Lost Vision

Lost Vision

Joseph Pynchon walked into the Ye Olde Tobacco Shoppe on North Terrace with a durry hanging from the corner of his mouth. He figured smoking in a tobacco shop couldn’t possibly be frowned upon, who was going to complain? If anything the punters in the shop would be grateful to get some free second hand smoke from his dangling rollie.

The old school bell above the door jangled like a good old thing as he barged into the shop like a tiger pouncing on a gazelle.

‘G’day Arthur,’ he half bellowed to the grizzly, philosophical shopkeeper, or tobacconist as he liked to be called. He half bellowed it for two reasons, the first was they were the first words he had uttered that day and his voice wasn’t yet calibrated for human interaction; the second reason, and probably the most relevant, was because the old bugger was as deaf as a four by two plank of wood.

‘Morning Pynchon,’ bellowed Arthur, being deaf he couldn’t calibrate his voice either. He assumed everyone was as deaf as him. ‘I told you not to smoke in my shop,’ he added like an old headmaster.

‘That’s a bit bloody rich, isn’t it. You sell these freaking cancer sticks,’ said Pynchon with a grin.

This was their normal routine. Arthur didn’t really give a toss if Pynchon smoked in his shop, this was just his German sense of humour, Pynchon figured. Although that was an unusual combo when he thought about it.

Pynchon walked over to the magazine rack and started leafing through pages, filling in time. After a while he moved away from the magazines and started perusing Arthur's shelves of miscellaneous crap.

Amidst the garbage, suddenly something unfamiliar caught his eye—a small packet of cigarettes wedged between a faded copy of "Hooters & Horses" and a rack of lighters. It was wrapped in paper the color of old parchment, adorned with strange oriental characters. Pynchon squinted at the writing, not understanding a word, yet intrigued by its mystery.

He snatched up the packet, feeling the slight give of the soft box, and strolled over to the counter. Arthur looked up from his crossword puzzle, "You finally gonna buy something, hey?"

"Pack of Winnie Reds, and these strange suckers," said Pynchon, laying the oriental packet on the counter before him.

Arthur grabbed the familiar red pack from the shelves behind him. As he set it down, his gaze fell upon the unusual item Pynchon had found. His brow creased with puzzlement. "I don't stock those," he stated, poking the packet with a leathery finger.

"Found 'em right over there, next to the stick mags," Pynchon said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. The corners of his mouth twitched upward ever so slightly, amused by the confusion that played out on Arthur's face.

"Odd," Arthur murmured, turning the packet over in his hands. "Well, I'll just charge you a couple bucks for them."

"Sounds fair," Pynchon agreed, watching Arthur ring up the purchase. Being in no mood for solitude, and still too early for the pub, Pynchon started up a conversation with Arthur.

"So how's business been treating you anyway?" he asked. "Pretty terrible, Joe. The government and their taxes are killing me, no-one can afford cigarettes anymore. They worry about people's health, but they don't give a shit about my livelihood."

Pynchon had a laugh at that great bit of humour from Arthur, until he realised he was dead serious. They chatted for a while longer, neither man in any hurry to escape their conversation.

"Excuse me a minute, will ya?" Arthur said after a while, slipping the ledger under the counter.
"Need to fetch something from the back."

"Take your time,"Pynchon drawled, turning the curious packet over in his hands. His thumb caressed the unfamiliar script as he slid out one of the cigarettes. It felt delicate, almost brittle, between his fingers.

He struck a match, the flare momentarily casting his face in stark relief against the shop's dimness. The first drag hit him like a freight train; the taste was an exotic blend of spices and earth, leaving a tingling sensation on his tongue. Colors swirled at the edge of his vision—a kaleidoscope of hues dancing just beyond grasp.

"Hell of a kick," he muttered, squinting through the sudden vibrancy.

Another puff, shorter this time, and the world steadied. These smokes were fleeting pleasures, gone almost before they began. Yet there was something enticing about their transient burn.

"Whoa!" Pynchon recoiled as Arthur reemerged. His voice splintered the air, rough with shock. "What's going on here?"

"Something wrong, Joseph?" Arthur said casually as he emerged from the back room completely naked.

Pynchon mumbled something, not appreciating Arthur's horrifying joke, then took a final, reluctant drag from the cigarette. What kind of devilry was this?

"Anyway, I'd better get moving,"Pynchon grunted, still unable to reconcile the sight before him. He tipped an imaginary hat, a gesture marred by the absurdity of the situation.

"Alright, Joseph. See you tomorrow?" Arthur called after him, as nonchalant as if he were donned in a three-piece suit rather than his birthday suit.

"Maybe," Pynchon called back, pushing open the door to step into the fading light of the street, the chime of the shop bell marking the end of an extraordinarily peculiar visit.

The thrumming energy of inner-city Adelaide seemed to pulse in time with Joseph Pynchon's amusement as he stepped onto the pavement, his laughter a low rumble in his chest. "Classic Arthur," he muttered, shaking his head at the memory of the shopkeeper's ironic striptease. The world buzzed around him, people weaving through their day, oblivious to the oddities lurking in tobacco shops.

He fumbled for the slender box of Asian cigarettes, the glossy packet slipping between his fingers before he secured its foreign shape. He could still taste the potent tang from the first smoke—how it flirted with being overwhelming but receded just enough to beckon another try.

"Let's see if you've got more kick," he mused aloud, tapping a cigarette free from its cradle. It was laughably tiny between his rough fingertips, a stark contrast to the robust Australian brands he favored. With a flick of his lighter, the end glowed to life, and he drew in a lungful of smoke that scorched and danced on his tongue like spicy incense.

The drag hit hard, and for a moment, the world held its breath. Then, as he exhaled, the mundane street transformed into an uncensored tableau of human flesh. A gasp escaped him, his eyes wide as saucers. "Jesus Christ!"

Nakedness unfurled before him; the spectrum of humanity laid bare without prejudice. There was the businessman whose suit seemed painted on one moment and then simply vanished, revealing a paunch overhanging his briefs—which also disappeared into the ether. The young woman with the violin case, her lean muscles etched with the discipline of her craft, now unwittingly exposed.

"Ah, hell..." Pynchon's voice trailed off, his gaze dropping instinctively. The shock was a cold splash when he realized his own attire—or lack thereof. His body was as naked as the day he was born, right there on the sidewalk.

"Is this some kind of sick joke?" he murmured, but the question was for himself alone. He stood frozen as the world moved around him in unabashed nudity, each puff from the cigarette peeling away another layer of his understanding of reality.

He stubbed out the cigarette against the concrete, the world snapping back like a rubber band to its clothed norm. Pynchon blinked, his clothes reappearing as if by magic, the cityscape once again decent and familiar.

"X-ray vision," he breathed, the words tasting of disbelief and wonder. The notion was ludicrous, the stuff of comic books and late-night B-movies. Yet his mind, ever the fertile ground for the strange and surreal, couldn't dismiss the evidence of his senses.

"Eighteen," he whispered, thumbing through the remaining cigarettes with reverence. Eighteen chances to peel back the veils of the world, to glimpse the raw, unvarnished truth beneath.

"Eighteen opportunities for chaos," he said to no one, a mischievous smile curling the edges of his lips. The writer in him saw stories in these smokes, tales that begged to be told—or perhaps left untold.

"Or eighteen disasters waiting to happen." He pocketed the pack, his thoughts a whirling dervish of excitement and trepidation. The possibilities spread before him like a choose-your-own-adventure book, each path fraught with potential and peril.

"Eighteen shots of madness," he concluded, stepping forward with renewed purpose. The weight of the packet was a talisman in his pocket, a reminder that sometimes, the world offered up mysteries that defied explanation. And if anyone was equipped to navigate those mysteries, it was Joseph Pynchon.

The bar's door swung open with a creak that matched the weariness in Pynchon's bones. A handful of hazy lights dangled from the ceiling, casting dim shadows over the scattered patrons who nursed their drinks as if they were lifelines. The air was thick with the scent of stale beer and the undercurrent of old smoke that no amount of ventilation could erase.

"Beer," he grunted to the bartender, a man with a face like an unmade bed. "Whatever's cold."

"Coming right up," the bartender replied, his voice as flat as day-old soda.

With a frosted mug in hand, Pynchon retreated to a booth with cracked leather seats and a view of the entire dimly lit dive. He settled into the seat, his fingers tracing the edges of the packet in his pocket. He took a long pull of the beer, feeling the chill of it slide down his throat and settle in his gut.

Pynchon slowly sipped his beer and unwinded on the sleepy Thursday afternoon. His eyes roved lazily across the room until they landed on the pair at the bar.

A middle aged businessman in a suit was chatting to a complete knockout of a woman. Her silhouette was a vision of youth and curves.

"Hmm, might be worth a durry," he murmured beneath his breath, contemplating another drag from his mystical pack. The woman tossed her hair back and laughed, a sound that seemed to promise secrets and skin.

"Alright, let's see what you're hiding." Determination lined his face as he slipped one of the cigarettes between his lips and struck a match. He drew in the potent smoke, its unfamiliar taste crawling down his throat.

He exhaled slowly, his gaze sharpening on the woman. She was a poem written in curves and whispers, her body language a dance of allure. But as his eyes traveled downward, the truth unraveled before him—the curve of her chest gave way to a secret no tight dress could hide.

"Jesus," he muttered, blinking hard. "She's...he's..."

"Everything alright there, pal?" the bartender called over, eyeing Pynchon's furrowed brow.

"Fine, just fine." Pynchon stubbed out the cigarette quickly, a sense of betrayal twisting in his stomach. "Just the world turning upside down on me again."

"Another round for you, then?"

"Keep 'em coming," Pynchon sighed, pushing the shocking revelation away with the thought of more beer. "It's gonna be one of those nights."

The glass of beer was starting to sweat as much as Pynchon himself, ringlets of condensation pooling on the scratched wooden surface of the table. He watched the frothy head dwindle with each swig, his gaze shifting intermittently to the couple at the bar. Laughter bubbled between them like the carbonation in his drink, light and ephemeral. The man’s hand slipped around the woman's waist—a gesture as casual as it was possessive.

"Good for him," Pynchon thought, a sardonic smile curving his lips. But his inner poet, the chronicler of human follies, wouldn't let him sit idly by.

When she excused herself, heels clicking against the floor like a metronome set to sin, Pynchon rose. He ambled over to the guy, hands nestled in his pockets.

"Hey mate," he said, voice carrying the gravelly tune of one too many beers.

The man turned, an eyebrow raised in question. "Yeah?"

"Just thought I'd better tell you," Pynchon drawled, leaning in conspiratorially. "that she's better hung than you are. She is a he."

"Rack off, mate," the guy spat, his prior ease evaporating into the smoky air.

"Suit yourself." Pynchon shrugged, the smirk never leaving his face as he walked away. It was like watching a car crash in slow motion—you knew the outcome but couldn't tear your eyes away from the impending disaster.

Back at his table, he cradled the glass, the beer now a lukewarm reminder of reality's harshness. As the old guy left with his companion, Pynchon let out a chuckle, a dark chortle that spoke of life's wicked sense of humor. He took another gulp of beer, its bitterness mingling with his thoughts.

He sat quietly sipping his beer, when suddenly the door swung open, ushering in a flock of women whose laughter and chatter filled the room like a perfume. They were a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes, a living bouquet celebrating femininity in all its glory.

"Ah, 'You beauty!'" he mentally exclaimed, eyeing the gaggle of women who seemed to bring their own spotlight into the dimly lit bar. Their presence was a sudden jolt of electricity, and Pynchon could feel the dull ache of sobriety knocking at his temples.

"Tonight's just full of surprises," he mused, fingers itching for the packet that promised even more revelations. He watched the women clink glasses, their smiles bright and unburdened, and for a brief moment, he wished to be part of that innocence again.

"Cheers to the unseen and the unexpected," he toasted silently, lifting his empty glass before signaling the bartender for another round.

Pynchon's fingers groped the inner fabric of his coat pocket, then darted to the next. Empty. His heart clenched with a silent panic as he patted down each pocket in a systematic frenzy—front, back, inside-out. Nothing. The smooth cardboard touch of the cigarette packet was distinctly absent, an omission that felt like a hole in reality itself.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, the words barely escaping his lips.

His eyes swept to the tabletop, barren except for the damp rings left by his beer glass. He crouched, peering under the table, his hands sweeping over the grimy floor, hoping for a tactile miracle. The underside of the booth offered no salvation. "Must've been nicked," he grumbled, straightening up with a grunt. "That or they sprouted legs and walked off."

The chatter of the women at the bar seemed louder now, their laughter a mocking chorus to his misfortune. He watched them, a bitter taste crawling up from the pit of his stomach, mingling with the stale aftertaste of ale. They were clad in shimmering dresses, their skin untouched by the x-ray vision that had been snatched away from him.

He took a long pull from his glass, letting the cold liquid wash over his disappointment. The buzz of conversation around him faded into a dull hum as he retreated into his thoughts.
As the night wore on, and the effervescent hen party began to dwindle, Pynchon remained in his booth, his mood ebbing with the tide of patrons.

"Guess it's back to the mundane," he whispered to no one in particular.

He rose from the booth, his gait steady despite the alcohol. With one last look around the almost deserted bar, he headed for the door, the cool night air slapping him with sobering clarity.

"That'd be right," he said to the night, "Just my freaking luck."