We’re all going to die someday. Why does life have to be so finite? So limited? So difficult to figure out? Especially if it’s all just going to end someday anyway? All of this got me thinking about my options. I’m not comfortable not knowing the how or the where or the where or the why of it all . . . so why not be proactive in the process? I considered my choices.
Eaten by a lion vs. anaphylactic shock. Eaten by a lion is so Dark Ages, but still, it’s possible.
Falling off a cliff vs. horrible accident. Wait. Aren’t all accidents horrible?
Maybe I need to think “inside the body.”
Cardiac failure vs. Emphysema. Now that’s very, very possible. Almost probable.
But I would need a catalyst. Something to spur the internal event. I was ready to take my destiny into my own hands . . . I’d start smoking. I’ve heard that it’s tough to quit smoking, so surely, starting would be a breaze.
As I pull up to the Pekin General Store (which is not really a general store at all—not like the real general stores of old with rifles and penny candy and straw brooms), all I can see are large posters in the windows for tobacco. How is it I never noticed those before? I nod at their reassuring promises of fresh tastes and bold flavors awaiting me. How inviting. This looks like a good place to begin my quest.
The cigarettes are behind the counter, forcing me to ask the clerk for assistance. I step into line and assure myself that this isn’t about my dignity, it’s about principle.
“Can I help you?” The young attendant leans heavy on one leg, his hand on his hip, his gray name tag yelling “Sam” at me.
“Yes, could I have a pack of cigarettes?” I report in my most confident voice.
“Which one do you want?”
Another patron enters the store forcing Sam’s gaze to leak in his direction, round the store and then back to me.
“Sam, I’ve never smoked before and I was wondering if you could recommend one for me.”
Sam looks at me. Somewhere in the distance a refrigerator door opens and closes. “I don’t smoke.”
“Oh, that’s nice.” I nod. “That’s commendable.”
Sam stares at me. “So, which one do you want? We sell over 20 different brands.”
“Which one do you sell the most of?”
“Don’t know.”
A man with brown shoes and brown eyes steps into line beside me, setting a gallon of milk and a box of Twinkies on the long counter. I smile at him as the aroma of stale cigarette smoke fills my nostrils.
“Hi,” I turn to the man. “Do you smoke?”
Stupid question, from the smell of him, of course he smokes, I just don’t want him to know that I know.
The man nods.
“Great!” I feel too much excitement behind the word; the man takes a step backward.
“I was wondering if you could suggest a cigarette brand for a new smoker?”
“You the new smoker?”
I nod in expectation.
When he bursts out in laughter, his eyelids narrow into slits. It isn’t until Sam joins him that something inside me melts.
“Wait just a minute,” I glare at Sam. “I’m a paying customer. You have no right to laugh at my purchase.”
“You haven’t purchased anything.” Sam says between snorts.
“Fine.” I look back at the smelly man whose laugh is turning into a fitful, smoker’s cough.
“Will you make a suggestion or shall I simply pick one and let the fates decide?”
“Give her a pack of Camels. Filtered.”
“Fine. Thank you. That sounds nice. Thank you.” I nod toward the man and reach for my wallet.
Sam, feeling a bit guilty after my reprimand I’m sure, rings up the pack, setting it on the counter in front of me.
“That’ll be $4.94.”
“What? $4.94? Are you sure? Nearly five dollars for a pack of cigarettes? Well, I don’t know. That’s steep. I had no idea they cost that much.”
Through the glass door behind me, another patron enters the general store. I watch Sam’s eyes follow the inviting women down the aisle toward the refrigerated sodas.
“Excuse me. I have a ball game to get to. Do you mind if I check out while you think about it?” The smelly man behind me leans onto the counter, his eyes searching Sam’s absent face for assistance.
“Here,” I throw a five dollar bill at Sam who produces my six cents in change and a receipt without ever taking his eyes from the fetching sight at the back of the store.
I pick up my purchase and leave.
“Happy smoking,” Sam yells after me. I can hear another wave of snickering as the glass door lands heavily into place behind me.
As I sit in the car holding my hard-won reward, I wonder if it’s possible that this tiny pack of nicotine could hold the answer to my dilemma. I tap on the pack, making the cellophane crinkle, listening and thinking.
I look up to see the smelly man walking past my car, smiling and waving at me with a wide hand that has a gallon of milk attached to the index finger. I lift a limp hand in return.
I look back at my Camels and feel as if my study in disarming death has been thwarted. I watch the smelly man get in his brown Chevy truck, light up a cigarette, and pull out of the parking lot and I feel stupid. Not because I have a pack of Camels that I’ll never open, but because I realize that every part of life is hard . . . the living and the dying. The starting and the stopping.
I sigh. If it’s this hard to start smoking, I can only imagine how difficult it must be to stop smoking.