Matchsticks and Cigarettes

I hate the smell of cigarettes. The idea of inhaling a carcinogen a hundred or more times a day is utterly illogical to me. Hell, like many of you, my own parents used to smoke inside the house when I was a child before quitting for good. Their excuse for being terrible influences and all around horrible people is always the same.

"We didn't know any better back then!" Says my mother in her annoyingly sweet voice.

"Nobody knew it was bad for you yet." My father will chime in.

My response is usually accompanied with an incredulous expression and unnaturally wide eyes. "It's goddamn smoke, guys!" I'll say in the same tone I would use if I were speaking to toddlers. "We've always known smoke is bad for you. That's why when your house is on fire, they don't tell you to stand tall and enjoy the aroma with deep breaths."

I swear sometimes it's difficult to tell from the outside looking in, who the parents are in this situation. Then again, I'm known to everyone who's acquainted with me as the responsible one. Ever since I was a child, I could be found on the outskirts of whatever group I was hanging out with at the time, warning them about the dangers of everything from climbing fences to throwing snowballs.

(There could've been ice in them, goddammit!)

Needless to say, I don't get invited out much and when I do, it's from my one and only friend to speak of.

Jeffrey, or as I have perhaps not so affectionately nicknamed him, "Mooch."

You see, Mooch is the kind of guy who's always a minute late and a dollar short. A dollar he has absolutely no shame or reservation to ask you or anyone else for. You know, just until -enter day that will never come here.-

I'll never forget the embarassment I felt when we were standing in line at the movies, when Mooch loudly proclaimed that he had forgotten his wallet. Or just how much a young 23 year old like myself can long for the sweet merciful release of death, as he petitioned the other moviegoers for donations.

These are the situations that Mooch puts me in. All of this flashed in the back of my mind as I sat across from his long grey haired chain smoking grandfather. The man smelled as though he hadn't bathed since the Nixon administration, and decided that the dirty, torn and stained peace symboled cut sleeve t-shirt he picked up at Woodstocks' "summer of love" as a teenager would be the only shirt he would ever require for the next 49 years.

The filth and t-shirt aren't the only residual effects the 60's have had on this man. It's not that I don't think the acid he dropped back during the sexual revolution didn't have the desired effect of taking him to different interdimentional plains. On the contrary, I don't think he ever quite came back because I can hardly understand a word that he says. He just smiles and nods, revealing his awful brown teeth (what's left of them anyway). I don't know, I can't stare at them too long without getting queasy. He lights cigarette after cigarette as I go through the checklist Mooch texted me earlier.

Let me give you some context, I was there because Mooch - to put it bluntly, is a screw up. For the eight months that I've known the guy, he's been fired from a staggering 11 jobs. His parents, fed up with giving their 28 year old son money in exchange for nothing but disappointment, have tasked him with the responsibility of caring for his grandfather a few times a week. Making sure the house is clean, taking inventory of food, and confirming that he's taking his medication correctly.

Now you might be wondering why I was there instead of him. Allow me to take this opportunity to reiterate that his nickname is Mooch, and that he is a major league, hall of fame screw up and I hate my life.

He was going out of town for a few days and lest his parents cut him off from his allowance, he needed to find a responsible replacement for his position as a geriatric caregiver.

Did I mention that I have a reputation for responsibility?

So there I begrudgingly sat in front of the 1960's throwback to the dirty hippy and his vicious and incessantly yappy shitzhu.

The damned beast sentenced me to death from the ankles down the moment the old man let me in the front door.

"Little mutt don't like nobody man!" chuckled Mooch's grandfather in the kind of voice that only a person with a three pack a day habit since childhood can possess. "He done try to bite me everytime he see's me too." He laughs in that irritatingly wet way as if he desperately needed to clear his throat.

"It's fine." I said trying to dislodge the hem of my jeans from the little bastards jaws.

"C'mon now man, shoo!" the old man says almost unintelligibly as he bends over to pick up the hell hound when with incredible speed it releases me and snaps back at him.

The old man howls with bronchitis like laughter as he withdraws his hand. The shitzhu scurries away and parks himself in front of a closed door next to the open kitchen, in what I can only assume is an office or storage closet. Looking at us, his mind willing us dead with its cold little black eyes. I made a mental note to avoid the hell out of that dog.

The old man makes a noise that this time my brain can't decipher.

"Excuse me?" I say, pointing to my right ear.

"Cawfee?" He repeats while striking a matchstick and bringing it to his lips where a fresh cigarette dangled.

"No thank you." I say, rejecting his offer. "I can't stay long, I just need to go over this checklist  that Jeffrey left me while he's away." I continue while pulling out my phone. "Then I'll get going."

The old man takes a ridiculously long haul of his cigarette and sits down at the kitchen table smiling and nodding while exhaling. The smoke passing over his face through his oily grey hair. His eyes are barely visible as they fix on me.

It takes me well under 15 minutes to get everything I need completed. In that time frame, the old man lit and put out five of his cigarettes. I know because I counted each and every match strike. The house so thick with smoke it made my eyes sting. The appearance of the house in contrast to the hippy was remarkably organized though. Everything labeled and clean, the smell of pine-sol fighting a losing battle with the tabacco.

I make my way to the white fridge where a notepad sticks magnetically to the freezer door. I jot down my name, phone number, and address for the old man and tell him if he needs anything while Mooch is away, to not hesitate to call me.

He lights his sixth cigarette with his semingly limitless supply of matchsticks, and gets up from his seat which awakens hell's most valued canine with a brand new fit of barking. He makes his way to me, and with every step he takes that brings him closer, I realize for the first time just how large this old hippy actually is.

His face engulfed in smoke again with every puff of his cigarette, maximizing his intimidation.

I freeze with my back against the fridge as the old man reaches his hand out past my head to the notepad removing it from the smooth metallic surface. He claps me on the shoulder and smiles as he towers over me reeking of sweat and smoke and says "I like you, boy."

"I like you too, sir." I squeaked, pitifully.

Side stepping the man, I picked up my coat from the hook beside the exit. A picture of Mooch smiling like a jackass in his high school graduation photo hung above it. I turn the knob on the front door and close it behind me.

I hesitantly looked back while I made my way to my mother's Mazda to see the old man in the window watching me whilst holding the piece of paper next to his head grinning and pointing to it and giving me the thumbs up.

I genuinely laugh and give him the gesture back with a smile from ear to ear. He's a little cooky sure, but all in all he's a pretty cool old guy.

I was already on the highway on my way back home when I decided to call Mooch and let him know that everything went well.

"What's up man?" He answers.

"Nothing Mooch, I was just calling to say I went to your grandfathers' place and did everything on your checklist."

"God, I fucking hate when you call me that." I can almost feel him rolling his eyes.

"When the shoe fits, Mooch." I chuckle.

"Seriously man, I appreciate it. I owe you one." he says.

"You owe me a new pair of jeans is what you owe me!" I correct him. "Your grandfather's demon dog sunk its little teeth right through my pants."

He cackles out laughing, "snuggles bit you? What the hell did you do to him?" He snorts.

"I didn't do anything but exist! The thing is psychotic." I shot back. The howls of laughter from him through the wire continued, I damn near hung up on him. "Oh and you could've warned me about all the fucking smoke."

"What smoke?" Mooch says still chuckling.

"Don't play stupid man, you know how I feel about cigarettes."

"The fuck are you talking about?" Mooch says with no trace of sarcasm in his voice.

"Your grandfather, you idiot! You know the old giant guy with the long hair and the fucked up teeth?" I say trying to bring back some of his laughter. Pausing to give him the opportunity to explain that if I had known beforehand about the lung cancer I would surely get from just stepping into the place I would have not agreed to go.

Dead silence.

"C'mon Mooch, fuck off its alright, no stress."

"My grandfather doesn't smoke." He says quietly. "What fucking house did you go to?"

For a moment I thought I must have screwed up the address, but thinking back I remembered Mooch's stupid smiling graduation picture and relay that information back to him.

"Call the fucking cops!" Mooch shrieks, making my blood run cold. "That's not my grandfather!"

Fast forward 6 hours and I'm sitting in the police station, ears ringing as if a grenade was just detonated next to my skull. The cops are explaining something to me I can't quite make out in my sudden trance.

They found Mooch's grandfather dead behind the closed door that snuggles had faithfully guarded, tied to a chair with a plastic bag fastened securely with tape around his bald head. The hippy, nowhere in sight.

I don't really remember being given the ok to leave the police station let alone the drive back to my home. I opened my front door and headed straight for my bedroom. If I had been more alert, I may have noticed it was unlocked. If I wasn't so dazed, I might have seen my parents tied back to back in the living room with their own respective bags fastened to their heads. If I hadn't been so stunned, I would have smelled the cigarette smoke before hearing the strike of a matchstick.