Slap me

I've found the only good thing about a low paying job is the number of smoke breaks you can get away with. It's not the nicotine I loved. It was the freedom that came with a smoke break. Hours of low pay, followed by hours no respect and finished off by an empty feeling and empty pockets - that can piss you off occasionally, and leave you lacking in the loyalty your employers expect. All that is blown away in a puff of smoke, if only for 5 minutes at a time.

I was a newspaper reporter, covering the city beat. It was a mid-sized paper. Most of my stories made me feel like a whore, and the others were lucky to get published because, "I don't give a crapola about your left-wing communist politics, Tim. Our readers are conservative church-goers," my editor Mike would bellow with a mouth full of sunflower seeds.

Mike was the smallest bully I've ever met. He wasn't really frightening, because he was so short. So short that his shoes were years old, always in rags, because it’s hard to find grown-up-looking shoes in children's sizes. However, his insecurities made him loud and pushy in that I-just-want-to-be loved kind of way.

"Come on, we're smoking," Jason emerged from his corner of the dungeon. The only room in the building with no windows, that’s where they put the reporters. The desks were inches from each other. A sashaying dance was required to make your way out of the maze.

A pat on my shoulder was my signal to sit up straight so he could get by, "out back, let’s go," and Jason was already out the door making his way towards the warehouse.

I took one last look at my computer, sighed over my frustrations, and groaned as I my knees ached standing up. Desks jobs always put the weight on.

"Danny," Jason called down the hallway that housed our two IT guys. Only one of them smoked. He was new, and seemed to hate it here, so we included him.

I shuffled along and caught up just as we passed into one of the layout rooms. Jim, a grizzled veteran of life, a former Mason and well-dressed redneck, was smoking at his work bench while piecing together the classifieds section. His work space was one of the few places where they allowed smoking, because "I ain't going outside to smoke. They can kiss my ass." He once thought about giving up cigarettes after a troubling visit with the doctor, but it was the only perk he had. Truthfully, they'd never fire him, because no one would want his job.

Once you pass into the printing room, the world around you is blanked out by a roar of machinery, the smell of ink and a distinctive crashing sound made by 8-feet-tall rolls of paper being moved up and down the inner workings. Such a crash shook the floor as we entered the room. I then remembered that I was wearing sandals that day, and motioned for us to take the longer but safer way around. The print guys sneered at us as we passed. They were territorial, long hair, tattoos, blackened fingers, like a band of bikers. They all came and went in the same kidnapper van. We knew nothing more than that, but it was assumed we wouldn't like each other.

Finally, sunlight ahead. I fetched a cigarette from my shirt pocket, and flicked my new Zippo. I offered the others a light, and exhaled Camel Light bliss just as we flopped down in moldy lawn furniture thrown out on an unused loading dock.

"You know what? They pay us to do this," Jason laughed maniacally, and we joined in. It was a private joke, which meant only that we’d be exceeding our legally allotted 15 minutes on this particular break.

"We don't pay you that much," Phil startled us, leaning against a shadowy corner. He was managing editor, a big boss, but high enough that he had nothing to do with us.

"You know you guys are lucky," Phil would always say this then blabber on about his care-free days as a reporter.

How should I describe Phil? He's a Hemingway man - tucked in his boat shirts, golfed, jumped rope for exercise, looked good in a silvery groomed mustache and drove a convertible Mustang. Married, but you would still spot his wife and him at the bars on the weekends, somewhat away from the crowd and ordering top shelf

Jason always identified with him a little more than most. You see, all that talk about carefree days was true for Jason. We later discovered he was just bi-polar, and Mike started making “I told you so” comments constantly, while I lectured Jason about smoking too much pot. But for now, all the women looked at him like he could liberate them. Professionally he was thought of a mad-man touched with genius. He got laid constantly, and that really pissed me off. I was just the fat guy he hung out with, and being the wingman every time actually sucks.

Out back conversations about nothing usually follow the initial release. Sometimes we'd even start talking about work. Come up with some great ideas, just before being told to get back inside.

I was really feeling the day weighing on me. It was beautiful outside. I could even hear the river running nearby, but I didn't feel a part of it. We come outside to escape the dungeon, but I always drug it out her with me anyway.

"I feel like shit," I moaned to myself, rubbing exhaustion out of my eyes. I elbowed Danny, who turned with a Marlboro hanging from his lips. "I feel like shit," I declared so he could hear me. "Why don't you smack me the face? Maybe that'll wake me up."

Usually I giggled away this kind of comment and everyone grunts or almost laughs in agreement that life sucks. This time, however, I think I forgot to do that. Looking back up at Danny, he said slowly with a serious look of concern, "no," suggesting he could not hit on moral grounds.

"What are you two talking about?" somehow this had attracted Jason's attention.

"He wants me to hit him."

This would have been another good opportunity to suggest it was only a joke, but I just rubbed my eyes some more. Jason laughed unbelievably. "What the fuck?" and shook his head.

"Ok, then you hit me," I don't know why I said that. That statement was a turning point. I could no longer declare it was a joke. No one would laugh. Only think I was either crazy or just looking for attention.

"Ok boys, I am heading back in," and Phil was gone without even looking over his shoulder, clearly uninterested in playing along.

At that very moment Mike came out. "What's up guy?" and bummed a cigarette, holding it awkwardly and squinting his eyes uncomfortable from the smoke.

"Tim wants us to hit him," they informed Mike in unison. I added nothing, but Mike seemed excited by this.

"Are you guys afraid to do it or something?" Once again no logic behind what I was saying. Now my joke had taken the shape of a dare. I could never back out now
Somehow a crowd developed at this point, probably at Mike's summoning.

Secretaries, janitors, accountants, copy desk clerks, and truck drivers, all were buzzing around me. Questions were asked, ground rules were debated, bets were taken and plans were made. I said nothing while these events unfolded.

After 10 minutes of this, a problem arose. No one was actually willing to hit me. I don't think it was because I was well-liked. Simply, no one had the guts.

"Ew ew ew..." Mike had an idea. "I got it." Wagging his finger at me knowingly, Mike seemed assured that my fate was sealed. "I know who."

The crowd parted for Mike who rushed back into the office, skipping like a school girl, and then the buzzing continued.

I would recall my dare every few minutes, scorning them for not having the courage. "Come on. Who's gonna step..." I didn't pause, but actually choked on the last word as Mike rounded the corner again with Tanya in tow. New members had joined the mob with her.

How do I describe Tanya? Nice lady, but she had been either a gladiator or a bouncer in a former life.

"No! No! No!" and the crowd physically shifted and wailed with laughter as they began to understand Mike's joke. If anybody was going to do it, Tanya would do it.
"I heard something about you Tim," She rolled up her sleeve and pointed at the ground in front of her. I had distanced myself, playing to the crowd like a scared jester, but I had to come back. There was just no way for me to back down.

I stepped up, closed my eyes and poked out my chin. "I'm ready." a silent moment passed and then I felt only a pat and some giggling. She wasn't going to do it either.

"So nobody wants to hits me." I didn't really feel lucky about this, but the crowd began to agree. I had won the argument, if this even was an argument.

"What’s going on?" a voice behind me. It was Jamie, a high school drop out who worked one of a night desks. She lived only a few block away, was wearing flip-flops, pajama bottom, a t-shirt and a lip piercing. Her cousin worked with her, a big girl, shy as they came, always quiet and wearing a dog collar.

No one really said anything at first. She looked at me, knowing this all must have something to do with me, as I stood still a few feet away from the mob.

Explanations quickly started flying. You really couldn't understand everybody talking at once. Then Mike silenced everyone, pointed at me and said "Tim wants somebody to hit him."

How in the hell do I get myself into stupid things like this?

"Sure, I'll do it," she said with almost no emotion. I could have been asking her for a light, she seemed so calm about it.

I just looked at her. The crowd was shushed to my right. She was taking off a ring from her pointer finger or her right hand. I watched it go into her left pocket.

Looking up again her arm was extended, palm open. It never occurred to me that she was going to slap instead of punch.

"Now this is going to hurt,” still calm.

I nodded.

POW! She connected expertly with my left jaw.

I remember 10 years old, my best friend Chase crunching my nose with his fist. He was smaller and I rang the monkey bars twice with his head. We never spoke again, and no one has touched me since – no one.

"Eeeew...dam...oh man....wow, that must have...sweet Jesus..." The mob was entertained, and I was left for the moment wondering what the point was.

Jamie just slipped back on her ring and walked inside.

The inspection of my face followed this. Even Phil had come back outside to see the results. A red palm print flowered my cheek for hours afterward. I started to adjust my jaw cartoonishly. The sting was gone, but I wanted to play it out.

Back inside, I passed by Jamie's group and another guy pops out of the back, bouncing up and down wanting to get to me. "Tim, what the hell did you do?" An explanation was slow for me, but the crowd around filled him in. "Why didn't somebody come get me?" They all laughed

It was the talk of the newsroom for the rest of the day. People laughing, stories embellished. After a few hours, Mike had me falling down. I laugh with them at first. Jason would nod his head every time I looked over. I felt tired again. That was excuse enough for another smoke break, and Jason was nice enough not to bring it up for a while.

******************************************

Riverside Tavern was one of the few places I called a bar in this depressingly religious and uptight town. Alcohol laws didn’t allow hard liquor unless you had food. The Tavern opted for pool tables instead and just served beer.

Despite the local’s best efforts to keep me sober, I had beaten the odds anyway, staggering onto the back street. It was only a few blocks from my apartment, just up the street from work. A perfect neighborhood spot, if only we could have added some tequila and rum.

I threw my coat around me and leaned hard to the side as I reached deep for my cigarettes. The further I reached the more I realized my pants were coming down. I tugged them up quickly and plucked a pack from my shirt pocket.

The air was nice, like it had just rained. There was a breeze but no puddles. I had left Jason inside chatting up some girl with stories of “living in the moment.”

Home was straight ahead, but why should I go there? It was only quiet and dark. Not even any cable, the only thing I could do was go to sleep. I wanted something else. Not sure what that was, but whatever it was, it wasn’t straight ahead. So, I turned left toward Broad Street.

I walked past churches and dark store front, all in matching red brick. Something pissed me off. Even the downtown here was clean. It was very controlled and conservative. Yeah it was nice, but was it really worth being so nice. I wanted something else, somewhere else, some place that made sense to me.

Liquor is quick and reliable. A few minutes of walking and my beer buzz was clearing up. I had to stop walking. If I get my blood flowing too much, I might start to think and then…

It was too late. I sat down on stone carved steps, a rear entrance to one of the municipal buildings and started to cry. Loneliness always hits me eventually. I had
come to expect it. Over the next few days, I would be down on myself, followed by a few more days of recklessly high energy. Normal for a few weeks after that, and around and around the world would keep turning.

I lit another one but I didn’t really feel like a smoke. I inhaled because the price for a pack went up again, and I didn’t want to be wasteful.

There was no one around, close to midnight. I didn’t even see any cars. Then I heard a shuffle-flop of steps in the background. Someone came into the light of the street corner. I sat back into the shadows of a pillar. As much as I wanted company, I couldn’t stand someone seeing me.

So close to work, I should have realized who it was immediately. The presses were probably finished running about now. It was quitting time for the evening crew.

“Tim?” Jamie stopped and smiled casually. She seemed in no hurry to do anything.

“Hey,” I am surprised at how quiet my voice is.

“Late night?” she asked, as I leaned forward, the red in my eyes was obvious even with the orange of the corner street lights.

“Are you OK? What are you doing out here?”

“Oh well you know…” I pointed vaguely to the neighborhood down the street. “I live over there.” I looked away. I had a lost feeling, a fearful sensation.

A curious look flashed across her face, but she seemed to shake it off. “Come on,” she said, nodding for me to follow.

I didn’t know what she meant.

“Come on, I got something that will cheer you up.” She nodded, pointing our way down the street, insisting that I get up. I rolled onto my feet and started walking, hands in my pockets, down the street next to her.

Small talk for a few minutes until she asked me where I lived. It was just across the street, a quiet old-town apartment building. I cracked a joke about my downstairs neighbors who were too loud at night, either fighting or making up.
Jamie followed behind me, laughing like one the guys. We made it to the front door. I’d gotten in the habit of leaving it unlocked. So, I pushed my way in quickly, flicked on the lights and headed for the kitchen to fetch aspirin and water.

Downing my water, I strolled back into the living room. Jamie was sitting on the edge of the couch, pulling out a bag of pot with some papers. There wasn’t much
and it was dry, but I was already starting to smell it.

I remember Jason laughing at the idea that the newspaper would never waste money to have us tested. So, I accepted and kicked back in my chair. Jamie sat there quietly while I started talking about the debate over legalizing drugs, how this would affect the street value, crime, medical arguments, etc. etc. Jamie seemed to be only noticing that I was talking or maybe just enjoying the sound of it. She didn’t look high though.

Honestly, I was confused as to what she was thinking or feeling. It’s like that with most people, most of the time, but especially women and especially at this moment did I notice it. The rest of time, I must think I have it all figured out.
The room was finally quiet when she climbed on top of me. There was in fact a clear lack of any sound, almost uncomfortable. It would have unnerved me, if I cared at that moment. Neither of us really made a sound or wasted any time. Breathing and motion, I never even took off my shirt. She stretched her arms out towards the ceiling.

It was late, and my body began to drift comfortably away. Jamie walked to the bathroom and came out. Quiet and calm, I still didn’t know what she was thinking.
“Are you going to be OK,” she said from the foot of my bed. Her eyes still wide awake, her head cocked to the side, hands on her hips. This wasn’t a casual goodbye. She seemed to be actively searching for an answer.

“Yeah,” I was still laid out, pants at my knees on the bed, and obviously willing to sleep that way,

She snorted a brief laugh, and headed towards the door. Unrushed, she said over her shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

At that moment, I decided to believe her.