Pink Smoke

Thirty minutes south of Smithville, from the bank of Lake Ontario, is Rock Point. On the bank of Lake Eerie, fifteen minutes north of Smithville, is Grimsby, a beach down the road from the city of Hamilton. Jack’s old CB 750 cruised well between these Great Lake shores from March to October, but November to February were her hibernation months. 

When winter conditions retired Jack's motorcycle, he became his mom's official chauffeur. Ruby was a veteran writer and part-time instructor at the Wilfred Laurier College of Hamilton. The deal served a dual purpose: while she was lecturing in the Creative Writing wing, Jack studied in the Literature wing of the Language Arts building. 

It might have been November 22nd when he laced up his trekking boots and embarked upon the short, tedious drive past two graveyards and a tractor lot pockmarking the highwayside into the small lakeside city. He pulled up to a redbrick condominium block that had been showing its age, nearly three decades since its original construction in 1976. Late fall chimney smoke sweetened the morning air, as if the woodsy scent of neighbouring hearths diffused directly from the firelight hues of the fallen leaves windswept into every cobwebbed corner. 

He honked the hearty horn of the rusted white Grand Prix, and extended his neck to press his forehead against windshield glass. He squinted up at the second story condo apartment from which his mom would soon appear. The daily chore was a small price to pay for an indefinite car loan. So loathed were winters here that the bulk of professionals in town feigned sober while they were anything but. Ruby Johnstone, Jack’s ailing ma, was no exception. 

The condo door shut with a bang audible to the whole complex, and Ruby hobbled down the treacherous staircase and out to the passenger side door, which she flung open, letting the smells of autumn, cheap body spray and toothpaste, and sour Merlot breath waft into the cab. Her brown suede-ette coat covered an indigo turtleneck sweater laden with strings of chunky homemade necklaces. Her bangles on both wrists clinked together while she lifted her legs inside the vehicle. Crimped dyed-blonde locks feathered her unavoidable rosy skin, despite what foundation, mascara and magenta lip shade tried to conceal. 

“Could’ve come up,” she croaked as she settled into her seat, adjusted her massive book bag, and slammed her door shut. 

“Then you’d take half an hour longer,” quipped the twenty-five year old as he pulled out into the street. “You’re already late.”

“I don’t need the lecture,” Ruby sniffed, pulling out her notebook. She rustled through her notes. “Now, step on it.”

Roadside leaves crackled like burning wood as the rumbling engine gunned down Mack Murphy Blvd to Wilf C. 

“Why don’t you just leave it there?” Jack asked Ruby after she unearthed her faculty parking pass from her bag and hooked it on the rear-view mirror. 

She paused with dry resolve. “I dunno. You might not show up.”

“Have I ever failed to show up?”

Without missing a beat, she replied: “The past can’t tell the future.” With that, the car entered the segmented rectangles of parking lot F. 

The five-foot eight instructor’s daily demonstration that she wasn’t dead yet was to zoom ahead of her son before he had a chance to lock the vehicle. Twenty-nine years of single motherhood had infused in her a sense of pride, well-deserved, if not always practical. The student in the faded peacoat scuttled to keep up with his mother, as if he’d rehearsed it since toddlerhood. They walked in silence, each with their own flavour of gravitas, neither in violation of their well-established ritual march towards the gallery of local scholarship.

“See you at 3,” Jack blurted on his way down the walk to the literature wing. 

“Yup,” Ruby responded, breaking away in the opposite direction. 

9:25. Room 113B. The title of Jack’s morning class was Canadian Ghosts: An Examination of the Supernatural as Symbolism in Post-Confederation Literature. If you read the syllabus with a critical eye, you’d reach the conclusion that Susan J Cornier, the course’s spritely white-haired facilitator, had built the course on the contents of her master’s thesis, only sparsely edited. 

On this particular day, Susan wore a black polyester blazer, puffed up with square shoulder pads, her chest a-plume with a tan and chocolate infinity scarf with little speckles of black. Her class would not begin until 10, and its students, save for Jack, would not begin to trickle in until ten to. 

“Thanks for pre-submitting your essay,” Susan said to Jack as she dropped it on the surface of the fourth row at the end where Jack sat, laptop open, his tunnel vision only subtly disturbed. He glanced nonchalantly at its pre-grade and returned his focus to his screen. “What?” Susan chuckled. “No pushback?” 

Jack took a breath in, gave a final look to the contents of his desktop, and closed his laptop. “It’s fine.”

“I was hoping you’d contest a B. It was a good essay. If you like, though, you can resubmit.”

“No,” he sighed. “That’s okay.” 

“Up to you. You’ll read in the feedback, I like your writing. I’m just looking for greater depth of analysis. You have a lot of potential.”

Jack picked up the stapled stack of sheets and quickly weeded through the professor’s commentary. “Soooo,” he reasoned, “you don’t buy my character comparison with Holden Caulfield?”

Susan sat in an adjacent chair and smiled. “Holden is a poignant character, and can certainly be compared to the protagonists of the last four novels we’ve looked at, as you’ve been clear about in your accompanying papers. I’d like to challenge you, though, to venture outside of your comfort zone.”

Jack paused to collect his thoughts. “Essayists focus on specific themes and characters all the time.”

“Sure, sure,” Susan responded diplomatically. “But your learning phase is a time to stretch your boundaries, and to learn how to find conclusions outside of your research, rather than leading your research to one or two conclusions. Now, tell me what has your attention on your laptop. A piece of writing, I assume.”

“Yes. A coming-of-age story.” 

Susan’s eyes widened. “Impressive. I don’t even think I’ve matured enough to write coming-of-age.”

A defeated smile concealed itself in Jack’s mouth. “Well, it’s not your typical coming-of-age. It has Vikings and magic, gods and heroes. It’s action-packed, with political subplots, psychology, philosophy, ethics, allegory. It’ll be interesting. It’ll be something that really grabs the reader.”

“Hm.” Susan turned her eyes to the ponderance of what she’d heard. “So, you’ve told me you’re cooking a roast. You’ve said you’re adding paprika, coriander, soy sauce, pineapple, rosemary, molasses, beef stock, cream and twenty different kinds of vegetables. You haven’t told me anything about the quality of the meat itself. With every new ingredient, you’ve alienated anyone who just wants a good roast. Sometimes less is more.”

Jack’s immeasurably subtle fury was immediately evident. “So what, I should just write yet another boring drama set in suburban Ontario? Who’s going to buy that?”

The forcefield of productive neutrality that hovered faithfully around the professor kept its shape and colour impeccably. “Who would buy a boring book about Achebe’s Nigeria, Mistri’s India, or Marquez’s Columbia?”

“Those places are interesting,” Jack countered.

“You’re lucky,” Susan said pointedly. “You can get your dual citizenship through your mom. If you travel around a bit, I guarantee you’ll find more in your hometown than you ever imagined.”

“I’m not travelling,” Jack mumbled.

“Ah. You’re caring for her.”

“Yeah.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, how’s that going?”

“Her doctor said she could do a ‘soft chemo’ this time around. Just a pill she takes, at home.”

“Oh? Is it effective?”

“She doesn’t want to do it. She told me yesterday that she’s tired of waiting.”

“For a cure?”

“No,” Jack groaned and opened his laptop. He returned to his typing, unaffected. Susan got up and returned to the front of the room as students began to trickle in. 

After Jack dropped Ruby at her condo on Mackenzie King Blvd, he started back to his apartment in Smithville. As luck, and a little naive charm would have it, Jack had brokered an apartment above the diner where he worked. The building was owned by the Lim family, the primogeniture of which fell upon a suhmatuh-styled young punk named Britton. Jack had somehow impressed the snarky eighteen-year old fashionista, because upon Jack’s request for a room to let, only three months into his provisional probationary employment at Lim’s Modern Cuisine, Britton said:

“Well, I usually don’t rent to workers, cuz if one goes sour, there goes both. But you seem like a straightforward guy, so why not.”

For five days a week, Jack’s schedule offered comfortable room to get mama home, buzz back to his pad, shower, dress, eat, groom, and pop downstairs with ten to spare. The routine wanted nothing. 

Today, Britton Lim was already behind the order window, apron fastened tightly, hair fully spiked and sprayed orange on one half, turquoise on the other. When Jack walked in, Brit was juggling stainless steel turners while listening to a particularly racy Noname song. Today, the diner and kitchen were uncharacteristically spotless. 

“Ay, Brit,” said Jack, “what’s with the showhome sterility?” 

The diner stretched around in an L-shape, all booths, no chairs. The colour scheme was red and yellow, furnished by speckled white surfaces, with alternating red and yellow vinyl upholstered stools planted around the counter. While usually you might see crumbs on the counter and tables, numerous domed plates of in-house baking, and flaps of receipts and orders strewn about the counter, that was all presently absent. 

“You don’t check your messages?” chirped Brit.

A weak buzz vibrated Jack’s pocket. He unearthed his Nokia and clicked it on. A stack of messages lying one on another on his startup screen were all labelled “Brit”. He tapped them open and read the story of how Brit’s cousin’s neighbour knew the operational assistant to the office of restaurant licensing. Apparently, there were sixteen different locations being examined for nomination to a program for service excellence, and the reward for the top three restaurants was a cash prize and an exclusive interview in the province’s top restaurant review publication, Bites. 

“Oh,” Jack remarked. “Place looks good.”

“Well you don’t,” Brit bluntly squawked. “Go put on your best uniform. Ironed. Spray some musk. Floss your teeth. I’m gonna win this one come hell or high water.”

“This is the best I got, Brit.”

Britton paused for a moment and looked Jack up and down. “Yeah, I guess you don’t get much better than that. Alright. Best behaviour. Be real chatty and nice. Keep sarcasm to a minimum. Not everyone gets it.”

“I’m never sarcastic, Brit.”

“Oh, I guess I’m thinking of me. Never mind. Just be charming. More than usual. And whatever you do, don’t screw up an order.”

“Got it.”

The diner’s patronage ebbed and flowed, but no one who came in looked like a professional. There were the regulars, the ones who came for their usual quick eats of burgers, wings and pop. Two families ordered off the Chinese menu, which was dwarfish compared to the Western menu. Just as closing time approached, with Brit visibly agonizing over the lack of customers in official garments, a final patron walked through the door. 

“We close in ten minutes,” Brit said to the young woman who slipped in. Like the other customers, she was dressed casually and had a relaxed demeanor. From neck to ankle, she wore skin tight Lulifrügen athletic wear, hot pink. Encasing it all was a puffy white jacket that almost looked too warm for the five degree November chill. Her blonde hair was wrapped up in a half-beehive, and her sneakers appeared to be newly out of the box. A petite silver chain adorned her neck with a Sanskrit symbol. Jack approached cautiously. By that point in the night, his shirt was wrinkled and wet, his trousers had lost their crease, his hair had lost its part, and he was visibly exhausted. He spoke in a low warble that signaled his fatigue. Knowing my luck, the young man brooded, this is the judge.

Before he could reach her table, she pulled out a glowing purple and pink lux populi vape pen from her handbag and took a hefty drag, letting out a lustrous plume of cotton candy vapour. Jack stopped in his tracks and glared back at Brit. Brit subtly shrugged and Jack proceeded to the woman’s table. 

“Hi, can I start you with a drink?”

“Strawberry milkshake,” she grinned and took another haul.

“Sure thing. Also, do you mind?”

“Mind?”

“Smoking outside.”

“I’m vaping.”

“Same thing.”

“Not really.”

With the silence that followed, Jack was lost for a response. He returned to the kitchen.

Brit narrowed his eyes. “Jack, you know the rule.”

“What am I supposed to say? She might be the judge.”

“Tell her it’s provincial regulations.”

“Ok, well, make her a strawberry milkshake and I’ll tell her.”

Brit didn’t respond. With the milkshake gently placed down in front of the judge, Jack took a step back and the young woman smiled. She took another drag through her glossed lips and blew to the side. “Thanks.” 

He steeled his stance and tried again. “I’m sorry ma’am, it’s provincial regulation.”

“What is?”

“Use of tobacco products or vaping. Prohibited. Not our rule. We could get shut down.”

“Isn’t that always the excuse?” She looked up at the boy. “If you want me to stop, why don’t you just tell me it’s a bad habit? Why hide behind a provincial regulation? Be a hero. Tell me it’s a filthy habit, people have to share the air, you object to it on some moral level.”

“I don’t.”

She leaned closer toward him. “Then why even bring it up? I don’t see any provincial legislators here.”

The exasperated server paused. He had no leverage, other than the law. If he denied her business, and she turned out to be the judge, the restaurant could suffer. He had one last hope.

“Hey, I’m off in thirty. I know a couple good places for a four-twenny. You down?”

The woman’s smile widened. Round here, offering someone a toke was a form of social currency, especially between a couple of twentysomethings in Smithville. 

“In exchange for–” she chuckled.

Jack nodded. “If you don’t mind.”

She slipped the pen into her handbag. “You win, smalltown. Better be some cosmic green. If the kitchen is still running, I’d love to try your chef salad.”

“Great choice,” Jack responded without bothering to write the order down. “Back in a flash.”

Samantha finished her meal as Jack cleaned up and quickly ran upstairs for a change of outfit. He came down in a white T, jeans and Carhart jacket. “We can do Rock Point, if you like. Grimsby’s an option too.”

“You choose,” Samantha cooed, and snapped a quick pic of Jack with her rose z-flip. She typed a quick message and sent it. “There. My family and friends know your face. Better be good.”

The server blushed. “Yeah, I’m good.”

On the straight plunge down the icy road, Jack did most of the talking. Samantha lowered her seat a bit so she could enjoy the ride and puff on her purple and pink pen. She fiddled with the radio at the end of every song while Jack kept the Grand Prix steady, talking into space about how he was in limbo, studying for nothing in particular, caring for his mom. At a certain point, Samantha gave up with the radio and shut it off.

“What’s your plan? North or south?”

Unaware that Samantha had even been paying attention, Jack squinted in consideration of an answer. “Well, New York is a dream. Never actually been there. Probably my best chance at writing for a career. Hamilton would be great too, or even the T-dot. Don’t need to do the paperwork. There’s just something keeping me here.”

“Yeah, your mom, I know, I heard. No, I wasn’t asking about your life choices. I just wasn’t looking at where you turned. Where we going for the toke? Rock Point or Grimsby?”

Though he wanted to laugh, Jack was embarrassed about his misunderstanding. They pulled into the parking lot at the beach head. Even though it was icy, this November had yet to bring any real snow. Jack pulled out his blunt and sparked it, but it didn’t catch. 

At that, Samantha blurted, “Whoa, Cowboy. Let’s go take in the beauty. You in a rush?”

The wind blew bitterly, but it wasn’t unbearable. Jack pocketed his lighter, but left the ticket hanging out of his mouth. The two walked down the causeway until they reached a modest pier. They made their way to the end of it where they could see the end of the bullrushes swaying underneath the golden sunset. Geese honked and darted into the unknown, carrying with them the last of the awkward ghosts that actually cared whether a couple of young townies blew smoke into the cavernous dual-citizen atmosphere.

“What about you?” asked the boy, now intent on getting his joint lit. “Big Apple’s right there. You at all interested?” 

The torch caught. Jack handed it to Samantha and she bogied for a spell. “I don’t know. I don’t really care. Just gonna see where life takes me. Jobs here are shit. Then again, the Apple’s like a big scary thing.” She took a long, slow drag and passed. “Going across that water’s like dying.”

He received the baton delicately and hauled on it. “Deep, man. Like dying. So, I guess it’s a no?”

She stared vacantly over the water. “No, not a no. It would just mean starting over. Having to readjust. Make new connections. I just don’t know if I got it in me.”

He passed. “Sometimes it’s nice to be lost,” Jack commented. “Be somewhere no one knows yah.”

A sparkle lit up Samantha’s eye, and she killed the blunt. “Well, I guess it’s decision time.” She squared off, catching Jack off guard as he broke his mesmerized focus on the setting sun. He didn’t see before how intricate the judge’s features really were. Here she held the keyhole between polarities: Britton’s success and failure, Susan and Mom, north and south, Canada and America. Samantha was the border between the dark and light of so many things in this moment, even between the glowing sunset and the twilight blue, which faded into each other over the water sitting stagnant behind her. Jack had to pause and think, because the buzz was crawling in, and he couldn’t tell how real this was. Would he wake up and forget the insight being presented to him? In one reality, he stayed in Canada, supported his mom as she slowly died, kept working for Britton, and maybe met someone to add some ambition to his border city boredom. In the other, he followed his prof’s suggestion and got his dual citizenship, took off to the most important city on Earth, kept in touch with Ruby, and would either soar, or fall trying. The impression he got was that she wanted him to decide, that the fate of his mother, boss and landlord were all in the same basket. Crossing the water would damn them all to non-existence, like there was only one story in the universe, and it was his. If he left Canada, the lights would shut on the condo on Mackenzie King Blvd, and Lim’s Modern Cuisine would blow into the wind like a dead dandelion head. An entire country would sink into the Arctic Ocean, the Pacific and Atlantic welling up around it, drowning all its citizens as Jack watched from a bench in Central Park. Jack was an anchor to the sky, the great chain of being clipped to the top of his spine. 

The breeze blew Samantha’s hair across her lips as she stood, her complexion fading into twilight, her eyes unblinking, waiting for Jack to decide the fate of his country. “Well?”

This time, Jack was the one to take it casually. “Wanna find a place to stay? Don’t wanna drive high.”

The pink lady in the white jacket rolled her eyes. “Sure, why not. My boyfriend knows I went off with you. He was supposed to meet me at your restaurant. Said he had some contest to judge. Never showed up. But I’m down to hang. Buzz is just rollin in.”

When the sun rose, everything remained as it had been. The country didn’t sink. Ruby didn’t die. The judge didn’t show up. Jack wasn’t famous. Britton wasn’t rich.

The server tried to recall the events of the previous night. Things were up and down, activities ranged from music to tv to twisting together against the November chill. Threw clothes off and played with the forces of creation. Ordered in wings, ale and pasta. Laughed. Smiled. Showered to feel the warmth of the water. Puffed out on the balcony together under the clear sky and gracious crescent moon. They returned from the balcony, and then, just then, he received the answer he’d been searching for, perhaps his whole life to that point.

She wasn’t the first he’d been with, but it was the first like this. He scanned her body, saw the predatory spark in her eye, and knew that this was the decision he was here to make. He followed her to the bed and with her energy, she pulled him on top of her. He dove into her essence, the pink smoke that was now her entire being. His lips found her neck, her nipples, her navel. Her legs parted, and he kissed her between them while tonguing the spot that brought out her wailing moan. He effortlessly applied the latex and entered her warmth, his eyes now fixed in hers, his full length expanded into what felt like her whole being, her hungry lips and tongue opening into his mouth. She reversed their bodies without pushing him out, and she pressed him down into the mattress with the force and intensity of a killer. They could have been bathed in red light as she pumped him, urging him deeper into her body, a praying mantis with blood in her eyes. His breath accelerated until it felt like he was breathing no more, and then… White.

Everything faded. He was lying in clouds, puffed out of all sensibility. Only the moment remained: no flesh, only energy, and comprehension outside of time and matter.

The more he recalled as he lay beside the sleeping body of the pink stranger, the more aware he became of the weightlessness of time. Last night could’ve been a decade, could’ve been eternity. He’d be able to recall that night for the rest of his nights, regardless of whether he would ever get caught in the cloud of Samantha’s pink smoke again. The decision he made was no future, but to string presents out above the crooked timeline of his circuitous wandering. 

He rolled off the bed and gave his body a stretch. He thought about waking Samantha. A brief solo walk on the beach called to him. Why not, was he in a rush? He picked up breakfast for two at a beachside cafe. Maybe there was a future after all.

When he returned, she was nowhere to be seen. He ate his breakfast and half of hers, then checked out.