Martin John

He thought he was plain walking up the street in that jean jacket and jeans so tight they could be painted on, his hair cut into a planned-tangle, wearing cheap white Chucks for pounding the pavement. In fact, he thought he was plain, quite ugly, and simple. The he bore were planned in the way that he knew that’s how the rock’n’rollers wore them—they appeared to have rolled out of a gutter and into magazine pictures sporting outfits that matched his. It didn’t matter to him if they did it to impress anyone, or even ingratiate themselves with guys like him, he knew that their look was within his budget and while he wore it, people watched him. 

The cigarette dangling from his mouth was there for a similar reason. The first cigarette he had ever smoked, he hadn’t enjoyed. Who enjoys smelling like they’re bathed in chemicals and cancer? After the first package of cigarettes, though, his body was hooked, and he was addicted. It didn’t matter that he spent most of his money on ciggies, because he wasn’t saving for a house. Houses were for people who could afford them. The rules were laid bare, he would be a renter because that’s the slice of life he’d bought—a pepperoni with Mozza and cheap tomato sauce, no San Marzanos, just basic tomatoes from Ontario pulped with garlic and basil. So, he smoked without guilt, despite that it smoking was being outlawed from establishments, sidewalks, and everywhere public. 

Smoking and walking were habit-forming because he needed an after-work activity, and he could afford it. His apartment was a room in a basement, not even the whole basement—it was shared with neighbours who blared Latin techno music at 3 am—but rent was cheap. 

Walking got him out. Plus, he saw things outside. All kinds of people. Guys with cash going into the types of bars that served twenty-dollar drinks. Guys whose clothes were neat as a pin. Guys dressed in designer clothes, designed to make them look like him, but cooler. They were cooler than him because they had more money than him. 

He had been in an expensive bar one time, with a friend who was a computer-genius with extra cash to throw around. The beer he bought inside was the same beer that he drank at in his room, but it was fifteen dollars for one instead ten dollars for six. His friend introduced him around to scenesters he knew, the type who were dressed like him but cleaner, and they had nodded in his direction, then ignored him. With his fifteen-dollar beer, it was obvious that he didn’t belong there. They were drinking mixed drinks with carved ice cubes. The next hour he watched people while his friend networked; everyone knew he didn’t belong there, including him, but he stayed because he wanted that friend to like him. They didn’t talk much anymore. 

Walking the streets and smoking led him to one of three places: a bookstore, a library, or a record store. Inside the first two, he browsed books. If he had an extra ten dollars, he might purchase a book, something written by person with a drug addiction who wrote about it—a rock’n’rolla type, a gonzo journalist, or someone with a bizarre moral compass. Somehow, these people had made being an outsider into a profession by writing about it. They understood him, and he related to their alienation from the larger masses. In music shops, he would comb the CDs, browsing the shelves, listening at their listening stations, and browsing the corkboard where local rock shows were posted. Music burrowed into him and restored his center. He celebrated his love for music by occasionally buying tickets to shows from the men standing behind the counter who had impeccable taste in music. Buying tickets from them made him tremble, because he their approval was everything. They said nothing, took his money, and handed him tickets to local venues laser-printed on fine cardboard. 

Generally, the venues were ones with cheap beer filled with people he related to with names that hinted at their rotting interiors. The patrons’ clothes were cobbled together from army surplus stores and thrifts. Everyone drank the expensive cheap beers, and in between band’s sets, they smoked outside—the sidewalk smoking ban be damned. These nights purged difficult thoughts and made him capable to work the shit job that barely paid him enough to afford cigarettes. 

All music settled the thoughts that he wasn’t good enough—he walked the streets, aided by an MP3 player loaded with songs ripped from Limewire, or from CDs he purchased from the steely-eyed record store clerks. 

He thought he was plain and no one noticed as he strutted the streets, but the people who observed him knew otherwise. This was a guy, they thought, who they wished they were like when they were younger—one who was free from the burden of a mortgage, kids, and job they loathed.