Book of Jamez

55 y/o malcontent, something of a writer

Tag: drugs

  • Up In Smoke

    Today there was a little mishap with someones lunch and the work microwave and pillars of smoke encompassed our small little office space. It was a terrible tragedy as the lunch didn’t survive

    very well done
    very well done

    The smell in the office was pretty bad though, one of our office mates sneezes around smoke as if someone doused her in sneezing powder, I felt sorry for her. The rest of us just ended up with our clothes, hair and skin smelling like burnt plastic. It was lovely. This wasn’t my first time smelling like burnt something or another…

    Back in 1985 (lets jump in the Way Back Machine Sherman!) I was living with Grandma in Whitehall. Every morning was the same routine with her, she’d wake me up and write in her journal and start singing some song or other and eventually get around to making herself breakfast. I wasn’t much of a breakfast person so I didn’t usually partake on school days, which this was.

    I just happened to be in the kitchen when something on the stove caught fire and there were high flames and billowing black smoke and Grandma yelling…

    “Don’t panic, don’t panic! I know what to do” and she grabbed an oven mitt and the lid to the pot and smothered it.

    Then she went on to explain that pouring water on it would have been a disaster and you should always know how to handle kitchen fires. At this point i would stop and wonder if she purposefully had the fire happen to teach me a lesson about putting them out, she was crafty like that. Nah, she wouldn’t… would she?

    Well the fire was out so I just left for school, never bothering to think that I might smell a little off… hell I was a smoker, didn’t I always smell like smoke?

    Well someone at the school thought it must be something else and before the end of first period I was called to the Principals office and asked if I’d been smoking pot. No really, apparently grease fires smell a lot like pot to people who don’t have a clue what pot smells like.

    At first I was outraged, HOW DARE THEY THINK I MIGHT BE SMOKING POT, I mean sure I might be… but how dare they… I always waited at least until lunch time – actually, I rarely had pot at school, why ruin a good high by being at school? (now if I had know about LSD back then, well … then that would have been a much better story).

    Anyway, I assured him that I hadn’t and explained about the grease fire, it actually took me a minute to remember that that’s what had happened that morning. It seemed insignificant in the grand scope of how to be a miserable teenager.

    So today I was taken for a little trip back to Whitehall WI and Grandma… and memories of stealing doorknobs to sell on the black-market… yeah, those were the good old days. And work, well I’m sure we’ll all be fine but I bet that smell lingers for a day or two.

     

  • Loads

    The apartment complex where I live has three separate laundry facilities – the one closest to me is not far so hefting a basket down there to wash isn’t a big deal. The machines can all be used with coins OR credit cards, which I really like. One heaping basket of clothes is usually two loads of laundry – sure i could mix it all together but I separate lights and darks (I’m a clothes racist and believe in segregation). I’d still prefer to have a washer and dryer in the unit, but this works, I can always find two machines next to one another.

    This particular time was no different than the rest – laundry in the basket, detergent capsules on top. As I approached I could see two other people in the facility, nothing new there. I went in and said hi to the person closest to the door – she just glanced and me warily and then towards the other person there. I looked back there and didn’t think anything of it and said hello to him as well. As I was loading the washing machines I noticed the woman kept looking past me at the guy in the back, so I took a better look at him.

    The man was really skinny, with a short hair cut. He was wearing a blue short sleeved shirt and tan shorts with flip flops. His eyes were hooded and he wasn’t there. Very slowly, slow-motion like,  he would pick up a piece of clothing, hold it to his chest an fold it. I think I loaded two washing machines in the time it took him to fold that one piece of clothing. He was shaking as he moved and every once in a while I’d hear a loud “sniff”.

    “None of my business” I thought and proceeded to pay for the machines, set the timer on my phone and headed back to my apartment. But the man gnawed at my thoughts on the way back – he must have been on something, maybe he has mental issues – again, none of my business was the thought that rose to the top.

    When the timer went off I headed back to start the drying cycle, thankful that the odd one would be gone, but as I approached I could see he was still there in the back of the room, his basket where it was when I left. As I approached I saw he was still moving at a snails pace, even the simplest of motions.

    It wasn’t until I was on my way out that I noticed the clothes he was folding were dirty. I could see dirt, red stains and what I hadn’t noticed before was the smell from back there – a mildewy scent wafted from that side of the room.

    This was several months ago now, and I’ve not seen that guy in there since. But I wonder what’s become of him sometimes and what he was on. A small part of me wonders if he was enjoying himself – it was hard to tell what he was feeling when I would look at him.