Holy Smoke
BY SHEREE SHATSKY
Me and my holy smoke claim the bench outside the bookstore to sit and watch the days go by. Most don’t see my smolder but then, most are blind to my slow burn.
Only those with the fire see holy smoke—the old coals like me, harboring the smokey essence of experience and the on-fire blazing youngsters, vibrant and energized and unpredictable, particularly when emotions run high. Then there’s the bunch best avoided—the Secreters—the foolers, the slayers, the sly ones, the stuffers of the flame deep inside themselves where those of us who can see, can’t. An old coal can pick up on their foul scent, an overburnt char of sorts, the odor of burnt black food, brittle and flaking at the bottom of an oven. I catch a whiff of one every once in a while, and pretend not to notice the Devil himself has crossed my path.
My stomach rolls. A young man wearing a yellow shirt leans against the wall, browsing his phone. He smells like cremation. I shudder myself a flicker to protect my old bones and drop my chin to my chest. Too late. He sees my embers.
“Man, your head’s on fire.”
“Toot, toot tootsie, goodbye,” I say, with a peek and away.
Yellow Shirt lights a cigarette off my crown. “Crazy don’t work with me, old coaler.” He looks around and rifles through my warm pockets.
A young woman steps out the bookstore cresting a purple of oh-say-can you-see fireworks. She scans the parking lot, keys gripped in hand. Her flame tips high alert orange.
Yellow Shirt warms his hands over my head and watches the woman walk to her car two rows deep. “Thanks for nothing,” he says and spits in my liturgy. He hurries into the parking lot and rounds the corner after the woman.
I light a candle in my head.
Are you following me? Are you following a woman walking alone in a parking lot?
Yellow Shirt stumbles back, screaming you’re crazy, lady. His shirt sleeve is on fire.
A zap of flame pyrotechs straight heat at the Secreter, licking up his trouser legs. He’s lit hotter than one hundred per cent grain alcohol, combusting fast and quick behind a late model BMW.
Toot, toot, Tootsie, good-bye.
