Painting Plumes

A Vignette

The man put his phone down, exhaling the last bit of a cigarette before dropping it down on the stone walk-way of his porch and crushing it underneath his well worn boots. At first glance the man didn't seem like anyone who'd be distressed over the news at all, he looked more like someone from the theater troop that was playing cowboy more than anything else.

He chuckled as he fumbled for another cigarette, before looking up at the sky once more, thinking to himself that he didn’t really need to bother. The hazy orange glow of the sun could do nothing more than illuminate the billowing smoke would do more than enough for his lungs than the damage each inhale of another Camel Light would do to him. He slowly stood up, wiping any dust and dirt from his pants as he looked around. Normally life up in the Catskill Mountains would be a dream come true for a man who could work at home and escape the city, but he felt permanently anchored to it as really did the rest of the state by the nature of its demographics, culture, and politics. It didn’t matter if you lived in Massena or Jamestown, or if you were a small town straight ticket republican voting kind of guy like his folks, you were anchored by the city and the unfathomable weight of it all on how the rest of the state governed.

He was used to it, or better yet, realized it was somewhat universal no matter where you lived. When he went to UT Austin it was the same way, he’d visit his ranching uncle over in Lexington he would hear his Uncle Richard talk about how the state was really beholden to its cities no matter what they believed in. Even now as it gets too expensive, people are looking to get further and further away, contributing to the problem. Little did his late Uncle know he’d become part of the problem for those living north of New York City for a more rural life out in the mountains.

Checking his phone once more, lifting up to see if there was any kind of evacuation notice, other than usual air hazard warnings and to be careful when going outside. The firefighters had been working double shifts as a fire had grown out of control in the Adirondacks, which according to the latest tweets keeping tabs on it only had the fire around 38% contained. As any curious individual would when seeing such a metric, he then proceeded to look up how on earth that containment percentage was calculated.

A quick search gave him exactly what he was looking for, followed by a short “huh” mumbled underneath his breath.

A quick chime to his phone’s notifications directed him to Twitter, where the DMs were ablaze about the story, particularly as Senator Goldberg of the New York State Assembly rambled on about Climate Change.

“Can you believe this guy?” One asked, an open ended rhetorical question that didn’t need an answer, as the 40 or so members of the chat were all in agreement. He tried to remember how he was even added to this chat so many months ago, he merely posted memes on his account, wasn’t known for any insightful political analysis just a man quick with a joke and photoshop. He scrolled up, checking the chat history from the usual bouts of “GM” and the accompanying heart reactions that came with each obligatory Good Morning message. It was nice, he couldn’t help but find himself enjoying the banter, each personality showing their unique insights and traits as they would wander in all sorts of directions ranging from off color jokes about the Senator’s background to how climate change is bullshit.

Clicking at the power button at the side of his phone to lock the screen, he finally put the phone back in his pocket after making some remarks with a hastily selected gif to illustrate his feelings on the matter. His eyes then turned to the right side of his yard, a worrying glance given to his garden. There wasn’t much he could do, after all what does one man do? There was nothing in his books on gardening, or old manuals about World War Two Victory Gardens that would help him in this situation. He reached for his phone again, pulling it out and turning it on only to be interrupted.

“Honey, that’s more than enough of a smoke break for you.”

It was the voice of his wife.

He looked up at the gaze of smoke, the orange haze that was as if the mandarin and golden hues of dusk were now permanently painted onto the sky would be there forever. He turned back to his wife, and with a smile he put the phone down, and walked back in the house.