Back in Smoke
by Z.T. Gwynn
He is a writer of offbeat fiction and perpetually unfinished poetry. His other work has appeared in Five on the Fifth, Reflex Press, and Chrome Baby. You can find writing updates and other general nonsense by following him on Twitter @gwynn_z
Bonfire scent lingered in Edward’s hair no matter how many times he lathered, rinsed, and repeated. Every scrub produced more of the smell, as if he were still sitting by that campfire, ashes blowing into his face in the breeze. He squeezed shampoo directly onto his head. This hadn’t happened the last time he went camping—certainly he would remember the devastating combination of forest reek and schoolboy awkwardness.
Suds slipped down his body into the drain. Steam billowed about his head, vapor and smoke. He rinsed, smelled, recoiled, and gave it up for no use.
Stepping out of the shower, the towel hung around his curved shoulders like a cape, dragging on the floor. His feet appeared tiny against the bathroom tile. He looked toward the mirror, but found that his eyes were level with the sink, and craning his neck upward earned him only a reflection of the ceiling.
“The pantry’s empty,” his wife called from down the hall. “Chinese tonight?”
Edward felt himself over. “Yeah, fine.”
“Orange chicken?”
His shirt fell off his slender frame like a poncho, and to wear his jeans he was obliged to roll the cuffs past the knee. “Go ahead and order, I’m going to take a walk.”
Her footsteps rounded the corner. “Is everything alright? If you found a tick, I know how to take care of it.”
Outside, Edward witnessed the city through a smaller pair of eyes. Streetlights stretched upward into the clouds, giants shouted into buzzing headsets, and dogs the size of horses sniffed at him placidly as they passed. He focused on the sidewalk. More than the distractions on the street, he wanted to avoid his own shrunken and confused reflection in the glass buildings. Certainly he had never been that gaunt. Never so wide-eyed and frail.
Passersby treated him with the pointed indifference or passive worry that busy adults afford unaccompanied children. Google Maps directed him out of downtown, into a side alley and a partially dilapidated apartment complex; unit fourteen on the fourth floor.
A bearded man opened the door. “Wrong apartment, kid.”
“Hold on, Jeremy.”
The man squinted. “How do you know my name?”
“It’s Edward,” he said, spreading his arms. “The fifth grade version, as close as I can tell.”
“How in the hell?”
“In the shower, I was washing my hair, and the smell of smoke wouldn’t leave, and I was thinking about the last time I went camping…”
Jeremy’s mouth hung open. His eyes unfocused. He breathed in and, suddenly shuddering, lifted Edward clean off the ground in a ribcage-endangering bear hug. “This is amazing!”
“Alright, alright, calm down. You’re taking this better than I expected.”
“Course I am! It’s not every day that your old best friend comes knocking at your door. And in mint condition, too!”
Unframed posters lined the walls of Jeremy’s apartment. Shelves stuffed with toys circled the den. The man slept in there, among the mess of pillows and blankets, on a pull-out mattress. His bedroom was filled with bean bag furniture, CRT televisions, consoles, discs, and carts. “I knew I had to find you,” Edward said. “You’re the only person from our class who still lives in the city.”
“I didn’t go on that camping trip. Asthma flare-up.”
“Shit. Right. Well, did you hear anything about it? Anything weird?”
Jeremy laughed, and clapped him on the back. “You are priceless. I’ve never seen a kid with an expression like that on his face. Come on, these are the best years of your life that you’re reliving.”
“Maybe they were for you.”
“I know what my life must look like to you. Is that why you came, to poke fun?”
“I’m sorry.”
Jeremy breathed, exhaled. “I bet you have all those fast-twitch muscle fibers back. How about some Smash? Super Mario Kart?”
“No, man, what’s wrong with you? I need to fix this!”
“What for? Listen, I just got back from Japan. Wicked trip, I’ll tell you all about it. Akihabara was out of control. Out. Of. Control. I got a fridge full of energy drinks—one has Sonic’s balls on it, I swear—and plenty of snacks. Hang out for a bit.”
Edward hung his head. Tears stung the corners of his eyes.
“What happened on that camping trip?” Jeremy asked.
“We roasted marshmallows by the fire. Mr. Kulimo told ghost stories. In the daytime we swam in the lake.”
“Sounds fine. Boring, but fine.”
“Do you have a bathroom?”
“Down the hall on the left.”
Edward opened the door onto loose gravel and shivered in an impenetrable purple dusk, listening to the echoes of his friends’ chatter around the distant bonfire. The camp’s ancient rotary phone left indents in his cheek. Let me come home, let me come home, I don’t want to spend the night out here.
Above the phone call box, or perhaps above the toilet, there sat a bright and cheery cartoon figurine. That was what he wanted. That was where he wanted to be: wrapped in a warm blanket in front of the TV on a bright Sunday morning, spooning sugary cereal into his mouth.
Edward sat alone in the bathroom. A cool spring breeze ferried the scent of rain and smoke through thin plaster walls. His cellphone vibrated in his pocket. A text from his wife: Food’s here! Time to come back.
© Back in Smoke by Z.T. Gwynn. 2023. All rights reserved.
