neekaasaddie

[neekaasaddie]

Silver Chevy Silverado Part 3

      You know that feeling before a storm? The wind whistles, leaves rustle. Not in a menacing way, but in melancholy anticipation. There’s this electricity in the air. The atmosphere is unstable. Suddenly the polarities of the world become apparent. The clouds start condensating, becoming heavier and darker with their burdens until eventually they can’t hold on anymore and they let it all out. You’re standing in no-man’s-land and you know it. You’re conscious of your position in the middle phase––something’s gonna happen soon. You’re on a bridge and when you get to the other side, it’ll be completely different. The animals sense it first. They don’t come out of their dens and nests. They prepare for the storm.

     “Come over!” someone shouts over the hedge to my right.

     I sit up onto my knees, only seeing a head in the distance over the foliage. 

     Him? Why is he asking me to come over? Did he forget our previous interaction? Because I don’t think it ended on a very good note. 

     “But I’m reading!” I yell back. 

     I’m not reading, actually. I’m journaling––but my book is lying right next to me. I don’t know why I said I was reading. I guess reading seems more urgent and a better excuse not to go over than journaling does.

     I peer over the hedge again, watching him as he lights a pipe. The pungent smell of weed wafts through the air and penetrates my nose.

     He waves his hand in a motion towards himself and shouts, “Come on!”

     Damn it.

     I leave everything lying on the lawn and hop over the hedge, staring at the patchy green grass as I approach him. I don’t even know why I’m doing this. He obviously doesn’t like me. But if he doesn’t like me, why is he initiating an interaction?

     The intense afternoon sun blares onto my body and I feel like an ant under an interrogation lamp. I squint, my eyes adjusting from the shaded area I occupied previously to the strong rays of a setting sun. 

     As I approach him my stomach contorts itself into a million knots. I don’t want to say the wrong thing and have him make me feel horrible about it for days after. I don’t want him to pick me apart. 

     I feel like I’m walking on eggshells.

     I shouldn’t even care. 

     I should stop caring. 

     I attempt to un-squint my eyes as I approach him, my eyes tracing up from the ground.

     He’s shirtless. 

    God damn it. It’d be much easier to hate him if he wasn’t hot.

     “What’s up?” he asks, reaching into his pocket, extracting a pack of Camels, and selecting a cigarette. As he places it on his lower lip, he stares right through me. I’ve never met someone with eyes like his. I remember the first time I spoke to him, they were attentive and kind. I study him for a bit longer. His gaze is oddly distant today. There seems to be a disconnect––but they’re still incredibly mesmerizing.

     I realize I’ve been staring at him for too long so I turn my face away. “…Nothing,” I say, flustered.

     “You were just hanging out on your front lawn alone?” he asks, taking a drag. My eyes drift down to his bare chest but I catch myself quickly and respond.

     “Yeah…well kinda…but I was reading.” Could I be anymore incoherent? I can practically hear the eggshells cracking underneath my feet.

     “What are you reading?”

     “The Inferno by Dante Alighieri.”

     He responds with a shrug. I kick myself for answering honestly instead of diverting the conversation back to him. I don’t need him to tell me I’m a dork.

     He takes a step towards me and the tangy aroma of weed pervades my nostrils once more. Maybe that’s why this conversation is insanely dry.

     “So what have you done today?” he asks. He takes another drag and as he exhales the smoke, I smell something else besides weed and tobacco. 

     His breath is heavy with the scent of alcohol. 

     This whole interaction is bizarre and confusing. Didn’t he imply that other day that we weren’t friends? Why is he asking me what I’ve done today?

     I stare blankly at the ground for a good five seconds. I feel something in me shift, but I’m not sure what it is. “Uh…well let’s see. I went on my morning walk, made some pancakes and coffee, gardened a little, and played some video games––” Stop talking.

     “Video games?”

     Shit. “Yeah.”

     “You’re a gamer,” he snorts in that all-too familiar condescending tone.

     “Well, no. I just play the games my brother had for his old Xbox 360.”

      i receive a grunt as a response.

     He picks apart everything I do and I’ve been nothing but nice to him.

     God this is awkward.

     I watch the smoke of his cigarette swirl and swivel through the air in a silky light grey streak. He takes out his phone and starts scrolling mindlessly. 

     He asks me to come talk to him, doesn’t really talk to me, and then whips out his phone. What the fuck is going on?

       When his cigarette dwindles down to just the pale yellow filter, he glances at it for a moment, then flicks it onto the road. I physically reel at the sight of him intentionally littering, especially since it's a cigarette bud. 

     Now it’s my turn.

     “You’re just gonna fling that onto the road and not pick it up?” I ask.

     “Yeah, you got a problem with that?” he snaps, grabbing another cigarette from the pack.

     “You know that pollutes our oceans and contaminates our water supply.”

     He rolls his eyes to the gods and scoffs. “The street cleaners will clean it before it goes anywhere.”

     “When was the last time you saw a street cleaner come through this street?”

     “Look, this is where my taxpayer money goes, so I’m gonna use it––and I pay a lot of taxes.”

     “Oh yeah cause you’re in such a high tax bracket,” I snort.

     “Whatever,” he spits, walking back to his garage and grabbing a twenty-four ounce can of Heineken. My legs instinctually take a couple steps back. 

     I don’t feel good. Something’s not right. The first time we spoke he wasn’t like this. What’s different? He had just come from work then––he was probably sober. That morning we spoke and he was rude, he had some alcohol. Right now, he’s high and drunk––and I doubt the cigarettes help. 

     He turns around. 

     “Woah, woah where are you going?”

     “What?” I ask, my quivering voice riddled with anxiety.

     “You’re just gonna call me a loser and leave?”

     “I never called you a loser I just––”

     “You did!”

     “No! I just pointed out that you probably aren’t in a high tax bracket but it’s okay because I’m not either! It was a joke, I swear!” 

     “No, no. I got exactly what you were saying. You think I’m a loser. It makes sense, I mean, I still live with my parents. I have a mediocre, low-paying job and I party all the time. I do drugs––in fact, I’ve done every fucking drug in this world. I smoke a lot, I drink a lot and, like you said, I’m not in a high tax bracket.”

     He takes a step closer. The concentrated stench of weed, tobacco, and alcohol radiates off of him to configure the most repulsive and fear inducing concoction––the scent of sheer volatility. 

     My stomach leaps into my throat.

     I attempt to distance myself but find my back against a tree. He stumbles forward, slamming his hand onto the trunk of the tree right beside my head. He downs half of the large beer can and wipes the side of his mouth with the back of his hand, his erratic eyes and intense gaze violate me. 

     I’m frozen with terror. 

     I could shove him off and run home––it’s only a few long strides from where I’m standing––but suddenly the distance seems insurmountable. 

     “You know, I drank a fifth of whiskey earlier too, let’s add that to the list,” he says, almost slurring. His marajuana-and-alcohol-laden breath molests my nose as he exhales. 

     “What list?”

     “Oh, you know, that mental list you keep of all the repulsive shit I do. Let’s see, I mean, just within the last couple hours I've smoked cigarettes and flung the buds onto the street, I’ve smoked weed, I drank too much alcohol, and I’m drinking even more alcohol now.” He leans his face even closer to mine. I feel like I’m face-to-face with a raging bull. The kind eyes I once used to revere have transformed into the most spiteful pair of snake eyes known to man. “Did I forget anything?” he hisses.

     I feel hot tears well up behind my eyes. I don’t dare blink. “Look, I’m just your neighbor. You asked me to come over and talk to you. There’s no list in my head. I don’t know who you’re mad at and I don’t know where this is coming from, but I barely know you and I just made a joke––I didn’t mean anything by it––”

     “Shut up!” he shouts. Slobbering spit flies onto my cheek but I don’t have the strength to wipe it off so I just let it slowly drip off the side of my face. 

     He’s breathing heavily. The hand he hit against the trunk is still there, trapping me in a malicious embrace. Veins protrude from his neck and onto his jaw. His previously calming green irises are being suffocated by red bulging bloodshot vessels. Who is this person? 

     “You think I wanted my life to be like this? You think I wanted this? Well I didn’t, and I still don’t––but I’m stuck here.” he slurs. “You think a stupid kid like you knows anything? I know everything.” He pauses. “Like I know this––I know that you like me,” he scoffs, “or at least you did. You’re so obvious. I see the way you look at me and talk to me––the way you get all flustered and fake-shy.” He proceeds to pitch up his voice and flail his arms to produce a wildly inaccurate imitation of me. In doing so, he releases me from his cage and I feel as if I can breathe a little again. “Oh me, oh my! Why, I am just a damsel in distress! Please, give me attention!”

     “I think I’m gonna go,” I say shakily, inching to the right and then backwards towards the safety of my front yard. My mannerism is slow and intentional, as if I was confronted by a rabid animal.

     But before I can get very far, he grabs my arm.

     “Leaving so soon? But the fun just started! I was gonna tell you that I don’t fucking like you. You’re nineteen! You’re a kid. You’re weird. You reek of desperation! And you talk like you know what life is, but you don’t even know your face from your ass! You’ve never lived! You don’t know what life is! You’re a fucking child for God’s sake!” His eyes scan downwards and back up. I hunch, suddenly feeling naked. “I mean, your body definitely isn’t shaped like a child’s,” he chuckles dangerously. “I’ll give you this much––you’re hot––but that’s about it. The most I’d do is fuck you.”

     I feel vomit rise in the back of my throat. This is too much.

     “Just stop!” I scream, a single teardrop falling from my left eye, I feel it mingle with the slobber that’s still left over on my face. I twist and rip my wrist from his grasp.

     “Fine!” he roars, tossing his head back and slamming the last half of his beer. He crushes the can in his palm, throws it in the back of his truck, and opens the door.

     “You’re gonna drive?” I shriek, walking towards him now instead of away. “Are you crazy?”

     He chuckles as he climbs into the driver’s seat. “I do this all the time.”

     “You’re fucked up! You could kill someone! You could kill yourself!”

     He laughs in the most mocking, fiendish tone. “Yeah, and?”

     With that, he slams the door of his silver Chevy Silverado, backs out, and speeds off to God knows where.

[neekaasaddie]

Silver Chevy Silverado Part 2

      Everything is more quiet in the mornings. The air is fresher and cooler because it’s had all night to cleanse itself and there’s a distinct stillness that sweeps the environment an hour before the sun rises that’s never present in the night. It’s like a reset button is pressed and the humans in my neighborhood are quietly booting up for their day while in their beds. What if we’re all robots and when we sleep, we’re just rebooting?

     I hear a car door open in the distance.

     It’s easier to think in the mornings, too. You don’t have all the thoughts and events from the day nagging at you incessantly and weighing you down. Sometimes, when I wake up from a bad dream or one where my crush actually likes me back, I wake up in a pensive mood–– but other than that, I feel like a clean slate every time I open my eyes.

     “You’re an early riser,” observes a familiar voice. I jolt to attention and see someone sitting in a silver Chevy Silverado with the door swung wide open and a pair of legs dangling out. It sinks in that I had scaled up the hill, which my house sits on top of, in a thoughtful daze. My mind was wandering in an endless spiral––but my body is here.

     Oh my God, it’s him. I snap back to reality. “I could say the same for you,” I reply casually, folding my arms in front of my chest in a futile attempt to feel less vulnerable.

     “Yes, but I have to go to work, what’s your excuse?”

     “I don’t need an excuse to be up early,” I insist. “And if you have to go to work, why are you just sitting in your truck?”

     “I like to drink my coffee, smoke and catch up on the news before I go. It’s kinda my routine,” he explains as he grabs his coffee mug from the dash.

     “Hm, and I like to walk around my block in the mornings. That’s kinda my routine.”

     “Oh, sassy,” he smirks, taking a sip of coffee out of the large, plain-white mug. Our eyes remain locked as he does so, just like when I took the cigarette with my lips last time we spoke. His golden-brown tanned skin creates the illusion of his iris’ being translucent as his almond shaped, pale-green eyes gaze into mine. He has faint light-brown freckles speckling his face. How have I never noticed them before?

     Then it occurs to me. “Wait, did you just adopt this routine now? Because I’ve been walking every day for the past six months at the same time and I’ve never seen you.”

     “I usually come out after you’ve finished your walk,” he pauses, takes a sip of coffee again, and smiles as he says, “How are you up so early?”

     I roll my eyes. “I just get up early, okay?”

     “Aren’t you like eighteen?” he asks in a condescending chuckle.

     “Nineteen,” I snap, taking a step closer to him and the silver Chevy Silverado. “I’m nineteen.” 

     The previously sweet scent of musky vanilla finds me again but this time, it’s nauseating. Something about the tone of his voice rubs me the wrong way. 

     “Oh my God,” he exclaims in a dramatic near-shout. “Tell me what nineteen year old voluntarily wakes up at five-thirty in the morning.” His head flings back with the mug glued to his lips as he retrieves the final drop of coffee from the bottom of the mug.

     I feel embarrassment crawl up my throat. “Me!” I exclaim defiantly. “I do,” I say as I point my index finger at my chest, jutting my head towards him. A familiar scent immediately harrasses my nose, but it’s not vanilla, weed, or tobacco. I sniff audibly.

     “Is that alcohol?” I ask incredulously.

     “Irish coffee,” he replies casually, raising the mug in the air in faux cheers.

     “Ah,” is all I can say as I stand there dumbfounded. It smells pretty strong to me–– how can he drink that stuff so early in the morning? “I still don’t understand how waking up early is so odd.”

     He sets the mug down on the dashboard. “Waking up early isn’t odd, you just generally don’t see it amongst the people in your age group.” 

     “Oh, right. Sorry Professor Pedo, I forgot you got your PhD in teenaged girls. How old are you again? Fifty-four?”

     “Twenty-seven but that’s irrelevant.”

     “Oh is it?”

     “Yes it is. Now tell me, for research purposes of course, what causes you to wake up at such an early hour?” he asks, stroking an imaginary beard. 

     I flash a dumb smile and humor his question. “Like I said, I like to walk before the sun rises.”

     “Profound!” he says, making a pack of Camels appear in his palm in one swift motion. He hops out the driver’s seat, leans against his truck, and places a cigarette on his lip. “And what time do you sleep to wake up at this hour?”

     I feel my cheeks get warm. I look down at my pristine white sneakers and whisper, “Nine o’clock.”

     “Wow, you’re truly an abnormality in the teen world,” he says flatly as he lights the cigarette hanging limply from his mouth.

     I feel my cheeks get red hot with anger now rather than embarrassment. Would it kill him to be nice to me for one second? 

     I decide to shift the conversation away from my atypicality. “If you’re gonna shit on me, you might as well give me a cigarette.”

     He folds his arms across his chest this time, his meadowy-green eyes squint accusingly. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

     My cheeks get even hotter–– if that’s even possible. “Well…I don’t,” I reply candidly.

     “Then why did you ask to bum one last time we talked?”

     “Because you do it and it seems like a sociable thing to do,” I blurt before I can think. I clasp my hands behind my back to keep him from seeing them shake. “Considering my current state as an abnormality of human nature, I have to find every way I can to fit in.”

     He ignores my reference to his previous rude remark. “Well you shouldn’t. I’m trying to quit,” he says dryly as he takes a drag.

     “Quitting is for losers,” I say softly, kicking an insignificant pebble off of the dry light-gray asphalt road.

     “Is that so, Old Wise One?”

     “Don’t you have to go to work?”

     “Not for another five minutes.”

     “God! Why are you even talking to me?” I spit with uncontrolled frustration. The razor bite of my own voice surprises me. “What?”

     “I was just walking around my block totally spaced out and you could have let me walk right past you without me noticing or just sat in your truck whenever you normally do, but you chose to come out early and stop me and make me feel like shit––and I doubt it was to honestly critique my sleep schedule or point out my abnormalities.”

     Our eyes meet and, while I imagine mine as raging and livid, his are cool and collected. My stomach sinks to the floor. This entire interaction has been incredibly off-putting. The way he spoke about my age and my so-called “abnormalities” was belittling. And while he did push my buttons about the best-friend-thing last time we spoke, he did so in an endearing, witty way. He’s just being a straight-up dick right now.

     “Like I said, I like to get a rise out of you,” he finally responds with a twisted chuckle and takes a drag.

     “Well I don’t appreciate being risen by my friend at six in the morning.”

     “Who said we’re friends?”

     Ouch. “Well obviously we’re not because you think I’m abnormal and make it a point to say it to my face.”

     “Would you rather me say it behind your back?” he asks, raising his eyebrows in question and, in turn, creasing his forehead. 

     “I think it’s been five minutes,” I reply flatly.

     He glances at his phone, “It’s been exactly five minutes. At least your internal clock doesn’t seem to be abnormal.” He flashes a fake smile then hops into the driver’s seat, slams the door, and turns the ignition. I stand dumbfounded yet again–– in awe of his abrasiveness––until he rolls down his window and says, “See you around Old Abnormal One.” 

     “Drive safe Old Alcoholic One!” I shout as his car skids onto the road. 

     I stand in the same place he left me for quite some time–– watching his silver Chevy Silverado turn the corner, hearing him speed off to a distant land, and then standing solemnly in the still morning air, staring at the pebble I had kicked earlier. 

I feel stuck. 

I’m stuck in the same place I’ve always been and can’t move. 

I can’t move.

An overwhelming wave of loneliness washes over me. 

I have to move.

     I trudge to my porch, feeling as if the balloon that grew inside of me every time I spoke to him just popped. The lead returns to the soles of my shoes and that heavy hollowness grows inside my chest once more.

[neekaasaddie]

Silver Chevy Silverado

     “Can I bum a cigarette?” I ask with a forced vein of nonchalance in my voice. A pair of clear green eyes flit up from a phone screen to meet mine. Confusion paints the face until recognition dawns as he remembers who I am. He squints his eyes.

    “Aren’t you a little too young?” he questions rhetorically as he leans to the left, reaching into his back right pocket. The movement sends a waft of musky cologne in my direction and I feel my knees weaken a little so I rest my forearms on the windowsill of his silver Chevy Silverado. If his door wasn’t closed he would have noticed my legs turn into jelly and if his window wasn’t rolled down, I would have nothing to lean on–– I probably would have just collapsed.

    I sigh with relief, letting my hands hang limply on the other side of the door. As my head nears the interior of the car, a hodgepodge of aromas meet my nose, the most prominent being that of marijuana and tobacco, but I find them neatly wrapped in the sweet scent of vanilla. My nose crinkles as it processes the stimulatingly complex fragrance. But thoughts and observations come to a halt when an American Spirit cigarette is presented inches from my face, the filter pointing towards me. 

    He remains silent but tilts his chin downward in a single, subtle nod, permitting me to take the cigarette. Uncharacteristically, I lock my eyes to his as I wrap my lips around the cigarette slowly, softly. Then, I gently pull my head back, extracting the cigarette from between his fingers. I feel my cheeks warm slightly as I realize what I’d just done, but our eyes remain locked on one another. I finally take the cigarette between my index and middle finger.

    “Light,” I demand.

   Reality seems to settle in as I speak, and I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I don’t even smoke. I just need an excuse to talk to him. But why am I even talking to him? What possessed me to walk over to his car and make a fool out of myself? 

   Usually when I’m reading a book by my window in the morning, I see him smoking in his car with his door flung open and his feet hanging out. But today–– today he decided to smoke in the afternoon and I had been sitting on the curb in front of my house contemplating my existence and pondering upon my utter loneliness when he pulled up in his silver steed. 

   Now I’m standing on the water soaked asphalt in a black, tattered extra-large zip-up hoodie with baggy gray jeans asking my neighbor for a cigarette. A neighbor whom I’ve only spoken to once before but have been smitten with ever since.

   My eyes find the lighter as I hear a flick and see a flame grow. It’s like everything is in slow motion as I observe the tip of the cigarette slowly wilt and ashen. Like I said before, I’ve never smoked. So I’d expected it to feel uncomfortable or even excruciating but I’m surprised to find the sensation of the smoke entering my lungs to be smooth. And I’ve watched enough movies to know how to hold a cigarette and the common rhythm of inhale, index and middle fingers to cigarette, hold breath as cigarette exists mouth, exhale, cigarette back in mouth, and repeat. I even remember to tap off the ashes.

   “So what’s on your mind?” he asks, placing the lighter on the dash. 

   “What makes you think I’ve got something on my mind?” I challenge.

   “You asked to bum a cigarette.”

   “I have nothing on my mind.”

   “Alright then,” he pauses, “I’m gonna sit in the trunk and smoke.”

   I step back from his door, cigarette in hand, and watch him hop into the back of the truck. I don’t move a muscle, staring at him like an idiot, fawning over how his dark green flannel brings out his light green eyes. As if his mere presence wasn’t enough to make me swoon, he runs his fingers through his caramel colored and blonde highlighted hair as he takes his cigarette out of his mouth. 

   “You can join me if you’d like,” he says with a trace of a grin. I kick myself mentally for being so stupid, take a drag, and hop into the black plastic lined interior of the trunk.

   We sit in silence for what seems like hours, both taking comfort in the other’s presence. When my cigarette dwindles down to the filter, he wordlessly hands me another, lighting it with another lighter he seemed to have in his pocket. I peer over the parallel houses and to the towering mountains harboring large-faced slabs of beige stone at their peaks. The damp asphalt emanates a nostalgic scent which mingles with the smoke lingering in the air and I think of the torrential downpour of rain that only came to a halt about two hours ago. My eyes flip up to the gray matted sky. Pockets of sunshine try to peek through the thick blanket but the gloom prevails. It's funny how Mother Nature knows how to match your current state of inner turmoil so perfectly.

   “My only friend is moving to another country,” I say abruptly. I can feel the tears welling up behind my eyes, but I stifle them with a shake of the head and the drag of a cigarette. I let my left arm hang out the back of the trunk, flicking grey ashes onto the pitch black ground.

   “I got into a fight with my brother,” he sighs, surveying the mountains and sky, like I just had. I chuckle. 

   “Mine’s worse.”

   “I broke his arm.”

   I hold my breath then nod sullenly, accepting defeat. 

   “Just a friend?” he asks as he exhales, sending a plume of smoke into the sky. He keeps his head tilted back, letting suspended grey tendrils travel down the sides of his face.

   “What?”

   “Your friend that’s moving is just a friend?” he asks again, turning his face towards me so that I catch a glimpse of his squinting, crystalline eyes. I shy away, turning my head in the opposite direction and fixing my attention to a distant oak tree.

   “Yeah, so?” I respond casually. 

   “So you have other friends to fill that void.”

   “I don’t think you heard me when I said ‘only friend’ earlier.”

   “Okay, then your best friend is moving out of the country.”

   “Woah woah, who said they’re my best friend?”

   “I think ‘only friend’ directly translates to ‘best friend’ in teenaged girl tongue.”

   “You should brush up on your studies Professor Pedophile because I don’t believe in best friends.”

   “Doesn’t matter if you believe in them or not. If you have an only friend then they are, by default, your best friend.”

   “I don’t believe in best friends and therefore I don’t have one,” I snap with a bit too much bite. “It’s just like religion. If I don’t believe in a god, I don’t have a god.” 

   I frown at my mud-crusted, bleached Converse sneakers. I’m making myself sound either really pretentious or really stupid, and neither is the impression I want to give him. But I can’t soften now, I’ve put up this tough, bitchy wall for too long.

   “But the question remains the same–– why do you care so much?” he asks smugly.

   “Why did you break your brother’s arm?” I reply, attempting to switch the topic and get a jab in at the same time. Sometimes it’s easier to be mean to the person you like.

   “I was drunk and mad.”

   Again, I inhale, about to retort, but I just end up exhaling in defeat. Damn him for being so blunt and unforgiving. But then it dawns on me.

   “Why are you so hell bent on trying to make this point about best friends?”

   “It’s fun getting a rise out of you.”

   I almost let him have it but I just can’t help myself. “Sure. Is that what you told your brother when you snapped his arm in half?”

   “Touche,” he says smoothly as he turns towards me and smiles. If the sun wasn’t starting to pierce through the clouds, I’d think it was his wide and white smile that lit up the atmosphere. I catch myself staring at him for a bit too long and shift my attention to the mountains, observing the pockets of heavenly light gracing sections of land in the distance. God, even the corners of his eyes crease perfectly when he smiles. My head feels weightless suddenly.

   I hop out of his truck and wipe the gray ash off of my already gray pants. I can feel his gaze burning into me. 

   “Leaving so soon?” he asks. I nod. “Shame, I was just starting to enjoy your company.” His words are laden with sarcasm and when I glance in his direction, I see a smirk plastered to his face.

   “Yes, well, the world is cold and life’s not fair,” I retort.

   “Indeed it is Old Wise One, indeed it is.” he chuckles. 

   I flash the faintest hint of a smile and say, “Thanks for the smokes Old Pedo One.”

   He smiles back, holding a hand up, gesturing a farewell. “Anytime.”

   I fling my bud into the trash and shove my quaking hands into my pockets. I feel light headed and light on my feet. Like my shoes are filled with iron rather than the usual lead.

   It’s probably just the nicotine.