Ode to a Bench

 8 A.M. – 9 A.M.
I remind myself not to be thirsty. I’ll never get a girl that way. The educated part of me recognizes the irony in that, and I want to laugh. I light a cigarette and offer her one. She takes it, but asks why I smoke. I try to explain the power trip that comes from actively influencing one’s own death. I fumble over my words. It comes out lame. Still, she grins and nods her head in agreement. Neither of us have ever heard it expressed out loud though, and for a moment it makes me wonder how something so absurd is equally relatable. We laugh. We exchange numbers.
10 A.M – 11 A.M.
Arguably, cigarettes control everything. It’s the one thing that separates us from the rest of the student body. We all smoke as we take sips of our coffee. Everyone swears that they’re going to quit for the winter, fearful of the cold weather and poor health. They won’t. It’s a game they play; we need to smoke more than we desire to lose the identity as smokers. Some of us, myself included, love the identity and are anxious of the day we may somehow lose it. It’s the entire reason we sit on the bench, the one thing that draws us together and the only reason we know each other. We love it. We’ll quit. We won’t.
Arguably, coffee controls everything. It’s the one thing that connects us with the rest of the student body. We all drink it as we take drags of our cigarettes. Friends arrive with steaming cups, or leave in hopes of getting more. We are in the center of a world of coffee, shops surrounding us on all sides, the smell of roasted beans never truly leaving. It’s not so much the caffeine that draws us in as much as it is the idea of needing external forces to continue wearing our bodies thin. It’s the concept of a never ending sprint, through parties and academia, and the instant and limitless support of Arabica beans. Its integral to our identity. We are insane, yet grounded in our reality by a love of life and the Costa Rican agricultural industry.
John walks up, coffee in one hand, bogie in the other. I laugh at my use of the term “bogie.” I never would have said that before I knew the bench, I would have mocked my friends if they had said it, yet now it comes so natural. John looks like shit. “You look like shit.” He stares at me with sunken eyes that burn like a lighter. “I’ve been up for two days studying. I’m pretty sure the coffee and nicotine has replaced my blood.” He says it like a reverend giving a sermon, and everyone shouts and claps in approval. John gets straight A’s but is only able to maintain them by unnaturally long study sessions. Every weekend he gets drunk off his ass just to stay sane. Every Monday he comes in hungover and full of regrets. We all want to be him. We are, in a sense.
2 P.M. – 3 P.M.
A campus tour is going by. Briefly, we all consider hiding our cigarettes. Every day we wrestle with the same question. Do we play along with the lie of maturity, pretend to resent smoking on campus or otherwise, and act like we have our lives together? Or ought we represent the truth of our realities, proudly displaying the flawed nature of our habits? Should we openly show these people that we are fundamentally unable to handle our own lives and must relinquish that control to outside sources? It’s the same decision we are forced to make when professors, friends and attractive strangers pass by. The problem is small and ridiculous, we know that. All problems are small and ridiculous, we know that.
We smoke openly as they pass. We feel guilty and unashamed. They all stare but it’s tough to tell if its contempt or longing in their eyes. Some laugh at our blatant disregard for the no-smoking signs. Some scoff at it. I honestly don’t know which is better. We shout and wave at them, or keep our mouths shut and our eyes down. Depends on the day, I guess. Everything does.
3 P.M. – 4 P.M.
The guys shout and dance in the middle of the street. The songs they play sound straight out of Woodstock and it’s not really my kind of music. I would have been embarrassed to be associated with them not too long ago, but now I just smile and laugh. It’s something the bench taught me, I don’t have to be them to love them. Trevor and Mike sit next to me and talk about girls. They always talk about girls. I have nothing to say about girls. Still, I humor them and say something vague, hoping it will be interpreted as wisdom not ramblings. They seem happy with it and tell me they love me. Their hugs are warm and I don’t even worry how gay it is, I love them too.
Anders approaches me and asks if I want to smoke a bowl. I tell him that I quit smoking on campus so I can focus on my studies. He punches my arm and tells me to cut the shit. I shrug and begin to pack my bowl in the open air. I used to be afraid of getting caught, but now I feel as though there is no direction my life could take where I feel unhappy. I pull out a lighter and go to work. Time speeds up. Or slows down. Kinda both I guess. People come and go but I stay. A staple of the bench. I feel as though I’ll be here long after I leave.