Scott’s eyes, which had been drifting, moved back up to pass over the phrase again.

…to purge all of you

This was rather peculiar. He shuffled his feet, zipped up, and pulled the handle to flush the urinal. There was something cryptic about the little fragment. It stood out from the layers of the years. Of course there was the dried snot, long forgotten presidential candidates, badly drawn penises, and other supposedly comical outbursts of homo-erotica (Mike Fisher sucks cock) that adorned the wall.

The curious phrase stood out amongst the other crudities like a torch; a nugget of wisdom (or nihilism) that was left just for him. Even more fascinating was the inability to read the first part of the sentence. What was doing the purging? And who?

Scott, of course, was a writer. And writers find these secret messages that others don’t see or choose to ignore. He found himself wishing that the phrase were complete as it appeared and that an arrow was drawn pointing to the handle. Flush to purge all of you.

Some heavy-handed symbolism perhaps? Or maybe someone’s crude attempt at a joke? He could accept both of these explanations. In fact, he desperately wanted to believe the first. His belly began to flutter a little at the thought of someone throwing their existential anger up against the wall for all to see. Out came the notebook and pen (you never know when these opportunities may strike!) so he could scribble down the partial sentence that had captured his imagination while he relieved his bladder.

Then another thought occurred to him. What if he was going about this wrong? Maybe this anonymous philosopher wasn’t raging against society at all. Perhaps, he was a Buddhist seeking enlightenment by espousing the need to purge what makes you human. Purge all of YOU.

Scott jotted this all down furiously, his mind unable to contain itself. Just then, someone walked in. Scott could feel the eyes that were undoubtedly staring at him. People were always staring at him and he couldn’t understand why. He didn’t turn to look at the intruder, instead continuing to scribble. If he had turned, this and every other time, he would’ve noticed no one is ever staring. He didn’t have to look because writers can just feel these things.

Once he was satisfied with his various interpretations of the phrase, he quickly left the bathroom and almost bumped into a frumpy girl on the stairs.

“Excuse me,” he muttered inaudibly and hurried back to his apartment.

When he got there, he tossed his bag aside and hunched over his keyboard. The notebook was flipped open and he began to compose a narrative in haste. He would make a story out of this discovery. It’d be written in third person, of course, and he’d give himself a simple name like John or Mike.

And then he smiled.

———————————————————————————————-

You’re almost 20 years old and potentially middle-aged.

That is essentially what my doctor told me over a year ago after getting results back on some blood work I had done. A rare genetic mutation called Factor V Leiden, a possible cause of thrombosis, was discovered. Basically, my blood has the potential to over-clot and trigger a heart attack. He told me to do two things.

Begin a daily aspirin regiment and quit smoking. Immediately.

Taking aspirin was no problem, but quit smoking? I loved my cigarettes. Nothing says “buzz kill” like a reminder of your own mortality. The word “habit” is a nice way of saying obsession. And smoking really was an obsession. I planned my day around it. I counted how many cigarettes I had left before leaving the house and then strategized about what time I’d have to cut out of school to pick up more.

It’s hard to think about the consequences of smoking when you’re entering your 20s because the ramifications seem very far off. So, you get cancer in your 60s? Big deal. By then, who cares?

But, what happens when you’re told that you have a condition you weren’t even aware of and you might not live to see past 40? My father died the year prior from a massive heart attack caused by thrombosis. He had just turned 41.

My doctor successfully scared the hell out of me, so I became determined to quit. I tried weaning myself off by smoking one cigarette less a day. By the time I reached the half a pack a day mark, I couldn’t stand anymore. I relapsed something wicked.

The long, slow goodbye wasn’t working.

My habit went back up to a pack or so a day for another couple months. I felt beaten. Drastic measures were going to have to be taken if I was going to kick.

As anyone who has tried to quit knows, the key is willpower. No amount of gum, mints, or conversion to Buddhism is going to work unless there is a true desire to stop. I didn’t have that yet. The most comforting thing about smoking is the sense of belonging. There’s a good chance most of a smoker’s friends smoke as well. It’s a social thing. It doesn’t hurt that it relieves stress either.

When all the friends went home and I was alone it became a different story. Smoking wasn’t comforting anymore. The cigarette became the albatross and I wanted to be rid of it. One night, I sat alone in my room and decided that I wanted to live.

That seems obvious doesn’t it? Of course a person wants to live. But to make that conscious decision at the invincible age of 20 is an unusually powerful thing. The cigarettes went into the trash and I haven’t smoked one in about 8 months.

Quitting cold turkey is a breeze then, right? No.

Letting go spontaneously like that was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, yet also fulfilling. I was violently ill for an entire week. The withdrawal was more psychological than physical, but I still felt nauseous and irritable. Hanging out with my friends was almost unbearable. The feeling of being odd man out passed with time. Currently, there’s only one of us left who still smokes.

Even entertaining the idea of quitting requires the help of friends. Quitting with a partner, while played out at this point, really is an excellent method. Having someone who understands what the experience is like gives an opportunity to vent. It also gives an opportunity for some friendly scolding if temptation calls.

No one likes a preacher or a crusader. The most intolerable people in the world are the ones who think they have all the answers and know what’s best for everyone. A person should smoke if they want to smoke and quit if they want to quit. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it sometimes.

I miss looking cool in all my Facebook pictures with a cigarette dangling out of my mouth. I miss the feeling that smoking added to my personality, as foolish at that seems. And I miss a cigarette after having a beer.

But all those things seem inconsequential when I think about something as simple as my heart beating. Unknown killers can appear at any time and I met mine.

I want to live. It’s been a fair trade.

———————————————————————————————-

It was an unseasonably warm February morning in Cherry Hill. Some might say that it smelled like spring outside. Those of us inside the cheese shop knew better. It smelled like shopping.

It was quiet for the early part of the day, but by 10:30 a dull roar began to build in the produce section at the front of the store. The unfortunate few inhabiting the cheese shop at the time perked their heads up. Somewhere in Africa, a pack of gazelle were similarly looking off into the distance; preparing to take flight from something looking to tear them apart.

We had nowhere to go.

Now, prior to working in the cheese shop, I was a barista at Starbucks for about two years. And before that I sold shoes at DSW. My history is pockmarked with the horrors of intense customer service. After Starbucks nearly killed me, I felt like it was time to move from a job with killer clientele to…a job with killer clientele. Retail Hell only goes deeper apparently.

So it goes…

…

My coworker (who has chosen not to be named, so I’ll call him Steve) and I were the only ones actively working in the shop when the rush of customers hit. Sweat suits, giant Coach bags, and harsh, fragmented Italian accents prowled around in desperate search of Locatelli brand cheese.

South Philly vomited on us.

…

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman approaching the counter. She was thin, in her late 40s or so. Fried blonde hair came down to her shoulders. Her little blue glasses gave her the air of an intellectual, though this was purely part of the act. Steve and I had served this woman before. He dubbed her “Haddonfield” because he thought she looked like a rich woman who had nothing better to do but take art classes.

I immediately pretended to be busy. Steve begrudgingly approached the counter

“Hey! How are you?” he beamed.

She smiled weakly and said, “Fine. What new cheeses do you have?”

Steve’s short, little boy frame visibly shuddered at the question. There were no new cheeses. It’s been the same selection for months. We both knew what was coming next.

“There’s nothing brand new,” he said. “Do you want to try anything you might not be familiar with?”

Her face quickly changed. She wouldn’t look him in the eyes, instead choosing to look blankly at the glass case in front of her.

“I’ve told you about my book. I’ve tried all these and made notations.”

Her book was an alleged scrapbook filled with cheese tags from all over the world and little blurbs about them. She never produced the sacred tome but she was always bringing it up.

“Well, I’m sorry,” Steve replied. “I don’t have anything new in to show you.”

She pushed her glasses up from her nose, resting them in the bird nest on the top of her skull. She shook her head, looking back and forth as if an audience was waiting with baited breath. I was the only one.

“What kind of cheese shop do you run?” she hissed. “This place is awful! You never have anything.”

She kept looking around waiting for applause. Steve seemed to become even shorter. His smile had turned into a grimace.

“Have a nice day,” he said through gritted teeth.

She lowered her glasses and pointed at some Brie.

“Give me one of those.”

Without a word, Steve put it on the counter and walked away. “Haddonfield” scurried away, tossed it in her cart and took off. Steve slammed his fist on the cutting table and breathed deep.

…

These encounters were growing more frequent and it wasn’t just “Haddonfield”. The crowd was getting larger. The cheese vanished off the shelves like the locust were descending.

Steve smiled at me and said sarcastically, “Recession.”

As I looked around at all the people shopping, they all seemed angry for some reason. Furrowed brows mulled over every piece of cheese. The cheapest pieces were snatched up first. It had been like this since October, when the market tanked. The situation got even worse at the beginning of January. People like “Haddonfield” were becoming more numerous.

If they weren’t lashing out about one thing, it was something else. Everyone wanted smaller pieces. And everyone wanted to know why the prices seemed to always be going up. They weren’t.

…

Some people still smiled and acted friendly. But that number was shrinking. In their place were people who looked like they were being forced to buy things.

We were no better off. Our moods were shifting as well. The worst part was our feeling of entrapment. We desperately needed these jobs. In fact, we knew we were lucky to have them in these rough times. That’s no consolation for the anger that working in retail brings out, unfortunately. The shoppers were just as trapped as we were.

…

“Haddonfield’s just trying to keep up the appearance of being fancy,” Steve finally said after some silence.

That was the root of the problem. People were being forced to fight for a lifestyle they felt they were entitled to.

The loss of control was making them hate us. It was alright, though. We hated them back.

Wrong I was! For your (dis)pleasure, Shoot From The Hip will be the place where everything I write that is marginally good will appear. I’ll also be linking to/re-printing things that have been published previously.

Now…to set up Twitter.