Enlightenment

People are Cigarettes

I remember the night all too clearly, even after the numbers of beers I had. The bar was nothing special with its ceilings fairly high, an accurate metaphor, and irony to the rising spirits of the liquor, but the death within the men drinking it. Lights dim, concealing the faces of those inside. Water-spots on the ceilings from decades of leaking pipes. Old, decaying, its tenants drinking away another welfare check straight to the bottom of the glass. Their faces. Their faces told me everything I wanted to know about them. One guy’s face told me that his life was going to hell. He had on a loosened dress shirt, black oxford shoes, and a Men’s Warehouse jacket that was slapped over the back of his chair. His eyes weren’t windows to his soul. His eyes were his soul. Exposed, helpless, crying out for something to end this pathetic life that he now lives. He waves for another, telling the waitress that he’ll pick up the tab next week. I’m sure he never paid the tab, nor did he tip the waitress when he stumbled out the door. And off goes another poor soul consumed by his consumption. Such a sight to see.

    Then there was him. He sat across from me in the booth, downing another beer, his second of the night. His dress shirt was opened at the collar, much like the guy from before. But he was different. The insomnia on him actually, you wouldn’t think, made him harder to read. This was a different type of insomnia. This wasn’t the kind that sprouts from anxiety, or depression. This is the curious kind of sleeplessness. The sleeplessness that has no real answer, no clear definition of reality, or fiction. At one time, I felt, and looked just like him. Pathetic. Tired. Depressed. I’ll go far as to say that I was him at one point. But that all changed. I am enlightened, and it would be a crime against God himself not to enlighten my new “friend” in front of me. Everyone deserves enlightenment. It’s the one thing that makes you feel alive when the world is dying around you.

    He finishes the glass and puts it back on the table. The old wood of the structure always fascinated me. So much hard work on a beautiful table, only to be placed under the pitiful sorrows of drunk man-children. What a waste. He looks up at me with the bags of his eyes being shadowed in the light above.

    “Thanks for the beers,” he says to me.

    I tell him not to mention it. I begin the process of enlightenment. I start by asking him why he buys certain clothes and not others. He shakes his head. It’s simple, I say, because I’m more obsessed with having the name of a guy on my underwear. I tell him that I would rather change the channel when one of those animal donation commercials pops on when I’m watching reality TV. We are a culture obsessed with names on clothes, magazines, and celebrities. He simply keeps staring at me while I bring him vast amounts of enlightenment. I pull out a cigarette, light it, and continue. The things that we own end up owning us.

    “You know… you’re right. My condo is just… full of all of this consumer garbage. Every time a new IKEA catalog comes out, I’m on the toilet, calling in, and asking about a yin and yang coffee table,” his face is finally coming to terms and accepting the first step to becoming greater. It’s so… beautiful.

    I go on more, revealing to him the lie that is the American Dream, and the middle class content that everyone wants. No one wants to be content with life. They always want to have the biggest truck, the fastest car, the shiny new watch that costs money that you know you don’t have. That’s the great lie of the century. You know you don’t need a new pair of dress shoes, but Jim next door has three pairs of nice shoes. A spiteful society we are, and the only ones who win are the ones who withdraw the money from your checking account at the end of the night. I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up in grade school. He said he couldn’t remember. I asked if being the president, or an astronaut sounded close. He nodded. Then I asked why he didn’t become one of those two. He shrugs. Typical. Sad. We’re told we could be anything when we grow up. We’re told that were special, but look at the life we have. Middle class men working a  job they’d rather lose, but can’t, because this is the life you get when you don’t have a college degree, or when daddy wasn’t willing to help. Without that little piece of paper that burns like any other paper, you can never be happy. We’re a generation of men raised by women. You can never be special. You are not happy. You are not content. You are not special. You are not the president. You are not an astronaut. You are a space monkey. Dance little monkey, dance.

    The hours tick by. The bar’s occupants start to dwindle down to the lowest of the low. We walk out to the back of the bar, towards the parking lot. Very few cars are still parked, their owners still trying to look for some ounce of hope inside the bar. I puff out the last few puffs of my cigarette, throwing to the ground, and step on it. Cigarettes burn. People burn. Therefore, people are cigarettes. I look over at him. His clothes are a dead giveaway to his miserable nature. Black pair of pants, probably has five other pairs just like them. Gray tie, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a thin jacket, and a haircut that just screams “kill me now.” We share the same briefcase. We stood there for a second, or two, just looking out at the lonely, dark cars in front of us. I ask him if he’s ever been in a fight before. He says no. That’s when I say: hit me as hard as you can.

    “What?” he asks me.

    Hit me… as hard… as you can.

    “No, I’m not going to hit you,” he responds.

    Just do it.

    “No.”

    Do it!

    “No!”

    Come on! Do it, boy! Do it! He goes for a punch. I barely feel a thing. He misses, just tapping my ear.

    “Wait, that didn’t count!” he pleads.

    Nope, my turn. I throw one into his stomach. He cringes and squeezes the spot. He cries out a little, but he recovers. I tell him that it’s his turn. He goes for my stomach. This one hurts, and I cringe because of the pain. Before we knew  it, we were delivering punches left, and right. After that we, got into an all-out fight. I can feel his stress burn away, his sleepless nights about to die in a shallow grave, and, for once, acknowledging  his meaningless existence as a drone. And he’s perfectly fine with all of it. A couple of guys walk out the bar and notice us fighting. We stop and look at each other. Those bruises will heal, and so will the punches, but the blood has already stained  us forever. We are now bound to each other. I look at him and  he looks at me. It was on the tip of our tongue, we just gave it a name. And before I knew it. Gentlemen, welcome to fight club.