Grey

Rewind.

I slide a chair to the counter and grab the pack next to the glasses. I sneak my treasure to the second-floor bathroom, break them in half, and watch the pieces fall from my hands. The tobacco swirls around like paper confetti as it’s flushed. My heart beats hard, livened with power, waiting for the explosion of anger. I giggle with nervous satisfaction in this unconventional game of hide and seek.

“They’re bad for your health, ya know!” my pint-sized self sasses back.

The smokers of my family find the same escape and release that I’ll grow to know and love. Calm in, stress out. I can’t possibly grasp the impossible need for them yet. The cunning tentacles of addiction will dig deep into my asthmatic lungs and hold me hostage for twelve years.

Thankfully, my dad will quit, not long from now, when it becomes hard for him to skip down the block with me.

When I’m twenty-eight, I’ll know how hard that must have been for him to quit when you’re living hour by hour, learning to cope without the fix. You quit cold turkey because nothing ever worked the first three times you tried to kick it. You dread the morning commute, the after-dinner urge, the while-drinking need, and the weight that might come back.

You start chewing gum, and food, to quell the urge; you avoid the stoop and the smoking buddies. Judgment is more accessible than admitting struggle.

They smell now.

In my thirties, I’ll know how easy it is to want to better myself when looking into my child’s eyes; I do not want to miss a thing or do anything that could cut my time short - skydiving, smoking cigarettes, helicopter rides, etc. Exercise becomes slightly more appealing when you become a parent.

I said slightly.

You’re a role model put on the spot like a hired motivational speaker. Don’t fuck this up. They’re always watching. Happy to tell you that your tummy is growing a baby, even when it’s not. They’re brimming with existential questions like, “what are people for” and “what is heaven?” to keep us on our toes.

As a single dad and a restaurant owner, my dad pays Tammy to do the groceries and keep the house together. A housekeeper seems glamorous, but in single parenthood, it’s a lifeline—a means to maintain sanity and put some color back into the knuckles.

Tammy is a dancer, but not the kind I think she is and not the kind I want to be when I grow up. She has a hairless dog named Creature. I grow a fondness for the weird little guy. The off-putting feel of his skin is oddly soothing, like fine-grit sandpaper on a dry heel.

My dad’s architecturally uninteresting box of a house is an unfortunate color, the shade of roadside filth. The stucco exterior looks like the builders didn’t finish the job. On Holidays we sometimes take family pictures in the neighbor’s yard. My dad positions the tripod and runs into the shot.

It never seems odd.

Every other weekend and every summer, Kev and I share bunk beds. When I can’t sleep, I stare at the life-size Boyz N The Hood movie theater cut-out that commands our medium-sized room. If my bladder wakes me up in the middle of the night, I’m often shaken awake by toilet water greeting me with a splash. The toilet seats are usually up.

On Sundays, I track down my woobie and pack the rest of my belongings into my Minnie Mouse duffle bag.

They outnumber me, Little Katie, three guys to one, yet it feels like home.

© Katie Pendergast 2022