Sheila’s Smokin’

I originally posted this on MySpace but couldn’t resist sticking it here, too.

I dreaded Friday just like every other Friday that I have dreaded pretty much since I started working at the newspaper office. Back in college, I LOVED Fridays ’cause the end of our work-week, newspaper-wise, was Thursday. I’d work the night shift in composition Thursday nights, and our deadline was 11:30 — which meant, on a good night, when we “put the paper to bed” a little early, we’d get up to the Uptowner with a couple of hours to spare. Even on late nights, we’d usually arrive in time for a round or two of drinks before the dreaded last call ... and if it had been a particularly good night, we’d still have plenty of energy for after-bars!

We’d stay up very late on Thursday nights — which, to my way of thinking, unofficially kicked off the weekend. Oh, yeah, I’d make occasional appearances in my Friday classes, but that was mostly so I wouldn’t feel too bad about heading over to 4 o’clock Club a little early (circa 2:30 p.m.). We’d get a good buzz on somewhere close to campus (Marty’s or “to Ike’s! For a cold one!”), scamper back to the dorm just before food service closed, hang out in our rooms for a few hours or so, jamming to some tunes and/or catching our second wind, and then back out we’d go.

Fridays were good, back in those days.

They’re still good, overall; I mean, they do end the work-week and start the weekend, but it ain’t easy to put out two papers in one day and feel like you’re not completely fried by the time you finish up that second edition.

Anyway, on this particular Friday, Sheila took her morning smoke break a little early. She lets me go along even though, heh: I don’t smoke. Usually, one of us has a story to tell (especially on Mondays, but sometimes on Fridays, too), and we sit out in the garage for the five minutes or so that it takes her to finish her ciggy. On this day, Fleas joined us ’cause he had just gotten to work.

Sheila was standing at the entrance to the garage, and as she was telling her story (the topic of which I can’t even recall, at this moment), I became sorta mesmerized by the way the sun was back-lighting her hair and the smoke.

“Be right back,” I said. “I gotta get my camera.”

Before I got to the door, though, Fleas whipped his out (heh) and handed it to me. I returned to my perch on the stool and snapped away as Sheila was still telling her story. (She was a little self-conscious with the camera on her, so I told her to just keep talking. She did, and the smoke did its part, too.)

I couldn’t resist posting the photo on MySpace ’cause Sheila’s got a space on there, too ... plus I was interested in hearing what anyone else thought of the photo. Darling Deb loved it, which makes me exceedingly happy; I sent her a message and told her:

I love when the everyday ordinary becomes “art,” if only for a few seconds.

Deb deemed those her “Words of the Day” and called me her hero for that day, too.

Sometimes, Fridays aren’t so bad.

: )