Salem Sunday

9 o'clock, Sunday morning. Hangover hours.
Like most things in my life, the room I sleep in is a mess. You can barely see the floor for all the clothes and other random items thrown all over the place, and there's all kinds of trash that hasn't quite made it to the garbage bin on the other side of the room. There's a place for everything, but if there was ever a time when everything was in its place, I wouldn't remember it. Feng shui died a slow and painful death the moment it set foot here, and nothing else has had the stones to come and try to fill the void it left behind.
The worst part, if I have to pick one, is the little wooden table in front of the couch I've turned into my into my own makeshift bed. If the full ashtrays, the half-full packs of cigarettes and the half a dozen empty bottles of Evan Williams tell the first half of the story, then the assorted burn marks, white residues and ghetto drug accessories tell the rest. More roaches than a bad motel, more razor blades than a pack of Gilettes, enough pipes to piss off a plumber and enough pill bottles to line a shelf at your favorite pharmacy. If I told you how many years a man could get from what's on this table alone, you'd shit a brick. Maybe two, if you'd eaten enough first.
And no, I don't consume of all this fun material by myself. That's part of what my roommate is for.
The blinds on the window keep most of the sunlight from spilling into the room, and I'm thankful for that, because I'm in a real "dark place alone" kind of mood when I wake up. There's just enough light coming in to illuminate all the waste that surrounds me without spotlighting it, enough to see where the TV and the hallway are without highlighting a clear path towards either that won't have me stepping on God knows how much shit in-between. I could spend my whole life surrounded by that much light and no more. You could say I already do, if you're into that "poetic metaphor" type of thing, but I'm speaking in literals.
I sit there in that pigsty living room for a good ten minutes or so after I've wiped all the crust out of my eyes-- my own personal ritual to remind myself what my life has turned into-- and then I get up and make my way to the bathroom in the hallway.
My routine is as bare as bare bones get; wash face, shave up, brush teeth, deodorize, comb hair until it looks decent. Anything past that is too much primping and preening for me. I've tried the clean-cut, neatened-up look a few times over the years, but it never stuck. It's not who I am, never was and never will be, and I'm not in the business of pretending to be someone I'm not.
At the end of the routine, I look at myself in the mirror.
I'll be the first to tell you, I'm not the most pleasant thing to look at. I don't look ugly (the women I talk to don't seem to think so, anyway), but I don't look nice, either. I've got a gaunt, hard-shaven face, just shy of haggard and rawboned. Thin nose, thin lips, skin just a little bit worn. Though for someone who hates the sun like I do, I'm not as quite pale as I could be, and all things considered, I'll take that as a good thing.
My hair is long, shaggy and black. Comes a good few inches past my shoulder. I don't cut it these days. I don't see the point.
My eyes...People like to talk about my eyes. The dark circles and light bags around them could probably out me as a drug addict if someone paid the right kind of attention, but it's the color that always catches people's notice. A "light, striking turquoise" was how a woman once described them to me, and as artsy as that shit sounds, I don't think I could come up with a more fitting description to save my life. And while your average Sam wouldn't expect something like the color of a man's eyes to be such a fascinating conversation piece, the people who meet me always fixate on that sooner or later...Least until I make eye-contact. Then it's time to look somewhere else...
My gaze moves downward.
Underneath the wifebeater I slept in, I've got a torso covered in all kinds of tattoos I've had put on me over the years. Not the glamorous kind that your girlfriend gets for her birthdays, of any names or phrases or pretty pictures with sentimental value. The ink on my skin, the words and symbols and icons that paint my body...Most people can't name a reason why, but they find the shit disturbing to look at. Seven out of ten people who see my tattoos on the street think I'm some kind of Satanist or serial killer, the type of man who prays to evil gods and worships devil figures every Sunday. I don't tell them the real meaning and purpose behind the ink. They couldn't understand it if they tried.
I stare at the man in the mirror for another few minutes, taking in all of his details and letting him do the same with me. Another personal ritual of mine, to make myself recognize who and what I've become.
Few minutes after I make my way back to the living room and sit myself back down on the couch, I decide to have some white noise in the background while I take my morning smoke. I reach for the TV remote and press the Power button, and right away the television illuminates the room with a little more light and sound. I'm greeted with some sort of breaking news bulletin involving an incident that doesn't concern me. Call me jaded, but I can't work myself up over what goes on in this city anymore. I've lived too long, seen too much and experienced shit too severe. Whichever tragedy struck this time, it's not my problem, not unless someone I know is involved.
Now the more perceptive reader might have noticed; with all the drug and tobacco refuse I said was on my little table of self-indulgence, I never once mentioned having a lighter.
Reason being, I don't need one.
I bring the cigarette up to my mouth. It's a good old Salem 100, one of the better, stronger menthols a man can buy in the U.S., and a central crux of one of the lesser addictions I've picked up over the years. The reporter on the television rattles on about the disaster of the hour, and I ignore him completely.
My left hand holds the cigarette in place, while my right comes up to the end, middle and index fingers first. I focus my mind just enough, in just the right way, and then watch as the tips of my fingers catch fire.
Cool shit, right? Sure as hell beats paying a buck or two for a BiC every few weeks. Wouldn't believe how much money I save.
When the end of the cig is lit and my fingers have put themselves out, I take a long, steady drag and let the smoke fill my lungs. The menthol washes over me like a nurturing venom the moment I exhale. I read somewhere that Salems have a different kind of menthol in them than other cigs. They blend these things with an Asian variant, if the source is to be believed. Whatever it is, it's a damn fine thing to wake up to in the morning.
Another drag. Another exhale. More smoke in the air. More strong, tender poison.
I spend some five minutes just like that, getting my fix of cancer-smog while the TV news crew fires off line after line. Their words fall on deaf ears. My morning smoke is what matters. All they are is background noise to me. By the time I'm ready to pay proper attention to anything or anyone, their little broadcast has ended, and I've already forgotten what they were talking about.
I check the time. Almost ten o'clock. Still hangover hours, but there's no more putting off what needs to be done today. I stub out the butt of the cig in one of the ashtrays on the table, then get up from the couch and start heading for the back of the apartment. I run though a long, complicated and particularly esoteric checklist as I do.
Foul moods, bad habits and worse dispositions don't change who I am.
I'm a magician, and it's time to do some magic.