The Smoker's Alley

A Story by Peter Schal

A twist on the effects of drugs and alcohol on a bipolar schizophenic. (snippet view) Discretion is advised (but not withheld).

The Smoker’s Alley

I used to hang out there, with my buddies Tom and Mike. We would go there almost every morning before school hours and smoke a couple Marlboros, with an occasional sip of the Budweiser Selects that I would steal from the shelves behind the bar that my father built in our house. We would smoke and sip, smoke and sip, smoke and sip until the beers were gone and our smokes were burned to a stub. Most times we were joined by other people, and we’d lean against the graffiti-ridden brick wall, so as to let f****t bike riders pass with ease. We smoked, and we drank, and we minded our own business. This we did before and after school hours, with no trouble at all; until problems started to arise. There were normally less than ten kids my age out between the brick wall and the Baja Nails salon before sunrise in the mornings and fifteen minutes after the last bell in the afternoon. Occasionally there was the beginning smoker, or beginning drinker, and he or she would ask for a drag or a light or whatever the f**k they wanted, and they wouldn’t shut up until they got what they wanted. That was the way it is, and the way it was, until someone got busted. One morning, I think it was the fifth of May, I’m not too sure, I was out between the stupid nail salon and the s****y, crumbling brick wall with my buds as usual. David, Shelley, Cameron and silent Stevie Mann rested comfortably on either side of us, blowing snot onto the concrete or smoke through their noses. Neither of them was talking; I assumed it was too early for friendly conversation. However, Mike was indulging himself in telling me and Tom, quite humorously, about a rather lucid story concerning his sexual endeavors undergone the night before. “So I was really stoned that evening, right, and Chelsea seemed really fucked up on all that weed I had stashed up in my closet, and boy was she bombed! She couldn’t even see straight, damn it! I mean, I had to literally lead her to my bed just so I could f**k her sideways!” He sniggered uncontrollably, tapping flaming ashes from his cigarette onto the concrete, where they lowed like tiny coals before shriveling up and dying. Tom and I were holding our sides, giggling like ten year olds in sex-ed classes, clutching our beers in slightly quivering fingers. Mike was apparently having himself a good time, as he was still giggling when he continued. “But that’s not the best part, man! Best part is when I finally got her where I wanted her!” I couldn’t refrain myself from laughing out into the cracking dawn; it was too stupid and childish to not laugh at it, that was the catch. “What the f**k did you do to her, man? F**k her sideways, like you said?” Tom asked, smirking. Mike looked at Tom and giggled even harder. “Naw, man! That’s too damn hard. I did it doggy-style instead!” He let out a booming guffaw that seemed to almost wake the dead. I got momentarily scared, and I was tempted to thinking that his booming laughs would summon someone of authority, therefore revealing our smoke spot and condemning us all. So I added a hint of seriousness among my good spirits: “Dude, shut the f**k up! You’re gonna get us all caught if you laugh harder�"

“Or louder, for that matter,” Tom added. Again we burst into fits of laughter, this time being smart enough to cover our mouths to stifle the cackling. I could see that the sun was steadily rising in the east after thinly recovering from my snickers; a sign that at any minute now the first bell will ring and we would have to down the rest of our beer and stash the empty cans into the hedges at the end of the Alley, stub out our cigarettes, and toss them into the bushes behind the brick wall. Then we would journey through the parking lots, past throngs of students and into the cafeteria restrooms where we’d wash up a bit to wash the stink off of us before heading to class. But today was going to be different. I had a strange feeling at that moment when I noticed the golden rays of sunshine peek through tiny slots in the branches of the oak trees as cars buzzed by on the roads a mere thirty yards away. I think it was the beer, or the smokes, but I thought later that it was neither. It was totally different. We were still clutching our sides and tittering like schoolchildren when that fool Sonny Hampshire pulled up in our alley on his aging Mongoose, his f****t helmet dangling on the handlebars and banging up against the dirty frame. I bet he didn’t want to be caught wearing it around here, or he’d be wearing his teeth for a necklace. Usually he sped right by us on that damn bike, thinking to himself that one of these days he’ll snitch on us or something and get us in trouble, the grinning b*****d. He was known around school for doing those things; and I’ll be damned if the f****r has a girlfriend. But today was different. It was different because he stopped his bike right in front of us. What happened next was purely�"what’s the word for it?�"unthinkable. Mike, Tom and I ceased our childish laughter almost at once. All three of us looked at Sonny with shadowy interest. Our expressions were blank, but beneath it all we were astounded at this unusual change of events. Sonny hopped off of his bike and rested it against the graffiti-stained wall of the salon. He then turned and looked at us, smiling. I hated how he smiled, the way he parted his lips to show his stained teeth, partially whitened in some places. And his eyeglasses that rested on the oily bridge of his nose sliding a few centimeters forward so that he looked up over them with interest. His appearance resembled one of those intellectual snobs that always gave the answers; a trait that I personally despised. The fellows that resided beside the brick wall with their smoldering joints in between their fingers flicked them down on the concrete, stomped out the cigs and turned toward the gates to leave. They apparently didn’t want anything to do with this smart-a*s f****t, and neither did he with them. He just looked at us three, smiling that atrocious smile. He took a couple of steps forward and extended his hand and said�" “Hey guys, mind if I have a sip of that beer?” We said nothing. Instead we eyed him suspiciously. He continued to stare at us and simper, until I was tempted to throw a smart comment at him. “Look Sonny, we don’t want any of your bullshit this early in the morning�"“ “Oh, no, not at all. I just wanted a little sip of that Bud you got there, if you don’t mind.” There was, like I had said before, something very peculiar about him. It seemed like something was wrong with him, and that was what scared me. His bravery at approaching us and even asking for a beer was astounding; usually the snitching punk would run scared like a roach in the light of a kitchen. But no, he was brave alright, and here he was right in front of us asking for a beer with his hand extended and that acrid smile plastered across his f*****g face. Tom spoke up at last. “Actually, Sonny, we do mind. We don’t want your snitching little mouth around here mooching off of us and stealing our beers and cigs.” Mike chuckled, and Tom stepped forward and looked straight down into Sonny’s eyes. I saw that his pissy smile dwindled a little, and I was glad. It gave me the creeps. Tom completely towered over Sonny, so that when spoke his superiority made it very clear that he was serious. “We don’t want you over here anymore, you little chicken-s**t,” he said. Sonny kept his ground, but his face had turned form a friendly smile into a mean grimace. I don’t know whether he was angry or not, but I knew that Tom’s denial must have ticked him. “And if I catch you around these parts again, or if I even hear a word out of your mouth or anybody else’s about this, you are going to wish you never snitched in the first place. You get me, chicken-s**t?”