I left my house around noon. I had no plans or intentions of meeting up with anyone. I had no plans of going anywhere—at least, not anywhere important. I did not feel the need to meet up with anyone else. I just wanted to be outside.
I had no destination in mind or expectation of anything special.
I walked along Glenn Curtis Boulevard, passed the empty field beside the baseball fields, and passed the parking lots to the glass office buildings, which, other than the hospital, the three glass office buildings were the only tall buildings in my hometown of East Meadow
I walked through the empty fields that bordered Glenn Curtis. I walked through the trails that weaved through the tall grass in a large but otherwise vacant lot.
I retrieved a cigarette from the chest pocket of my denim jacket. Then I reached inside of my jacket for my flip-top lighter. The steel of its body was scratched and beaten. The look was rustic, but I liked it.
Flipping it open, I rolled the wheel to start the flame in a quick, but fluid like motion. I used to practice this move. I practiced because it was one thing to smoke cigarettes or weed; however, what I smoked was equally as important as how I smoked it.
This was part of my image and a look that I thought fit me best.
In my opinion, there was a stance to define my attitude. There was a way to hold the cigarette between your fingers or let it fit in your teeth. Same as there was a way to hold your beer, or flask, there was a way to inhale and exhale your smoke. It was all a look.
And I practiced this look as often as I could.
Standing alone in the fields of a vacant lot, I perfected that look. The lit flame burned the end of my cigarette to an an orange glow. Then I blew the smoke up towards the sky and flipped the top closed to extinguish the flame.
The entire procedure created a sound of tinny clicks. The first click was the sound of the top flipping open after hitting it against the top of my thigh.
The second click came from the sound of moving the lighter across my jeans to roll the wheel over the flint and spark the flame. Then there was a pause in sound as I brought the flame up to my face and lit my smoke. And the final click was the sound of me hitting the top of the lighter closed before returning it to my inside pocket.
I was young and determined to learn the hard way. My long, blondish-brown hair flew back from the wind as it brushed against my face. I walked to the sump where local riders ran dirt bikes through the bottom of its sandy pit, which is why we called the sump, “The Pit.”
The pit was at the farthest corner of the empty fields. It was wide and deep. It was a collection basin for the run-off water that came from the street drains on Glenn Curtis Boulevard. However, the pit rarely, if ever, filled with water.
This place was home to the teenagers of my town and the towns around me. There was usually someone there—but not this day. On this day; there was no one around but me.
I made my way over to the cement grid towards the back of the sump. The grid overlooked the entire pit and the cement area was slightly higher in elevation than anyplace else in the sump.
Behind me was a stream, but the stream was seasonally empty. Behind the stream was a series of tall trees and behind the trees was the Meadowbrook Parkway.
And other than that . . . . . there was nothing but me
I sat on the grid, content to be alone. I was comfortable in my silence and sounds of my surroundings. I heard the cars on parkway and I listened to the wind.
This was only weeks before springtime was fully underway. The warmth was about to return to the sun, and soon, the trees would begin to redefine themselves with new leaves. I was only months from the lazy days of summertime, and months from the loud chattering sound of cicada bugs that buzz in the trees.
It was good to be away from everyone else. I did not feel like I was missing anything. I did not think about my place in the social circle or concern myself with those who did or didn’t like me. There was no one around. There was no one to contend with. No one to lie to, or try to impress. There was no one but me, comfortable in my own silence, and satisfied with my own perfect seclusion.
I decided, for that moment, I wanted to be happily uninvolved.
I wanted to be uninvolved with the people who I pretended to be friends with
I wanted to be uninvolved with the people who pretended to be friends with me.
I wanted to be uninvolved with the scene and the hard drugs, which began to take away my sanity.
I wanted to be uninvolved with the constant hustle of trying to be comfortable or cool. I wanted to take a break from the ongoing arguments that took place in my head. And for that moment, I wanted to be happily uninvolved with everyone and everything.
I watched an entire day drift by . . . and it was perhaps one of the best days I can remember. For that time and in that moment; I felt perfectly comfortable in my skin.
It was good to be uninvolved.
Trying to maintain the center of attention is a draining behavior. It’s good to disconnect myself from the world—even if it’s only for one day.
I think we all need a day like this.
I think we need days like this more as adults then we ever did when as kids
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The Written Addiction 