Five dollars in quarters to the red faced man at the alcohol store for his cheapest whiskey and a curt “thank you” with a noticeable discomfort at how his fat, rough hands had touched my own. My long and bony fingers ringing at the tips with their usual sensitivity and winter paralysis.
In the pocket.
A long walk with a sharp anxiety jittering its way through my shallow breath as my lips move to the words inside of my head. Amish men stand precariously on an unfinished roof. They move slow and unbothered by the traffic and by me. One of them has a chainsaw while the other seems lost in thought while moving down the ladder. Another, out of view, uses an electric hammer. So much for virtue.
In the gas station I near panic as my fingers count out the last of the quarters while the young attendant asks impatiently for my I.D. as the TOP tobacco sits between us indifferently.
Across the highway and down a little road and through the old gatehouse arch and into the cemetery. I wander pointlessly among the old stones in the sunshine.
Lovers two by two at the head of whole families recaptured by time and long since finished writhing in decomposition. Sons, alone, with words like “World War II”. I could be one of those sons. From any of these sons could spread forth whole families too, full of pain and pleasure, black sheep and points of pride. But instead it is just the stone of a son, alone, and that is where it ends.
So many old stones. If only you’d stuck around. Some had missed WWI by only a few years and died without knowing industrialized war. And WWII with its surprise ending which reminded us all of the horrible nature inside of us. And Korea which was forgotten and Vietnam which fully realized the business of killing and now our war… you should see what your grandson’s and great grandson’s have done in your name.
If they could all rise to see the world we have made on the top of their achievements and forgotten personal dramas they would clamor again for the grave like I do on so many afternoons when it seems the only thing to do is buy some whiskey and tobacco and head for the cemetery for some me time.
I sit on an obscenely large monument on an artificial hill on top of who knows how many dead people and I roll a cigarette and I smoke the cigarette and I revel in the vile fumes and the knowledge that eventually, if nothing else beats them, this foul habit will kill me.
And then I will be like them.
The sunshine is yellowed by my sunglasses. The scene in front of me, including me, seems to be out of a movie… I do not feel real. The whiskey burns as it washes over my heart which for some time now has felt like a frozen cinder block. I can feel it melting.
Some day this is where I will be. But I am not there yet. And yes, though the world is good and truly fucked, I can do something with this time. And when it comes time for me to contribute my little stone to the face of some park where angsty teens will roam and contemplate the grim realities which they face I want for it to be a picture of me smoking a cigarette with a pint of whiskey in my hand on top of someone else’s grave so that every one knows I saw it coming the whole time.
It was a gloomy day. But I learned what I needed to learn.
The Paper Trail 