***
a character:
The pulsing click of chalk on the blackboard punctuates his daydreams - each white, powdery molecule catching the light from the window as it floats to the floor. These are vehicles or clouds or a blizzard. Droning hum in the back of his ear makes a backdrop for home insvasion or jumping out of airplanes. He thinks longingly of a cigarette but no he is not allowed. It is forbidden, and he would probably smoke too much and get sick. Ah - but the ritual, the tapping of the pack to settle the tobacco, the selection of a perfect cigarette from beheath the gold wrapper - smelling the thin cylinder, rolling it between his long, dry fingers, the striked match, the draw...Just holding that cigarette between his fingers and feeling the smoke curl up, around his neck and just past his eyelids - this is cool.
And he wanted very much to be cool.
He had growled obscenities at the airline stewardess who came flying down the aisle to extinguish his fresh Marlboro - his personal slice of Americana. He had spent a night in the can for that little stunt but didn't regret it. He had smoked on a commercial jet liner. He had defied the odds and the law and thumbed his nose at every addict who did not posses the balls to join him.
He would think of that episode and incline his head and brush his chin with the side of his index finger - the closest thing to smiling he knew how to do.
The pulsing click of chalk on the blackboard punctuates his daydreams - each white, powdery molecule catching the light from the window as it floats to the floor. These are vehicles or clouds or a blizzard. Droning hum in the back of his ear makes a backdrop for home insvasion or jumping out of airplanes. He thinks longingly of a cigarette but no he is not allowed. It is forbidden, and he would probably smoke too much and get sick. Ah - but the ritual, the tapping of the pack to settle the tobacco, the selection of a perfect cigarette from beheath the gold wrapper - smelling the thin cylinder, rolling it between his long, dry fingers, the striked match, the draw...Just holding that cigarette between his fingers and feeling the smoke curl up, around his neck and just past his eyelids - this is cool.
And he wanted very much to be cool.
He had growled obscenities at the airline stewardess who came flying down the aisle to extinguish his fresh Marlboro - his personal slice of Americana. He had spent a night in the can for that little stunt but didn't regret it. He had smoked on a commercial jet liner. He had defied the odds and the law and thumbed his nose at every addict who did not posses the balls to join him.
He would think of that episode and incline his head and brush his chin with the side of his index finger - the closest thing to smiling he knew how to do.
