Pyrotechnics

So where were we? Or rather, where was I? Lighters, yes? Yes. Lighters.

Towards the end of my stay I’d acquired a pack of p-funks + a lighter by happenstance.

Bodies moved in, out, and around the boundaries of the specified space I agreed to be placed within at consistently inconsistent intervals. Consequently, that meant materialistic possessions belonging to the conglomeration of transient beings in gen pop could often be found forgotten or abandoned not for reasons of disdain, purpose, or rational intent, but rather, because the contemplative matters at hand…nay, the contemplative matters at heart, required the kind of attention that doesn’t have space, money, or extra energy for first world problems of the paid and/or unpaid carry-on luggage bullshit variety.

Week 3 of my…residence, I was voted/selected by the men’s community to be like, one of the leaders and/or mentors for that week. To type that it felt ironic is an understatement. But it was also necessary. By then most of the men’s community knew I was a teacher, they knew that I thought that at best teaching wasn’t good for me and at worst, that I could feel the profession killing me on the daily. Yet there I was. Doing it because it made me feel uncomfortable. Because I had no place to hide. And because there was nothing to numb the pain with.

I found many things that week.

5 AM every morning there was Vitals Jack unlocking the ballroom doors. And then there was the common area I humbly yet affectionately came to think of as my classroom. Which in a way it was. Found Young Chip’s jacket when I was straightening tables so as to be more symmetrical like. Jesus’s hot pink sunglasses. Foster’s standard issue composition notebook with nothing written in it. One of Blue’s hoodies. A random ass sock from Bulldog’s negligent bitch ass. Oh and I came across James’ journal when I was straightening chairs under tables (also for symmetrical symmetry and what not). Fucking eh, though. James’ journal.

There wasn’t a name on the front cover so I flipped it open to see if there was something scribbled inside and well…fucking, fuck me. Still wasn’t a name, but I recognized the sunglasses and mp3 player residing next to the bonded pages. Most heartbreaking super fucking raw shit I’ve ever accidentally come across in my existence. Never saw James again. But I still have his mp3 player.

There was a pseudo stage of sorts with guitars and speakers behind the podium in the common area. Found a lighter + half a pack of p-funks. Assumed it belonged o Logan, Bosh, or both. Knew I’d see them both inside and outside of group later in the day so decided to throw the items in the backpack Liam gave me.

Aside from knowing the lighter + cigarettes weren’t his, Logan didn’t know who they belonged to. Never got to ask Bosh. He got discharged early. Died of a heroin overdose 4 days later.

The men’s community was in a surreal state of states the evening we learned of Bosh’s untimely death. It was the only night there was no curfew. And while everyone was outside and just sorta vibe-ing out, no one was really talking. At least not about anything that mattered. Most of us just watched the sun set in silence. I was trying to remind myself that the sun also rises but there was this fresh face kiddo pacing around our space that just so happened to arrive the day Bosh died. Seemed like a nice kid. Well intentioned and innocent and all that. His parents put him in rehab cuz apparently he was smoking too much weed. Couldn’t have been older than 17 and by the time I walk across him he might as well have been in a full on frenzied ‘fuck all this’ state of affairs. So I make myself pause to ask him how he’s doing. Like, “Hey man…” and all that shit. Name’s Connor. Connor asks me if I smoke and my automatic answer based on lived experiences =

Naw man. Ain’t my thing. Oh but fucking fuck. Hold on. I actually have some p-funks and a lighter.

I give the previously mentioned items to Connor. We talk. I get his whole life story and like, he seems like a really good fucking kid. Like he shouldn’t be here talking to me. I tell him to keep the lighter. Before heading back to crash for the night I tell him,

“Look man, I see you’re all sorts of fucking scared. This space that you’re in right now. Like, standing here with me. It’s foreign as fuck, yes. But it’s also safe. We also got characters for fucking eons here. And no joke, every character is smart as shit. But in a couple days you’re gonna be in these group meetings, and some of these super smart motherfuckers are gonna freeze up. Not because they don’t know what to say, but because they have toooooooooooo fucking much too say. Know what I mean? And then after group many of those same peeps are gonna smoke their smokes in the designated smoking areas and that’s when something magic happens. I obviously don’t know you at all or if you smoke, but even if you don’t man, go stand in a circle with them for 3 minutes while they’re getting their nicotine fix and in 3 days dude, you’ll feel like you’ve known some of those characters for 30 years. Way more importantly, if you’ve never opened up or been able to vulnerable, smoke breaks are where it’s at. Always bring your lighter too cuz for one, there’s always that dude that has his smokes but forgot his lighter and needs a light. For two, and this is gonna sound corny as shit, that lighter…this lighter that I’ve given you, that shit can figuratively AND literally light the way for you going forward.