| “Yes?” said the man at the newsstand. “I don’t know,” Joe said, examining the cigarette rack. “You just picking the habit up? Want some recommendations?” “No, just ah, thinking of changing brands, that’s all. Give me a . . . L&M.” The clerk slapped the pack on the counter and added a matchbook from a box by the cash register. “NEXT.” Joe stepped away and opened the pack. Lit one up. Didn’t taste very good, really. Sometimes cigarettes just let you down. How could that work? In the morning, with the first cup of coffee, they were just a thing of joy. And it wasn’t just because you were so damn smoke-hungry, either; they just had a special quality, and they smelled better than they would all day. That cigarette was on your side, brother. He was in your corner. Likewise the post-lunch smoke, but only if you sat there and enjoyed it; gulping it down as you ran back to work was a sure way to get those special smoker’s headaches, the hot sharp ones behind the eyeballs. Those were the finest cigarettes of the day. Everything else was habit, right up to the last one you stubbed out with a small pang of guilt over its 30-odd predecessors. Well, I’ll quit for eight hours now. Good night. He looked at the matchbook: Coronet, eh. Couldn’t place it. Where would you find it? Doctor’s office mags were full of stuff they put out to keep your mind off that thing on your neck. Dentist’s office magazines might as well be written in Hindoo or have nothing but Zzzzzzz for text, for all people really read them. You just paged through them, listening to the drill in the next room. Barbershop magazines always had the Vargas knockoffs or the two-fisted tales with women running from Nazi torturers in Argentina, helpfully identified by their Swastika armbands. (Joe thought of the barbershop he used to patronize – they’d hired a new guy who’d brought “True Detective” magazines to the shop, the creepy ones with gagged and bound women staring at the camera with pleading eyes. To Joe’s surprise the owner didn’t object. Joe went there a few more times before changing barbers. The last time he walked past the shop, all three barbers were busy, and all the chairs by the wall were occupied.) Then there were the big blankets, Look and Life and Saturday Evening Post, coffee-table mags that showed you how things were in the Belgian Congo (looking to the future with renewed optimism) or Indochina (facing a troubled legacy). Plus starlets by the pool. What the hell was Coronet, and how had he missed it? He went back to the newsstand. “Got Coronet?” he asked. The newsie gave him a quick suspicious look that said something, but Joe couldn’t tell. He had a sudden panic that Coronet was preferred by . . . by that kind of guy. Paintings, after all. “Third row down fifth in from the right,” the newsie said. Joe took a look, and sighed with relief. It was one of those general-interest bathroom mags. Small enough to sit on the tank. Or you could shove it in your jacket and read it on the bus. He paged through, shrugged, bought a copy. Give it a shot. He needed to read more. He wanted to be smarter about some things, in case they came up in conversation. Not so he could talk about them – you fake that, people know. But if someone asked if he’d heard of some painter or movie or book, he could say yeah, and it would be the truth. That was enough. He headed to the lobby grill. He didn’t expect her today. He didn’t expect her for a while, but she’d be back. He knew why and he didn’t quite like it, but there was nothing he could do about it. He flipped through Coronet over lunch. The jokes weren’t very funny and the articles didn’t seem like anything anyone would ask him about. He’d half expected a picture of some models with the unconvincing expression of surprise – a photographer, here, in my boudoir, while I change? - but he was disappointed. All in all, you got more out of Reader’s Digest. They put all the jokes together and grouped them by subject. You couldn’t help but appreciate that. Heading up to the office on the elevator, he wondered if Seamus might like to have his copy. Something to read on the long Saturday shifts. “Want this?” Seamus looked at the magazine, looked at Joe, then stared straight ahead. “The wife subscribes,” he said. “She smoke?” “Wish she didn’t.” “Give her these.” Joe handed him his pack of L&M. “She’ll quit.” |
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