Smoke Signals
Ryan Gee
Sitting there with the smell of smoke from the bonfire suffocating my lungs, and with senior year of college about to start, a pit rests deep in my stomach. My ma sits across from me, Pa sitting next to me, Busch Light in his hand and a cigarette between his lips. It’s not lit because he says it won’t do the killing unless you actually light it. Some cringey line he got off of a movie, but he means it. He’s probably had the same pack for a year or two, I can’t quite remember when he stopped at the gas station and got that pack of Marlboro Reds. My brother sits on the opposite wood log, staring into the fire as some kind of distraction, looking for any way to try and not conform to what our parents want from him. They want him to be this top-grade lawyer; go into pre-law or whatever bullshit the major is to go far in law school.
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I hear my brother start to mumble out a sentence, but I can’t quite place what he’s saying. “What would you be most disappointed in us for?” he said looking over to our ma, and then over to Pa. His eyes are full of the fire that is still raging in the pit. Our ma sits down the smore stick she has in her hand, not as if she’s been making any kind of smores, answers, just as I knew she would.
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“The most disappointing thing for me would be if any of you turned out to be gay.”
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A swallow of saliva hurts my throat as we sit there. Pa takes longer to answer the question. “Having a son that is gay would be a close second, but I think I would rather have a gay son then someone that smoked.”
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What a hypocrite he normally was, the man with a cigarette sitting in between his teeth, sitting there lecturing his own two kids about not smoking. Our ma sits on the other side, almost agreeing with him as if she forgot what she had said in the place of her first answer. As I sit there, all I can think about is that not only have I been a disappointment to my ma but also to my pa.
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What I want to say is how big of a hypocrite my mother and father are, I want to sit there and let them know that they didn’t have to have children, they didn’t have to not use protection those 20 some years ago. My mother didn’t have to carry us in her womb for a total of 18 months between me and my brother, but she did and now they can sit here and determine what they would be most disappointed in us for.
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“Bullshit. So, you’re telling me you never smoked one of those before? In the 50 years you’ve been alive? You’ve never actually lit one and seen if it would turn your lungs black, see if it would kill you? You just don’t want your children to do it, is that what I’m hearing?”
Everything pours out at this point, I’m not sure what I’m saying or why I’m saying it.
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“Joesph!” I hear my mother say in her shocked tone; I can’t see her face that well in between the flames, maybe it’s a good thing, I don’t want to say anything that would expose any part of me that I’ve kept hidden.
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“No, no, let the boy speak, Martha; he seems to have a lot on his mind.” My pa slips the unlit cigarette into his flannel pocket, leaning forward as if I have something else to say. I don’t. I want to go non-verbal; I want to disappear into the night and pretend like the start of this conversation never happened. My brother looks at me, his eyes burning into the side of my head as if I stumbled upon a conversation that I shouldn’t have.
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He's thinking of the time me and him smoked in the back of Pa’s truck, talking about the future they wanted for us. He’s thinking of the time where I told him I was gay. Or maybe he’s not thinking at all, his eyes averting back to the fire pit.
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“Listen, young man. I realized at a young age that smoking fucks a person up. The only reason I put one between my teeth is to remind me of that person. So no, I’ve never smoked. Never lit one and never will.” Pa looked over at Ma. I sat there looking down at the cigarette in his flannel pocket, the end that was probably covered in his saliva. Years and years of saliva probably coated that one cigarette.
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“Now drop it, Joey. How about you go and get the bag of marshmallows for your dear Ma?” she said, pointing to the bag on the folded table that sat on the lawn, half gone now. My brother and I had indulged in most of the s'mores, Pa had one and said that it was sweet enough to make his teeth fall out and had handed the s'mores stick over to Ma.
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I shuffle off the wooden log and over to the table, glancing back at the scene of my parents and brother sitting around the fire over my shoulder. The awkward silence is killing me and making my ears ring. This is always how my family has and always will be.