BOOK ONE : LISTENERS AND READERS

:: AUTUMN 2000

american spirit :: 11/19/00

There is a turbulence around her. She stands out in the alleyway behind Tympanum and exhales. Her breath makes spiraling white shapes in the chilly air which dance for a moment, then dissipate into the whirl of the dark evening. She roots in the pocket of her ratty hunter’s coat with two fingers and pulls out a two-thirds-empty pack of American Spirit cigarettes. Whole Leaf, Natural Tobacco. She taps one into an open notch between the fingers of her other hand, guides it up to her lips. In order to get it lit, she has to turn her back against the wind and hollow her hands around her lighter. She drags, glances at the wall of the alley in front of her— ragged concrete, wires and pipes —and then she turns, leans up against the wall again, and fishes the crumpled cigarette pack out of her pocket again, her mind hungry for something to read. Surgeon General’s Warning: Smoking Causes Lung Cancer, Heart Disease, Emphysema, And May Complicate Pregnancy. Uh-huh. Sales to Minors Prohibited. There’s a goddamn laugh. She started smoking when she was fourteen. She remembers having her first cigarette outside a fucking roller skating rink, and having it take her to a loopy, dizzy state, the exact state that she had been trying to enter by zooming around in circles underneath disco lights and a pop soundtrack. (In college, her and her friends would cloak their discussions about drugs with ironic wistfulness — "Ah, drugs!" — which was probably their way to genuinely express wonder, and perhaps fear, at all they could do.) She’s twenty-eight now: that means she’s smoked for, holy shit, half her life. She shoves the pack back into her pocket. Down there there’s another bit of paper, she can remember what it is without looking: it’s the Walgreen’s reciept with Jakob’s phone number on it. She hasn’t called him. She should: it’s been six months since she’s gotten laid, and he seems eager enough. In a way, though, it’s hard for her to care about someone new. She’s twenty-eight and she is full of so many people already. Her memories a dense field. Sitting in the toilet stalls in high school, the fucking locks removed by the administration, the constant threat of possible intrusion meant to discourage illicit activity, smoking anyway, with one foot jammed up against the door, knee locked. Drag. Exhale. Cloud. Its erasure.