Waiting for the interurban

The bus was running late, as usual. The only sensible thing to do in such conditions is to smoke a cigarette, as far as Paul was concerned. So he did.

“I’ve run out of fucks to give,” he said, dropping a pinch of tobacco into the cigarette paper. He shifted the distribution of the tan, shredded leaf, pushing it to the edges of the paper. The amount was still unsatisfactory by whatever criteria he had, so another pinch was added shifted about until he was satisfied and his fingers started their practiced rolling to transform the package into a serviceable cigarette.

“I mean, if it ain’t the tobacco, it’s the caffeine. Or the sugar. Or the booze.” He plucked out a few wayward plant fibers sticking out of the finished product, returning them to the pouch. He tapped a few wayward strands remaining deeper into the paper and put the cigarette on his lips.

“Or, for fuck’s sake, it is the plastics. I mean, they’ve found ‘forever chemicals’ in polar bears’ blood. And my balls are apparently chocked full of microplastics or somat.”

He fumbled with the Zippo lighter he had swiped from his father years ago, his fingers cramping in the autumn air and refusing to behave the way they were meant to behave. He did not need to see a doctor to know that he was started to see the first signs of arthritis — his father and father’s father were enough evidence that the ailment would more like as not come his way. Going to a doctor would just lead to learning about more ailments that he would rather not be aware existed.

He took a drag on his hand-rolled cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds before exhaling into the crisp air. The smoke curled around the edge of the roof of the bus shelter and slipped into the morning. He imagined a djinn had found escape from his lungs and was now taking to the skies.

He inhaled air unadulterated by anything but the morning smog and started coughing. The cold air always irritated his smoke-ravaged lungs. “Goddamn it,” he managed between barks. “I hate it when it gets colder out.”

Derrick knew better than to say anything when Paul was in this kind of mood. He would have rather not have to say a single word as they waited for their bus to take them to their workplaces downtown. But the conversation could hardly be put off much longer.

“Have you thought about what we should do with Jason? I mean, rent is coming up soon and you and I both know that there is no way he’s good for it this month.”

Paul bit back bitter laughter. “Yeah, that lay-about slacker probably needs to go. I can cover his share this month, but we need to get rid of him and find another roommate.”

“Yeah, he’s starting to stink up the place.”

“Yeah, that’s not changed. He was always a stinky fucker. But it’s gotten worse lately, I’ll admit.”

Paul started puffing away at his cigarette. The top of the bus had started to crest the hill. “I swear, the quickest way to get a late-running bus to show up is to light a fresh smoke.”

“So, what should we do about Jason?” Derrick asked, hoping to get an answer before the bus pulled up.

“Tell you what: You pick up some yard bags on the way home. I’ll do the dirty work this time, but you’re helping with scattering the parts o’ Jason around town this time. And, no, Uber is not an option. We needs to do this manual-like.”

“Fuck. I suppose you’re right. But this weather is killing my joints.”

The bus was braking to a stop. Derrick asked, “Why do you think he stole from your stash instead of just going to his normal dealer?”

“Because he was skint is why. And an amateur. He wouldna touched my stuff if he’s known what he was about. That stuff is hardcore, man. Nothing a lightweight should’ve dreamed shooting up.”

The bus door opened. “Tonight then?” asked Derrick.

“I guess we need to do our housekeeping tonight,” confirmed Paul. “The place is starting to get rank.”