Saturday, December 8, 2012

from the Journals of Peter Butler..."not today"

“not today”

Some days are good; I wake up and continually smoke ganja. The day goes. The stress of the little ones tearing the house down, the working or not working, they all blend together in a nice orchestrated mess and then I look for my old friend sleep. Some days you never know what you might get, but you start it the same way. It is living. Today, after smoking a good bit I got a phone call from my dad’s cell phone, never a good sign. This stopped the buzz. Then he asked if I had a few minutes to talk, sounding weary, maybe tearful, cursing. He doesn’t do that. This stopped the clock. Then he went into the plan for Christmas visits from me and my brothers, and our families, and why. This reddened my swollen eyes.
Holley came home and went to get some cat food, and to buy me some cigarettes and beer. She took the little ones. Holley knows daddy.

I went into the closet where I keep it all and rolled a smoke. I usually smoke filters, but lately I have been conserving, breaking them in half and rolling the broken halves when I don’t have money to buy whole ones. I stepped out into the graying, day after orange of an overcast sunset, leaned against the Ford, and lit up. I thought about selling stuff, I thought of my mom and the trilogy, and I thought of nothing, choosing otherwise to just stare over the tree lined horizon, and the quiet highway. A few drags in, a Southern Shores cop pulled up to the corner of 12 and Loblolly in plain view of me. I watched him watch me from the corner of my eye. I kept on smoking. Sure enough, he turned his lights on and pulled in, very abruptly, authoritatively. Hell no, I thought. I, unmoved, leaning on the Ford watched as he slowly exited his drunk chaser, and approached me, his hand on his steel. “What’s that you’re smoking?” Obligatory. “Before I begin”, I started,” I hope you have a recorder on, because this is tobacco, and a jury of your peers will surely convict you should you take this one step further, once I tell you calmly what I am about to tell you.” He said “that’s very eloquent son, let me see that ‘Cigarette’.
I dropped it at my feet. Then I began. “I’m watching my two and four year old all day, as I get the call,” and I went on explaining everything about my sadness, or apparent comatose stature, and indignant speech. I told him how anyone who could read between the lines of the story would see him jailed for any misunderstanding or show of force on his part. I told him how I’m already on massive doses of anti-anxiety and anti depressant drugs. I added that lately it’s a pile of sleeping pills too, and all that plus beer still wouldn’t knock me down until four or six a.m. I also told him calmly and stoically, still unmoved, that should he decide to cite me for anything from littering to whatever you’d call my serious and crappy demeanor, he had better call back-up and an ambulance first, as well as his Commanding Officer, as I planned to file charges of violation of civil rights, those given a broken man, bereaved in his driveway, smoking the leftovers of a few whole cigarettes. He looked at me like a man looks at a stray cat, or a car accident, or a new baby, and then he got back in his cruiser, and just slowly drove away. You never know what a day will bring. I have heard it, and said it, but I never understood the between of those lines until now.

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