As I was cleaning through my computer for files, I found a story dated May of 1998 that I don't recall writing, but one that amused me nonetheless. I think the first part of the story was intended as an introduction for a larger body of work that never materialized. The second part actually happened, I just didn't remember having committed it to story form. The two could be separated, but since they were written in the same moment in time, I thought it was better to leave them joined.Some of what's in the story no longer rings true (in that I am no longer single and I picked up smoking, at least to some degree) and some of it wasn't true in the first place (hello, I never responded to 'even the most slight degree of interest'!) but aside from some minor changes, this is the story as I found it, four years and some odd months later:
A STORY / ABOUT SMOKING
1. One time, my friend posed the question of what kind of person has the ego to write for the masses. His point was that, by writing for the general public, the writer has automatically assumed that their work is imporant enough for others to waste their time on it. If you think about it, words are just recordings of thoughts and, therefore, the writer has assumed that his very thoughts are captivating to others. A possible exception would be self-depreciating writers who believe that their writing is embarrasing and, by making their work public, they are somehow humiliating themselves in some kind of pseudo-masochistic act. In reality, I think that those kinds of writers find their self-loathing to be captivating and entertaining to to others so, when you look at it that way, it all comes back to an issue of self-importance. (Let's give a hand to circular thinking! Where would our governments be without it?)
Clearly, by writing, I am admitting that I fall into this group. I do think I'm pretty damn amusing and, yes, that is why I'm writing. I think that you will all love me and be captivated by my various witticisms and deep thoughts. Maybe you'll finish reading this and be inspired. Or, more likely, you'll think back on what I've done and avoid my mistakes. Maybe you'll think I'm a great guy and want to pick up on me. Which is just fine by me as I am quite single and will respond to even the most slight degree of interest so, if you're thinking of writing to me, don't fear rejection! Do it!
In any case, I think I'm important enough to write and you validate me because you're reading this, aren't you? Since I think we can agree on that, the least I can do for you in return is to be honest with you. I won't be coy or churn out Velveeta-esque scenarios to tug at the heartstrings. Think of it as incentive to keep reading. I can't promise you sex and violence in large amounts, but I'll throw it in when I can. I understand this is the premise behind most best-selling novels and who am I to disagree? Not I, saith the literary peon. Moving on...
2.
When I was driving around in Berkeley with my best friend Rocky, we encountered a flower shop with a big poster sign that read: "Stop NicoTEEN Abuse!"
I hate cigarettes just as much, if not more, than the next guy, but I also believe that if people smoke, it's their own decision to make. Even if we are talking about teens. No Puritanical campaign will change anything beyond frustrating a great number of people, like myself.
"I'm going to drive the car into that sign," I casually offered as I began to veer off the road and towards the center of the signboard.
As Rocky frantically reached for the support of the dash, I steered the car back towards the center of the road, laughing maniacally over his terrorized reaction.
After the fear subsided, we joked about how, if I was to drive into the store, it would have to be with flair. With the spirit of John Waters in mind, we began to envision a more theatrical way to drive the car into the store.
"I think I should be smoking," I suggested. "Then, after pulverizing the sign, I can take the cigarette out of my mouth and toss it at the store," I added, miming a sassy, limp-wristed throw out the car window.
"If you're going to do something like that, you should be in drag. You need to be wearing a big pink-grey wig," Rocky proposed.
"But with a pink scarf around my head?"
"And a mink stole- no pun intended. And big, dark sunglasses."
Around this point, I wasn't sure if I was picturing myself in that get-up or Divine in Pink Flamingos. Perhaps I was imagining me as Divine. In any case, it wasn't a pretty picture, but that wasn't the point.
"Can I be driving a big `50s convertible?"
"Not only that, but the store should explode after you toss the cigarette at it." Rocky imitated my sassy cigarette throw, but with more of a vengeance.
"And then I drive off, laughing?"
In my head, I saw the store incinerating in my rear-view mirror as I drove away. As I cackled, there was an new explosion emanating from where the store once was, just for dramatic impact.
We had only been on a point-A-to-point-B drive but, within minutes, we had motor mayhem, property destruction, smoking, and sass. It was too perfect.
John Waters would have been proud.
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