just lighting up the dark corners of my mind

Not to say that I'm a thief, but I've stolen some things. I've stolen some souls, some hearts and even an object or two in my past. Most recently I found a marker sitting on a table at the cafeteria and I took that. Of course, I don't consider taking that sharpie as a theft because all I was really doing was preventing someone else from stealing it. I'm holding on to it until the rightful owner comes to claim it. No, I won't be putting up any signs advertising to the owner that I have it, but if someone were to come up to me and describe the marker then I would give it back to them.

When I was much younger, I didn't have quite the same clarity of conscience in regards to these matters. My favorite tale of youthful thievery is the time that I borrowed some cigarettes from my grandparents. I was in the fifth grade at the time and in the narrow mind of that young self, I thought that smoking would make me cool. My grandparents smoked, and so I reasoned that it can't be all that bad and I ought to give it a try.

The hardest part of the whole endeavor was getting the nerve up to sneak a couple cigarettes. I'm not sure if I was worried more about getting caught with cigarettes or actually taking something that wasn't mine. I managed to grab one cigarette (my grandfolks smoked Kools) one day and cart it off to my room hidden in my pocket. I'm not sure if everyone knows this, but it's not a good idea to put a cigarette in your pocket all loosey-goosey like. When I got to my room I reached into my pocket and pulled out a handful of brown bits of tobacco and two smaller cigarettes. This obviously would not work, but after some searching, I found a method of moving these forbidden fruits safely.

I had a pencil case in my backpack that I kept all of my other illegal childhood paraphernalia in. A fifth grade entrepreneur, I was in the business of fashioning mechanical pencils into various types of projectiles and small hurling devices. Use the spring in a mechanical pencil correctly and with a little bit of pressure the entire device can be shot across a room. Fix one up right and it would shoot any small projectile across that same room with startling speed and little accuracy. I sold these at above market value and kept the money and goods in this pencil case. It didn't occur to me that I had the means and method of smuggling cigarettes already in place.

With bolder steps this time I grabbed three cigarettes and quickly hid them away in my tin case as I slid it into my pocket and ran out the door. There was no need to run away from the crime scene because I learned that my grandparents never suspected a thing. I didn't know this at the time, of course, so I had to act with care and caution. What could an 11 year old want with tobacco products, anyway? After years of inquiry, I have concluded that I wanted it all. I wanted to have everything to do with tobacco products and more.

Safely away from the house and out of sight, I paused to look at my bounty. I'd seen cigarettes hundreds of times, touched them and smelled them more often than I could hope to count. I lived with two smokers, these were nothing new to me. I couldn't help but shake the feeling that these two-toned sticks held for me now an intense draw. I felt them pulling me as I popped one into my mouth to see how it tasted. Like nothing, because I had no fire.



I never professed to be a mastermind of planning. Not at that age, at least. If I had thought things through though, I might have remembered to bring some fire with me. Matches, a lighter, hell even a magnifying glass to catch the sun and light up a dried leaf. I couldn't always plan things out perfectly, but I fancied myself quite resourceful. Fortunately for me, this was the age at which my friends and I were already old hands at catching things on fire. The summer before, in fact, I had spent testing various substances in my house for their degree of flammability.

I went to the neighbor's house to see if I could find a comrade willing to bring some fire out to me rather than going back home to sneak away with some matches. I reckoned that someone might realize what was going on if they saw me return to get some matches only to leave again. At the very least I would be questioned about the fire. I imagined it going something like this:

Them - "What are you doing with those matches?"
Me - "Science experiment"
Them - "Are you planning on lighting something on fire?"
Me - "Just lighting up the dark corners of my mind"
Them - "I don't buy that bullshit for an instant. You're smoking cigarettes! Cigarettes you stole!"
Me - "Damn and double damn." (As I ran away)

So instead the only dealing I had with an adult was my neighbor. I walked carefully to the door because I was worried that word was already out about my activities. I was suspicious of all adults because they liked to tell each other about all the adventures I would find myself in. They didn't always see what I did as adventures, but arguing semantics with an 11 year old is foolish.

Neighbor - "Hi Rory*, Tim's inside. Do you want me to get him? Come in, come in."
Me - "Is he in his room? I'll go get him."
Neighbor - "Yeah, you know where it's at."

I stalked through the hallway to Tim's door and slowly pushed it open. After learning of this utterly interesting course of events, Tim grabbed a lighter he kept hidden under the box spring of his bed and we were off. After yelling back to Tim's mom about how we were going outside, I knew I was about to join the ranks of the cool. Or maybe I should say of the Kool. Either way, parents love it when kids go outside and we would be left to our own devices at least until dinner time.

Behind Tim's house was a large growth of weeds and bushes that we'd cleared away discretely enough so as to allow entrance to only people who knew the way. That list of people consisted of myself and my partner in crime. After sitting down on a large log we'd moved there for that purpose, we exchanged goods. I pulled out two cigarettes, handed him one and he handed me his lighter. Since I took the risks, I would be the first to enjoy the rewards.

Again I put the contraband to my lips, but this time I tasted something. I thought I did at least, if anything it was the sweet taste of victory. I had trouble lighting the cigarette. Though I'd seen it done plenty of times, the difficult part was inhaling while I held up the flame. Some coughing came and I knew I had it lit. I passed the lighter to Tim and he struggled similarly.

I remember we didn't talk much while we were smoking that first time. After my first couple of hacks, I stopped coughing. I thought it was weird at the time that a strong wind could kick me into a sneezing attack and coughing fit because of my allergies and asthma, but smoking a cigarette only made me feel awesome. A little lightheaded, I smoked and was chilled out to a degree that I'd never known before. Most of all, I felt like the coolest and most bad ass sonofabitch that ever walked the earth. My first foray into mind altering chemicals was a glorious excursion save for the fact that I smoked some of that first filter.

This scene would play out a couple times over the next few weeks, though I stopped burning filters. I would nab some smokes and Tim's house/lighter would provide the rest of this amazing cocktail. Smoking was more a method of wasting time than a way of getting high. I didn't know what to call it at the time, but these cigarettes I smoked were giving me a delightful buzz that I would forget about for a very long time. It was only on my 18th birthday that I really remembered that first amazing experience with tobacco and I've never forgotten her again.

*Edited to protect the innocent.