A chemical first
I hated that job. Canvassing for the for-profit company the Democrats hired to fundraise to elect John Kerry. We got paid seven dollars an hour. That’s the Democrat difference. Long hours standing all day in the sun, pretending to be excited about something so empty and uninspiring, sort of like getting hired to cheerlead for Elmer’s Glue. No one felt excited about Kerry; all the excitement was about Bush. That was our standard rap, never Kerry, but “Hi, do you want to help stop George Bush?” Lots of people stopped. The job was to take the dissatisfaction that made people stop and talk with you and turn it into a check or credit card payment. At the tip of the pyramid, things are fucked, what’s the best to deal with that? Get out your wallet. This job sucked. I was in Chicago though which was a generally pro-Democrat place, and I was broke, so I hustled for the money, smiling as wide as I knew how, faking all the charm I could. The job sucked even when it went well, and when it didn’t, well…
“Hi, do you want to help stop George Bush?” I’m not really paying attention, it’s automatic at this point, you just say it to any human in the vicinity. It’s like panning for gold: find the ones that look kinda yellowish, then see if they’re gold or something else. This dude’s not yellow, it turns out. He’s real big, a good six inches on me, and broad shouldered. Arms bare in a muscle shirt and he’s real cut. Sunglasses, buzzed head. “YOU’RE A PIECE OF SHIT!” he shouts, and spits. His saliva all over my arm. He does it without breaking stride, and continues down the street at his fast walking pace. I blink. My mind’s totally blank, blinking cursor empty, this does not compute, what the fuck just happened? I come online again: this motherfucker fucking spat all over me, what the fuck is that? I set off down the block after him, he’s at least half a block ahead of me now. I match his pace, trying to catch up to him slowly. I scan both sides of the street for a cop while I wipe my arms with my t-shirt, and now I’m gonna be wearing this guy’s spit all damn day. Of course there’s never a cop in the Loop, they’re too busy fucking up young black kids somewhere. After three blocks I’m calming down: what am I going to do? He’s way bigger than me. He’d bounce me off the sidewalk without breaking a sweat. I take a deep breath, hope he gets hit by a bus, and I turn around. I walk back to my corner more slowly.
“I just got spat on. I’m on break.”
“What?” My superviser blinks.
“I just got on spat on by some guy, I’m taking a break, I need a break.”
“Spat on? Like spit? He spat on you?”
“Yes. Someone spat on me.”
“What the fuck?”
“Exactly.” I tell the story, repeat that I’m taking a break.
“Yeah of course, take all the time you need.”
I step into the McDonald’s with the unlocked bathroom - you learn this kinda shit at a job like that - and wash my arms off. I buy a Coke. I walk back out. My coworker says “that’s fucked up.”
“Yeah.”
“You want a cigarette? It might make you feel better.”
“Fuck it, sure.” And I do. I feel better. So much better. I feel like I’m made of lead. Gravity is courting me aggressively, but without crossing any lines, and I’m flattered. I sit on the sidewalk leaning against a small tree and slowly smoke this cigarette and wonder how on earth this is my first ever when this just. Feels. So. Good. I like every single aspect of it.
That’s my first cigarette. It’s good that subsequent cigarettes are never as good as that very first one, or everyone would smoke all the time. Cigarettes are a bit like chocolate cake with ice cream: a great occasional indulgence, and an awful, lethal habit.
In the ten or twelve years since I’ve had a large handful of cigarettes. I’ve never bought them, only bummed them, and in the past five I don’t know if I’ve had any. If I have, I could count them on my fingers. I don’t want to smoke more, in part because I like how well I can breathe when I run and do other exercise, but there are occasional moments where I crave one, again like chocolate cake.