Bad Habits

© 2000 Tom Waltz
All rights reserved.

It was about 9:45 P.M. when I finally walked out of the classroom with the rest of my tired and frustrated classmates. It was one of those accelerated after-hours college programs; you know, the kind aimed at working adults who want to finish their degree, but who aren't able to go to school full-time because of all the "little" things standing in their way... things like jobs, bills and, oh yeah, family. I was no exception, what with my wife and daughter, my mortgage and car loans, not to mention two hungry and non-rent-paying Labrador retrievers to support. The grind of all that by itself was enough to push me to my overload point, let alone the hassle of tackling a higher education. But there I was anyway, once again heading out from class under the cover of darkness, wondering for the millionth time why I even bothered.

The simple answer to that, I knew, went back to when my boss at the plant where I worked told me I would be looking at a juicy raise if I ever finished school (the bachelor's degree part, at least) and, well, I couldn't rightly pass up the chance to make more money. Besides, the company I worked for had a decent tuition reimbursement plan: a C- and above grades-based program that offered one hundred percent coverage of all class costs, including books. A pretty damn good deal, as long as you didn't factor in the part of the equation that stated you could never see your family, or that you could never sleep or have fun because you spent all your so-called free time either in the classroom or headfirst in your homework.

That said, I'd be a true hypocrite if I claimed the school situation was all bad for me. I mean, on top of the fact that I was having the whole thing paid for by my company (nine classes under my belt with a 3.8 G.P.A., thank you very much), I was also a veteran of the armed services, having spent four years with Uncle Sam's Misguided Children (that's the U.S. Marine Corps, in case you were wondering), which meant I was also collecting another five hundred bucks a month under the Montgomery G.I. Bill. And, if that weren't enough, the classes I was taking were being offered on the local military air base and cost only half of what the non-veteran civilians were paying off base (gotta love those government issue benefits, eh?). So, basically I was making money while I went to school, which, if you think about it, was like having the ol' cake and munching on the darn thing, too.

Still, none of that changed the fact that I was exhausted as I walked toward my truck. The class was Psych 426, or some shit... the History of Psychology. The coursework, for the most part, was fairly straightforward and easy: mostly names and dates to remember, as well as some terms and techniques. What was hard about the damn thing was the professor. That guy—Dr. Somethingorother—could talk. I mean, a mile a minute! From the moment we all sat down, straight on through to the time we left, ol' Doctor Whatshisname would ramble non-stop without so much (I swear) as taking a breath. It was like he had a script prepared for each second of the meeting and he wasn't about to waste any of it. As he blabbed and blabbed, we just sat and listened with no real hope of being able to keep up with his supersonic words in our notebooks, no one daring to interrupt him with questions, all the while praying that what he was talking about was covered in the assigned reading chapters. Otherwise, we knew we were all screwed when the midterm and final exams came around. It was enough to wear a person out, and that's exactly how I felt as I approached my truck, the backpack over my right shoulder and the bags under my eyes competing to see who could sag the most.

What I wanted at that moment more than anything was a cigarette.

I wasn't a heavy smoker (matter of fact, my friends called me a "closet inhaler"), but on school nights I found myself craving the little nicotine-filled devils, if only to artificially (and toxically) boost me up from the academic pummeling I took during class. I threw my backpack into the truck and slammed the door, remaining outside to get more closely acquainted with the wondrous creation of those guys and gals over at Phillip Morris. I couldn't smoke inside the truck; my wife was dead set against my little lung-killing hobby, so I tried to hide any proof of it whenever possible. Yeah, it would be on my breath when I got home, but by that time she and my daughter were long asleep, giving me the opportunity to disguise my carbon-coated mouth with a couple scrubbed on layers of Mentadent toothpaste and a huge swallow of (yuck!) Listerine.

I pulled the pack of Marlboros from my shirt pocket. They were Ultra Lights, which were plenty heavy for a closet inhaler like myself. I tapped one out, popped it between my lips and lit it, ignoring the nagging little voice of guilt that never failed to whisper in my ears whenever I engaged in my part-time habit. The annoying bugger was always saying something about how stupid I was to smoke, how lung cancer was just waiting to invite me over for dinner, how every puff was bringing me one step closer to a final dance with the Grim Reaper, stuff like that. But, as I said, I didn't pay attention to the bothersome warnings from my health-conscious conscience, instead choosing to suck a long, warm drag of the wonderful poison into my chest, holding it there to my heart's content (or is that dissent?), then finally releasing it out to the night air in a plume of white smoke from my satisfied (and smiling) mouth. I watched the swirling cloud dissipate into nothing and sighed contentedly. Cancer or not, it felt damn good after the History of Psychology marathon from hell I'd just run. I continued to puff away, all the while watching my classmates in their cars, hightailing it out of the parking lot like there was no tomorrow.

I didn't blame them one bit.

By the time I had burned the thing to its filter, the teacher was getting into his Volvo. He saw me and offered a quick wave and I nodded in return. He smiled, shut his door, and was out of there as fast as one of his light-speed lectures. I was the only one left as I dropped the spent butt to the ground, grinding it into memory with the sole of my shoe. I kicked the smashed remains away (vainly attempting to hide the evidence, I suppose) and began to climb into my truck when I noticed something strange floating across the sky.

I stopped what I was doing and stood frozen, staring up at ... at ... well, at whatever the hell it was.

Now, remember, I was on a military air base; things were always making their way across the skies around there. I mean, one minute it's a group of helicopters, the next a squadron of fighter jets, right after that a transport ship of some type, and so on. Hell, there was enough air traffic around the place to qualify as aerial gridlock, so something overhead was by no means unusual. But what caught my undivided attention this time was just how quiet the thing was. There were no sounds of stuttering rotors or screaming afterburners accompanying it, no mechanical hum or buzz marking its passage. On the contrary, it seemed to be gliding by without the help of any type of engine. It was about as big as a blimp (and similarly sized and shaped), so I figured at first that's what it must have been, but then decided against the idea right away; even blimps make some noise. Besides, the damn thing couldn't have been more than two hundred meters away from me, so I should have heard something. Anything.

But no: only total silence.

I watched as it gracefully slid over me and immediately noticed that its large, dark body was surrounded by a variety of soft, pastel-colored lights. Man, there must have been a hundred of the things along its edges, all pink and violet, green and yellow. It was decorated like some little girl's dream dirigible. The lights would randomly fade in and out and I have to admit, I couldn't pull my eyes away once I spotted them. I felt ... I don't know ... hypnotized, I guess—unable to look at anything but their delicate, flickering pattern. As I helplessly gawked at them, I sensed that the vehicle had stopped directly above me, almost as if it had noticed me, too.

It didn't matter.

All I cared about were the pretty lights; everything else was nothing more than shadow and silence. I felt my arms fall limp against my sides, my mouth slowly open, my body relax. I was totally, uncontrollably mesmerized by the thing.

I just continued to stare and stare and stare and....

And suddenly I found myself sitting alone, shivering inside my truck, gazing sleepily at the steering wheel.

I sat and gaped stupidly forward, my mind not yet in sync with the situation. I closed my eyes tightly, shook my head, hoping to break up the sticky cobwebs that had taken over my brain. I slowly opened my eyes. I was looking at my dashboard. Nothing more.

"What the hell?" I asked out loud, realizing at the same moment just how friggin' cold I was. My hands were shaking like a drunk with the D.T.s, my ears stinging with the prick of a thousand pointy needles, my lips numb and swollen. It felt like I'd been shoved into a meat locker for hours then pulled out to thaw by some demented butcher. I hadn't been so completely chilled since I was a kid in Detroit. But this wasn't January in Michigan, dammit! This was San Diego, California, in the middle of August.

"Wh ... What the h ... hell?" I asked again between chattering teeth. My mind and heart began to race, the fear and confusion of the moment launching both into hyperdrive. I couldn't figure out (or believe) what had just happened.

I struggled with my twitching hand to put the keys into the ignition. Once I was able to maneuver them in, I started up the truck and cranked the heater into high. I sat quietly for a few minutes, my mind fuzzy, letting the heat seep into my icy skin. The warmth finally began to take hold, enough to clear my mind and allow me to consider what I'd just been through.

Obviously, aliens were the first thing that popped into my head. I'd seen enough movies and read enough articles to know that my little experience had the trappings of a classic alien abduction. All the horror stories I'd ever come across concerning the subject flashed through my brain and I was gripped by a moment of panic-laced violation.

My God, I thought. What if they probed me?

I reached down to check my pants to see if they were still fastened. They were, and my butt didn't seem to be hurting, so maybe I'd escaped that part of the extraterrestrial examination I'd heard so much about. Still, just the thought of it made me cringe.

I continued to examine the rest of my body, rubbing my legs and scalp, pulling up my shirt sleeves (I was feeling much warmer by now), looking for some kind of clue that I'd been kidnapped by little green men: stuff like strange markings or scars, metal chips or homing devices, things I'd seen abductees get in the movies. I didn't find anything. I slumped back into the driver's seat, more confused than ever.

I reached into my shirt pocket and found my cigarettes. I put one in my mouth and fired it up, not caring an iota about the 'no smoking in the car' rule. As I quickly inhaled and exhaled, I examined the cigarette package. Ultra Lights, ha! Either aliens had just had their way with me or the darn things I was taking into my lungs and bloodstream had produced one world-class nicotine buzz and had knocked me out of commission for (I looked at my watch) ... twenty minutes! Twenty goddamn minutes. It all seemed so crazy.

Or maybe I was the crazy one.

I finished the cigarette and flicked it out my window. By now the heat in the truck was becoming uncomfortable, so I shut if off and left the window open to get some air. I had no idea what I was supposed to do, or who I should tell about what had just occurred, and figured that maybe getting home was the best course of action. I dropped the car into drive and pulled out of the parking lot, making a beeline for the main gate.

I couldn't have gone more than fifty meters when I noticed bright lights shining in my rearview mirror. My heart stopped and I gripped the steering wheel with all my might, expecting the worst. But these weren't the same pastel-colored lights from earlier, and as my vision adjusted to their brightness, I saw them for what they really were: police lights.

Military police.

I wasn't sure why I was being stopped, but I carefully drove my car off to the side of the road just the same. For once in my life I was relieved that I was being pulled over by the cops. I shut my engine off and waited.

To the side of my car I could hear heavy footsteps slowly approaching from the rear, the gravel of the roadside shoulder crunching loudly with each step. I'd decided I was going to spill my guts about what had happened to the policeman, and turned to do so as he halted next to my door.

"Officer, you're never gonna belie—" I started, but stopped dead. I was looking at the biggest man I had ever seen in my life. He was like a bear, easily towering over my truck, dressed head-to-toe in a black, unmarked, commando-style uniform. This (combined with his massive bulk) immediately caught me off-guard. MPs normally wear the uniform of the day for the base, not some Hollywood CIA derivative. Curious, I craned my neck out the window to look up at his face. His eyes were hidden by the shadow created by the brim of his baseball hat, but his mouth was clearly visible. It was curved in a giant, tooth-filled smile. He looked like a yawning tiger.

Suddenly I was very frightened.

"Get out," he said. It didn't even seem like his mouth moved, his grin never disappearing from his face. I cautiously opened the door, obediently doing as I was told.

"Uh, officer, what did I d—" I began to say, but was cut off mid-sentence once again.

"Turn around," he ordered. "Don't move. Don't talk." The way he said it was both forceful and polite, to the point of being terrifying. I didn't argue.

No sooner had I turned then he shoved me hard against my truck with one of his beefy hands. He grabbed the back of my shirt and kicked my feet apart until it felt like I was doing the splits. My heart was pounding in my chest and my hands were sweating and all my instincts were telling me to get out of there, to run like hell, to escape.

But raw fear had me paralyzed.

The big man in black began to roughly frisk me up and down, crumbling and yanking my clothes, painfully pinching my skin as he did. As huge as he was, I figured the word gentle probably wasn't part of his vocabulary. His hand brushed against my pants back pocket and for an instant the image of being probed flashed in my mind again and my ass immediately puckered up. But his hand kept moving upward, leaving my wallet (and my rear-end, thank God) alone, instead reaching into the breast pocket of my shirt and grabbing my cigarettes. He pulled them out and brought them behind me.

"Smoker, eh?" he asked. His voice was like sand paper scraping on metal. "That's a nasty habit you got there, feller," he continued, jerking me around to face him. He held the cigarette pack directly in front of my nose. "Those things'll kill you."

He grabbed the hair at the back of my head and bent my neck so I was looking at his face. "Yep," he said, "kill you sure as shit. Just like looking up at the sky when you shouldn't." His carnivorous grin grew bigger. "Know what I mean?"

"Ye... Yes, sir," I gulped, my mouth dry, my tongue a useless blob.

"Good." He let go of my hair and jammed the cigarettes back into my pocket. "Have a nice night."

Then he turned and walked back to his car. He climbed in, pulled off the curb, made a U-turn and drove away from me and out of sight. I stood wide-eyed and gape-mouthed next to my truck as I watched him leave.

How I was able to finally convince my legs to move, to get back in the truck, to leave the base, I'll never know. All I can say is that I found a way somehow and got my ass off of that installation as fast as I could. The last thing I saw as I zipped through the main gate was the MP standing guard waving me through.

He was wearing the uniform of the day.

The base is about twenty miles from my house, and I drove the entire distance on autopilot. Too many things had happened for me to be able to concentrate on any one, so they all became a hazy reality to me the further away I got. At the last stoplight before my home I reached into my shirt pocket, pulled out my cigarettes and flung them out the window and onto the street. I've never been a litterbug, but at that moment I just didn't give a damn.

At the house I quietly entered and went into the master bedroom to check on my wife and daughter (they always sleep together on the nights I have class, leaving me with a choice between the sofa in the living room or my daughter's bed). They were both snoring away, oblivious to my late return.

I closed the door and headed toward my daughter's room. I was beyond exhausted. Halfway down the hall, I noticed that my dogs started barking their heads off in the back yard. The two of them were almost always quiet, so I knew that something out of the norm must have caught their canine attention for them to be making such a racket. I rushed to the back room of the house (which I use as a makeshift office) and pushed the curtains aside on the window that faced the back yard. Before I even caught a glimpse of them, the dogs became stone silent. It was almost as if someone had turned off some kind of doggy bark switch.

I peeked out the window and immediately felt the flesh on my arms and neck begin to crawl. My dogs were sitting next to each other, tongues lolling, staring straight up, frozen and trancelike, completely unaware of anything but whatever it was above them. From the top corners of my peripheral vision I could have sworn I saw different shades of glowing pastel colors. I squeezed my eyes shut, yanked the curtain closed, then turned and ran to my daughter's room. I leapt into her bed and pulled the covers up tightly around my neck.

I lay there, eyes still clamped down, my breath coming and going in short, nervous bursts. I desperately wanted a cigarette ... and I wanted to see what it was my dogs were so intently looking at. Instead I slid the blanket all the way over my head and ignored both cravings.

After all, it's like the man said. Those bad habits will kill you.

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