Walking with Dragons
T.J. Rice
I’d been working night shift at the college for years. Standing at the far edge of campus, I took in the horizon, watching as day handed over its duties to an oncoming night. The busyness of the daytime existed as a silent echo now. Remnants of a painted sky were being devoured and distant trees danced into darkness. The outstretched arms of night began to take grasp. I took another inhale from the vape, held it deeply, then slowly exhaled its smoke. Unfolding from pursed lips, the smoke cloud took form. I watched milky puffs lead the cold air in a waltz; they danced into a haze and the thoughts in my head began to bubble.
“I suck, man! Why have my actions become so difficult to control? Is there some puppet master, pulling my strings?” The thoughts kept coming, “You’re weak! You’re broken . . . you’re, you are . . . you gotta go easier on yourself.” I went back and forth, concrete in some mental tug of war; at the mercy of twisted thoughts. “I’m spinning. Oh, I’m spinning.” Cemented there, the time passed and I remained frozen. Cannabis helped with seeing thoughts. The plant provided my thoughts a dance floor; a place to create and play with ideas, wherever the hell they came from. Medicinal? Sure! Why the hell not?! Marijuana, like all the good drugs, has an array of benefits and admittedly, I enjoyed them all! Music could attach itself to my soul under the influence of weed. Conversations were always more open and flowing, even if they seemed to lose direction at times; most times. With weed, food tasted better; every combination of salt, sweet, and sour! Its ability to heighten the sensations of touch . . . well, don’t get me started. Overall, it seemed to bring a heightened awareness to all my senses. I was alive in ways I’d forgotten how to be. Although taste and touch were powerfully addictive for me, an ability to get into bed with my mind, this took the cake. “God dammit!” Show me what I’m hiding from.
The trance tightens inside my head, thoughts seize and my body begins to lift. With ease, I start to float up; my ears open wide and ambient sound sharpens. Jean pant legs brush against each other with every step; a stiff boot kisses cold concrete to repeat the cycle. My hands are buried deep in jacket pockets as I glide towards the front of campus. My foggy breath dissipates overhead; I’m a locomotive gently chugging into hell. The urge to take another puff begins to roll in and my thoughts turn their back; no need to think of where we’re heading.
There were so many reasons I could list for why this was happening. A therapist I used to visit, on more than one occasion, referred to her plate analogy. You know, we’re all carrying some plate and it’s only got so much capacity for moving our shit around. At a certain point, our plates can get so overwhelmed that adding a feather to the load would crack it. Working on my bachelors in the day; lacking sleep from working nights; carrying cumbersome relationships; raising a little girl; I needed a second fuckin plate. These reasons had reasons of their own and the tomb of excuses I lay under had me in a choke hold. Sitting on my shoulder, Cheshire Cat whispers “to the royal guards of this realm, we are all victims in-waiting” (Carroll). The royal guards of this realm, really!? Get fucked! I had watched myself create this monster.
The vending machine’s glow illuminated the quad and pulled me out of my head. I stood there, stunned, having traversed the cold campus quicker than expected; stoned, is more accurate, looking back. Large glass windows allow snack machine LEDs onto the cobblestone perimeter. Sure, it sat, tucked up in the cafeteria corner, but it was putting on a show. If not for its twinkling glow, cafe corridors would be an endless black. I borrow the light out of habit and watch the keys, as if pulled by some string, move from my belt, to my hand, to the door in one motion. The spread sat there, before me: sweet, sour and salty neighbors, clamoring to come back to my place. My eyes are locked on the penthouses, the snacks adorning the top floor. The debit card is already back in my coat as I jam my index finger into “F” then “9”—the yellow bag of classic potato chips fall to safety. Quickly, they’re stashed into an oversized pocket, and I’m in the shadows; I’m gliding across tile towards the buildings side exit; my escape-route.
Back into the cold, I hide under the hood of my sweatshirt and turn to pull the door closed behind me. It clicks shut. My feet resume a familiar pace and begin to carry us back from where we came. A quick glance around ensures little movement amongst the night, though her dark eyes followed me. Rather than stare back, I place the mouthpiece of the vape to my lips and breathe in deeply, filling my core fully, then my chest and finally my head. I hold it in until my vision starts to tremble; gently vibrating within, I let it go. It pushed out from my depths with outlandish trajectory and filled the space around me. I am the dragon.
The thudding of my boots began to echo as I entered the tall corridor of the English building; the one I was responsible for cleaning. Janitor by night, zombie by day. I worked as a hoarder on the side, with suppressed thoughts piled so high I could no longer turn around. No, what I needed to face stood right in front of me, buried in the kangaroo pocket of my hoody. For three solid weeks I’d watched myself make that march; the patron to some digital snack lord. I’d watched as all the barriers for entry formed into a chainlink of habits I couldn’t break. What had once been a twig I could snap at anytime was now a vortex that even with my eyes open, was swallowing me up. Saliva secretion picks up inside my mouth as I retrieve the bag of chips from my pocket. I stare at it. This single ounce bag of nothing just picked me up and carried my pathetic ass across campus . . . in the face of me not wanting to?! What the fuck gives? I rotate the bag around in my hands while cross examining it. I realize it was much scarier when buried in my pocket. It didn’t have fangs or claws; no glowing eyes peering back at mine. Shit, without me, this thing wouldn’t be able to open. The cruise control was off and the laughter I let out sliced through the night as if wielded by Perseus. I continue laughing, softer now and I let slip the yellow bag, still unopened, into the receptacle as I passed. I am the dragon slayer.