn.” He sips again. “Sorry, man. This is just fucked up and I don’t know what else to say but that.” Slurp. “Fucked up.”
The following afternoon when I return from my classes, I find Sean watching TV and smoking Camels. A big blue haze puffs around him, and as he turns to me, I can tell that he has not rested well. The dark skin beneath his eyes sags, and his disheveled hair appears as if his hands have been running through it all night, all day. Clothed in beer-mug boxers and a Charlotte Hornets T-shirt, he leans back into a chair marked by cigarette burns and beer stains. He nods hello as he shakes a cigarette out of the pack and tosses this onto the table where a pyramid of empty beer cans remains on display.
“I couldn’t sleep last night,” he says, lighting his cigarette. “I thought about you.”
I drop my backpack and sit across from him. “I guess that you weren’t expecting that kind of news about me last night.”
“ That . . . That was not what I expected.” He pauses. “At all.”
“I know.”
He presses his cigarette butt into the ashtray and then flips another from his pack, taps it on the coffee table in front of him. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say about it.” He brings the cigarette to his lips, lights it, and, when he exhales, I watch as smoke plumes from his mouth, clouding the distance between us. The scent of tobacco wafts toward me. “I’ve been smoking a shitload of these,” Sean says, gesturing to his cigarette. “I don’t know what else to do, so I just smoke and smoke a fuckload while crazy shit runs through my mind. A of all, I think about you and your having to deal with this shit and how fucked up that is, and then B of all I think about me, and, well, I’ll be honest . . . I get a little scared.”
“It’s safe. I’m safe. And you’re not in any danger.”
“Well, I know that. At least on a logical level, but, man . . .” He exhales. “Still, it’s making me fucking crazy. I mean, what if you were to cut yourself and bleed all over the place or something like that. That’s some really crazy shit to think about. I really don’t know what I’d do. I don’t think that would happen, but just the thought that it could scares the piss out of me. . . . That’s what this crazy head of mine has been doing to me all night. It creates these horrific situations and plays them out in my head, and it freaks the shit out of me.” He puffs. Smoke fills the room. “I’m all fucked up. And I should be supporting you. I should be a better friend to you, and I feel likeI’m supposed to do something. Like I should drop out of school with you and tour the world or some fucked up shit like that. Oh God, I feel like one of those fucking movies.” He leans his body forward and rests his head in his palms in a position of deep worry and concern.
“I hope you don’t hate me for telling you. That’s not what I meant.”
Sean rights himself, pulls smoke into his lungs. “No. Certainly not. I’ve just gotta learn to deal. That’s all. I’ve gotta deal.”
He drags deeply on his cigarette. A wisp of smoke trails from his mouth. He coughs. “This smoking shit is really killing me, and I know I’ve gotta quit, but I can’t today. It’s keeping me sane.”
December 1991. Inside my English professor’s office, I sit as our conference begins. Her hair is wild and uncombed, and she tucks a mat of it behind her ears to reveal eyes tired from reading my class’s essays. Papers are strewn across her desk, and rows upon rows of books line her walls and casket us in her office. She rustles her pile,
The following afternoon when I return from my classes, I find Sean watching TV and smoking Camels. A big blue haze puffs around him, and as he turns to me, I can tell that he has not rested well. The dark skin beneath his eyes sags, and his disheveled hair appears as if his hands have been running through it all night, all day. Clothed in beer-mug boxers and a Charlotte Hornets T-shirt, he leans back into a chair marked by cigarette burns and beer stains. He nods hello as he shakes a cigarette out of the pack and tosses this onto the table where a pyramid of empty beer cans remains on display.
“I couldn’t sleep last night,” he says, lighting his cigarette. “I thought about you.”
I drop my backpack and sit across from him. “I guess that you weren’t expecting that kind of news about me last night.”
“ That . . . That was not what I expected.” He pauses. “At all.”
“I know.”
He presses his cigarette butt into the ashtray and then flips another from his pack, taps it on the coffee table in front of him. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say about it.” He brings the cigarette to his lips, lights it, and, when he exhales, I watch as smoke plumes from his mouth, clouding the distance between us. The scent of tobacco wafts toward me. “I’ve been smoking a shitload of these,” Sean says, gesturing to his cigarette. “I don’t know what else to do, so I just smoke and smoke a fuckload while crazy shit runs through my mind. A of all, I think about you and your having to deal with this shit and how fucked up that is, and then B of all I think about me, and, well, I’ll be honest . . . I get a little scared.”
“It’s safe. I’m safe. And you’re not in any danger.”
“Well, I know that. At least on a logical level, but, man . . .” He exhales. “Still, it’s making me fucking crazy. I mean, what if you were to cut yourself and bleed all over the place or something like that. That’s some really crazy shit to think about. I really don’t know what I’d do. I don’t think that would happen, but just the thought that it could scares the piss out of me. . . . That’s what this crazy head of mine has been doing to me all night. It creates these horrific situations and plays them out in my head, and it freaks the shit out of me.” He puffs. Smoke fills the room. “I’m all fucked up. And I should be supporting you. I should be a better friend to you, and I feel likeI’m supposed to do something. Like I should drop out of school with you and tour the world or some fucked up shit like that. Oh God, I feel like one of those fucking movies.” He leans his body forward and rests his head in his palms in a position of deep worry and concern.
“I hope you don’t hate me for telling you. That’s not what I meant.”
Sean rights himself, pulls smoke into his lungs. “No. Certainly not. I’ve just gotta learn to deal. That’s all. I’ve gotta deal.”
He drags deeply on his cigarette. A wisp of smoke trails from his mouth. He coughs. “This smoking shit is really killing me, and I know I’ve gotta quit, but I can’t today. It’s keeping me sane.”
December 1991. Inside my English professor’s office, I sit as our conference begins. Her hair is wild and uncombed, and she tucks a mat of it behind her ears to reveal eyes tired from reading my class’s essays. Papers are strewn across her desk, and rows upon rows of books line her walls and casket us in her office. She rustles her pile,
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