Smoke and alcohol

-It’s 1:55 and the streets are saturated in the dark stillness. Every so often high beams pass stealthily with a blinding ghost like effect. Without a blink, Mr. C catches the vague impression and wonders how many cars have passed and if any have really crossed his path tonight, or if they are recollections from previous nights sneaking up on him in his half conscious moments. The city streets somehow seem less real at this time of morning. The darkness envelops everything. It all appears, a fragment from some half forgotten dream. As he himself weaves his way through the streets, he guides himself by the barely visible white stripes overlaid on the crumbling concrete.
It is not far, the distance, the blocks he makes his way past before he pulls into the driveway, parking area. There are three other cars parked in front of the bright light shining onto dashboards. There is a man inside. He wears a hat, a turban of some sort and at this time of night it appears snake like, almost, adding to the night’s surreal dreamscape. Mr. C walks inside and the light reflects off his eyes nearly blinding him for a moment. He looks around and everything has an almost angelic, almost ethereal glow to it. There are five men in line, three in front and two behind him, each of them carrying cases of beer to the counter. It crosses his mind whether he too should buy escape. He’s been feeling misplaced for days. And it happens, from time to time. Reality makes its awareness less known in our synapses. Then he notices that the man with the turban ignores his presence and quickly helps those with cases. ‘A little odd,’ he thinks. Wondering he looks down at his watch and smiles. It’s 1:57 and there are only two kinds of people at the 7-11, those buying alcohol and those buying nicotine.
The door bursts open, a quick gush of the cold still wind of predawn morning fills the place for a moment. A man enters and simply watches the clerk with the turban scan the cases. He waits silently; he knows the drill. Mr. C watches him and notices that there is almost a movement in his knees as if he’s debating whether he too should join the crowd and grab a case before it’s too late. His knees almost bend to move him quickly to the back of the store and towards the beer section, but he restrains himself for whatever reason and his knees lock. He’s not moving. Neither does Mr. C move. Both of these men just stand and wait for the three minutes to two to lapse and then they’ll be noticed. As the men with the alcohol each pay, they exit, the same still cold wind briefly filling the convenience store. Both men the one with his knees locked and Mr. C just stand there waiting, an awkward smile on their tired faces.
Two am and the store is empty as Mr. C lights a cigarette, still the light bouncing off his dashboard. As he drives off, the cigarette’s flame is the only visible light of night and headlights appear and disappear suddenly. The nightscape bare and the only images present, those of faded memory. Living in this moment is liminal. This is the moment life flashes before your eyes, there is no other. He, Mr. C steps on the gas. He doesn’t have far to go, but in the night’s displacement he’s chosen to go farther than he needs to. Again tonight, the thought that maybe if he drives long enough, he’ll find that moment he’s been waiting for.
He passes endless curbs, up and down hills. Every memory he can recall from his life in this particular neighborhood, reawakens, shattered. Life is never quite whole, and neither are his memories of it. A pizza party after Sunday school, but he doesn’t remember Sunday school. That was long ago. The girl that he first dreamt of comes to his mind but who she was is absent. He starts to wonder what became of her. He’s heard stories. Once when he was drinks past unsober he bumped into someone who told him something or other, but the story is now unclear. She remains one of those empty images that we all carry around with us. He has many of these. Empty images. His eyes are heavy now, heavier. But there’s something inside that beckons him to continue. Keep driving, it says. And he does. The question vaguely: Am I driving in circles? It fades too quickly to register and he continues on.