Dreamland

Contraband

I'm visiting my home town, I'm at a party with some old friends. I just ran out of cigarettes and I'm dying for a smoke. (I'm smoking again in Dreamland, so you can tell my real life is pretty stressful right now.)

Tobacco has recently been outlawed, but a friend tells me about a liquor store in the north end of town where you can buy cigarettes under the counter. I don't have a car, so I start walking. It's about a mile to the store.

This part of town has gotten pretty run down since I've last been here. I see a dope dealer making a sale in an alley. I pass by a woman leaning against a telephone pole, obviously hooking. "Hey honey, you want a date?" she asks.

"Not tonight, but can I buy a cigarette from you?" I ask.

"I don't smoke, it's bad for your health," she replies. "You sure I can't interest you in something else? It's more relaxing than tobacco," she says, leering at me.

"No thanks, but good luck to you," I reply, as I head on my way.

At the liquor store, I ask discreetly for a pack of Marlboros. The guy behind the counter looks at me suspiciously, says he doesn't have any cigarettes.

"I'm dying for a smoke, I'll take cigars, pipe tobacco, anything!" I tell him.

"There's another store across the street, ask him," the guy says, sending me away.
(I notice him pick up the phone as I leave the shop.)

I walk in to the other store. A bell attached to the door rings as the spring return slams it shut. The shopkeeper steps out from the back room to the counter. "Can I help you?" he inquires.

I look around; making sure no one else is in the store. "I need some tobacco. Marlboro Reds, if you've got 'em."

Suddenly, two big guys in white t-shirts jump out and grab me by the shoulders. "Are you with the narcotics squad?" the shopkeeper shouts at me.

"No! I'm just looking to score some weed!" I respond.

The goons pat me down. One of them finds my wallet and flips it open on the counter. "No gun or badge on him, looks like he's just a regular citizen, boss."

"Sorry buddy, but we gotta be careful," the shopkeeper apologizes.

"That's OK, I understand," I reply. "So, can I get those Marlboros now?"

"Sure, $20 a pack," he says.

"OK, give me two," I say, peeling the last two twenties from my wallet. I really can't afford it, but it's so hard to find a place to buy smokes anymore.

Outside, I duck into the alley for a few quick puffs, then stub the cigarette out, saving half for later. Wouldn't want to get caught smoking in public and have to spend the night in jail.

As I'm walking back to the party I start to think that maybe I ought to just stop smoking. I've done it before, and it is getting to be such a hassle now that it's illegal. Thinking about quitting makes me nervous, though.

I look around, the streets are deserted. I light up the unfinished cigarette and take a deep, satisfying drag, feeling that rush of nicotine in my blood. Just then I spot the headlights of an approaching car. I hold my breath and cup the cigarette, hiding the telltale glow, as the patrol car passes.