Portrait of the Artist as a Young Smoker

“One pack of Marlboros.” I pointed vaguely at the rack behind the counter, purposely looking away, acting busy.

“These?”

“No, no. Those.” Forced to now face the counter without distraction, I point again, moving my arm slightly, strategically to the left, emphasizing that I want the pack just to the left of the ones she was indicating.

“These, then?” Her leathery, yellow-brown finger slipped past the box I wanted. It was shorter, and, hopefully, cheaper. I almost found myself piping up to confirm that these were the ones I wanted, but the finger continued on to the next box. Not only was this box nearly an inch longer, it was entirely a different color.

“No, no, no. Those!” I really wanted to stick with the green ones. They didn’t seem as dangerous as, say, the red and yellow varieties. They were stop signs and caution tape but green said, “Hey, you’re turning eighteen today! Go for it!”

“These?” Finally.

“Yes, those.” I sigh, happily relieved, as I pull some money from my wallet. If she would have missed the box again I think I might have hopped over the counter. No wonder smokers smoke. Getting the right kind of cigarettes is so damn stressful.

Can you tell that I’ve never smoked, no, that I’ve never even touched a pack of cigarettes in my life? Is the crack in my voice denoting that I’ve always been told that I know better a dead giveaway? Probably, but I don’t care. I’ll have time to be disappointed in myself later. I have more important things to do. After all, half-shift baggers like me only get a fifteen minute break.

Peggy, the woman behind the counter, has a very typical female smoker name, as well as the typical yellowing bleached-blonde smoker hair, with roots a mile long. The thick wrinkles on her face slide over each other as she tries to make small talk with me. I cringe as she asks me if I need a lighter. Yes, actually, I do. I never thought of that. Friendly enough. It only gets worse, however, as I fork over my I.D. and she squints at the date, at the calendar, then back at me over and over. My cheeks flush nervously as I wonder what she’s thinking. Do you have to be eighteen and a day to technically get a pack of smokes? My parents never told me what time of day I was born. For all I know, I could still be seventeen and 364 days, 17 hours, 45 minutes, five seconds.

I feel like such a… a… delinquent.

“You have the same birthday as my son!” She croaks happily, flashing me a crooked grin. My eyes are instantly drawn to a dull brown tooth that stands out from the rest. Above it is a mole. She’s got a light moustache, too. Damn it! I only have eleven minutes left now. I’ve got to get the hell out of here.

I slip her an old ten-spot. I mean, not old as in crinkled and shitty-like-it’s-been-through-the-wash-ten-times, but old as in not… well… orange like the other ten dollar bills going around today. I mean, I hate to admit it and sound so American-y, but money should be green, you know? Anything else, especially the goddamned orange ten dollar bills, looks all puke-ish.

Ten and a half minutes. Yes, I’m watching the fucking second hand. How long does it take to get the change?

I request the not-orange ten dollar bills at the bank. I tell them I get rashes from orange dye and, well, conversational-nervous-laugh, better safe than sorry, eh? I once told a teller this with an orange shirt on, and my pride told me to leave the place immediately as she (The word ‘teller’ seems to imply a male person, I’ve noticed. She was actually pretty cute. Ah, shit.) stared at my shirt blankly trying to tell if I was in on the joke, where the cameras were. My pride said: Don’t take the money. Sulk on out. So I did. Now, where is the goddamn--

Oh. The change.

I take it, a bunch of ones and heavy coins, and cram them into the pockets of my khakis. I mean, touching those things just drives me mad, and they cling onto my legs all day, the khakis. I’d tell you what I thought of those things, but that would take longer than corporate America allows. Nine more minutes. Sorry.

Ugh. And I thought I’d get a five back for some crazy reason. Sulk. I pass a scratch-off machine on my way out. It’s tempting, really, since one of the dollars is practically falling out of the useless little pockets these damn khaki pants have. I pull a dollar out. I almost stick it in the slot, and then it hits me.

No time! No time!

Smokers all smoke outside. In the land of the free, we find ourselves with few options as to where to partake in our valiant pursuit of carcinogens of every variety. Lounging around on the propane tank rack there are two smokers of the old-and-washed-up-why-the-hell-are-you-spending-your-life-bagging-frozen-pizza variety, and one of the skinny, moody skank-who-doesn’t-want-to-be-seen-with-her-boyfriend type.

There’s a strange smell, and a slick spot on the sidewalk.

Well, here it goes! For science!

Leaning up against the rack of replacement tanks, I fiddle with the cellophane on the box until I find the little gold tab that opens the thing like a pack of gum. I pull one cigarette out of the box, bending it a little, and then pull out my new lighter, picking at the barcode sticker with my thumbnail. It dawns on me that my hands seem awfully full compared to everyone else’s. Oh. I’m supposed to stick the cigarette in my mouth, and then light it.

This seems risky. What if it’s too hot? Coffee has a habit of doing this to me, as a matter of fact. Harmless and then… Well, it’s worth a shot. I press on the top of the lighter, and slide my finger down over the wheel and…

Click…click…click…

Click… click…

Nothing. After a few more clicks, I’m so angry with my faulty lighter and my six remaining minutes of break that I simply chuck the empty plastic vessel out into the cold, damp, empty parking lot. Overhand. It goes at least 25 yards, and I’m pretty proud of myself.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve wanted to do that,” Moody Skank says in a very deep, very trying-to-be-sexy voice. She stands up, and I can barley repress my fight-or-flight instincts as the two old wash-ups turn to look at me, too. “Here, let me show you the best way to do it.”

Before I can so much as choke out the first syllable of “Thanks, Missus Skank, but no thanks. I believe I’ll just go inside and ask for some matches,” she’s leaning clumsily in front of me, since she’s a good five inches taller, trying to light my awkwardly bent cigarette with her own, while simultaneously trying to show as much cleavage in the godforsaken November weather as possible. Finally, either she’s successfully lit the cigarette, or I’ve spent a satisfactory amount of time looking at her spider-veined boobs. Whatever, the case, she leans back with a smug grin on her face, and says:

“You live around here?”

“No,” I say flatly, immediately, mumbling over the roll of paper wedged in my lips. “I’m from out of town.”

Not another word, and she goes back inside the supermarket.

I notice, from an uncomfortable feeling raking at my lungs that I haven’t once inhaled since she leaned in on me, and also, a tiny, weak stream of smoke is rising into the air from a few inches in front of my face. Weird.

At last, I decide to allow myself a little breath. Waiting until the perfect moment, or at least, until I couldn’t wait any longer, I finally take in a tiny bit of the swirling smoke and air through my mouth and nose, almost simultaneously.

For a few seconds, this went well, until I realize with a pang of indigestion that I have a growing cloud of smoke in my mouth that I don’t know exactly what to do with, and every moment that I wait to figure something out makes me want to cough even more. So, in a slight panic that I hope wasn’t horribly noticeable, I pluck the cigarette away from my mouth with my thumb and index finger, and…

…I let out a matchless combination of a cough and a rattling exhale that turns heads beyond the propane-tank smoker’s association, and, luckily, gets rid of any further need to cough, or remove smoke from my cranial cavities. This single cigarette has kicked my ass like the first day of track in ninth grade, and it’s barely spent.

“Look at the time. I should be heading back in,” one of the old-timers sighs, dropping a tan cigarette butt to the ground and dragging it across the cement a few times with his foot.

“Oh, my God!” I look at my watch immediately, and toss my cigarette absent-mindedly into a large ashtray. “I have to go too!”

“When’s your break tomorrow?” He asks, as we both hurry in, slightly winded but for entirely different reasons. “I’m Ted, by the way.”

“Same time, same place,” I joke lightly. My mouth is really dry. I may not have been able to run the entire mile today, but eventually I’d be able and organized enough to take a fine cigarette break. 

“See ya, then.” With a wave, Ted drifts away to go back to doing whatever he had been up to before, and I go back to filling bags.

“Hey, kid! Where the hell’ve you been?” My manager’s voice erupts behind me just as I’m about to bag a bevy of feminine hygiene products. My mouth may be dry, but my palms just got a lot slipperier.

“O-on my break, sir!”

“Don’t you “sir” me! You’re eighteen today, son! You don’t get a break for a half-shift anymore!”