With a deep breath, I take another drag and exhale the smoke through the tube, feeling a strange mix of discomfort and detachment wash over me.
As I kneel over him, dutifully blowing the cigarette smoke into the tube, my curiosity gets the best of me. I begin to examine him, taking in every detail of his body. I’ve never been this close to an old man before, and it’s simultaneously repulsive and fascinating.
I notice the artificial look of his hair plugs, the raised pimples on his arms, the stretch marks on his belly. The smells of Axe body spray and sweat emanate from his body, mixing with the acrid odor of the burning cigarettes. I try not to recoil at the sight of his small, flaccid penis, dangling limply between his chunky legs.
In between exhales, I try to make small talk to pass the time and begin asking him questions about himself.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
He spits the slimy tube out of his mouth and says, “I’m a New Yorker! I grew up in a very beautiful part of New Jersey.”
“But you live here now?” I follow up.
“No, I actually live with my mom in New Jersey. She likes having me around,” he says with a shrug. “You should come over to the house sometime.”
An hour in, he decided he needs a break.
“Hey, do you like the Strokes?” he asks, pulling out a small speaker from his duffel bag.
“They were the first live concert I ever went to!” I reply, excited that we may get to listen to some good music to lighten the mood.
“This is me and my cover band!” he says with a toothy grin. My elation quickly sours when he proceeds to play his rendition of every single song by the Strokes. He sings along, occasionally belting out the lyrics a cappella. It’s obvious that he thinks he has a great voice. I force a smile and bop my head to the music, cringing from secondhand embarrassment. “Okay, let’s get back to it!” he says, clapping his hands.
He gets back on the floor and I resume my position, chain-smoking and blowing smoke into the tube. As the minutes drag on, I can feel the smoke burning the back of my throat, and my fingers are becoming stained yellow. The terrible music blares, and the man continues to scream, and the smoke and discomfort start getting to me. A splitting headache throbs behind my bloodshot eyes, and my back and knees ache from kneeling for so long. I steal glances at the digital clock on the corner, but time seems to have frozen and the minutes drag on for hours.
