Panic Attacks & Djarum Blacks
Bushes spun around me as the quaint town at the bottom of the hill turned dark and faded away. All I could hear were my panicked breaths, then a foreign thought that pushed its way into my mind for the first time ever – I need a cigarette!
What? I don’t smoke. After years of living a smoke-filled existence, had I finally given in to what I for so long abhorred?
Confused, I tried to compose myself and wiped the stream of tears from my hot cheeks and chin. It was almost pick-up time and they couldn’t see me like this, they were forbidden to see me like this – I was a highball, a respected agent! There could be no indication that I was beginning to crack, to question everything. But I’d been coming apart slowly for some time and it was starting to feel impossible to hide.
The rearview mirror revealed that the red blotches had mostly disappeared from my face, and it felt safe to drive around town and locate a gas station or liquor store. I found my way to the counter of a local shop with a decent selection of smokables and hesitantly made my request, “Djarum Blacks, please.”
With my change and a box of smokes in hand, I left the store in disbelief about what I had just purchased, and then the fact that I wasn’t a smoker became more obvious. How was I supposed to light one of the small black sticks when I didn’t own a lighter? It would have to wait until the next drop.
Each of my agents stood at their designated corners and I picked them up, one by one, hoping any evidence of my panic attack had disappeared. If I learned anything from over two years on the road, it was to conceal any negative emotions from the others and play like everything was perfectly fine.
They handed me their envelopes, orders in some – “Nice drop!” – nothing in others – Throw it back in disgust. We drove along as I assigned them each a new set of streets to knock…purposely saving one of my new girls for last.
“What the fuck you doin’ with cigarettes, lady?” she asked in amazement when I showed her my box of Djarums and asked for a lighter. “You’re a smoker now?”
“They’re cloves, and probably not, just really wanted one. This territory is pissing me off.” Although that was a lie, it still wasn’t an acceptable thing to say to your new kid or any younger agent, but Shell and I had a unique kind of mag crew friendship: one that was almost real.
We sometimes talked about where we came from, the people back home, and were honest with each other – but only to a point. Shitty territory seemed like a more reasonable explanation compared to the truth, and that felt safe only with me.
She handed me her lighter and for the first time ever, we smoked together. I had tasted Djarum Blacks only once before, when I curiously bought a pack with a friend from high school so we could see if they really crackled on the inhale. Plus, the wrapping was an attractive matte black, and the taste was more appealing than that of a regular ole smoke – which is likely why they were outlawed and removed from all U.S. stores later that year.
“It’s not bad, but doubt I’ll even finish this whole thing. Probably just sell these to agents who can’t afford a whole pack.” I didn’t know if that was true, but I hoped it was. I never wanted to be a smoker, nor a drinker, but by then I was a blossoming alcoholic.
Much of who I wanted — or didn’t want — to be before the road had gone out the window during one of those early drives down south. I remember gazing out the cracked window, crisp air tickling my hair, admiring the desert silhouettes and twinkling night sky, feeling in that moment like everything was right in the world, I was where I was meant to be.
Thankfully, I didn’t become a smoker the day of my panic attack on the hill. But smoking that thin, black clove cigarette marked the first of many subsequent moments that would ultimately send me packing…not for the next unfamiliar town or city, but for home.
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This piece was written to Prompt Two in the Writing to Reckon Journal: For Survivors of Spiritual, Religious and Cultic Abuse — December 2023
