Sunday, June 18, 2017

Hmm... Smokers

Whenever I'm asked if I smoke, I answer, "Only for the first 18 years of my life."
     My father was a smoker, you see, and the amount of second-hand smoke I inhaled could have choked a horse, assuming that horse was a non-smoker.
     When I was about 10, my father was out of cigarettes and drove me to the store to buy him some. You could do that in those days.
     The problem was, it was POURING. It was raining so hard when I looked to the other side of the street I saw animals lining up two by two.
     So we get in the car, pull out of the carport, and my father drives to the nearest convenience store. I get out and immediately get soaked.
     My father didn't believe in wasting money on things you rarely used. If he bought me an umbrella, what would he have to buy me next, a personal lightning rod?
     Before I could run off, he opened his window a bit and called out. I had to double back in the rain to hear what he had to say.
     "Be sure to put the cigarettes UNDER your shirt," he said, showing me how.
     He couldn't have told me that while I was still in the car?
     I shook myself off as best I could when I entered the store, and gave the clerk my order.
     "Buying cigarettes for your dad?" he asked, handing over a pack of Marlboros, unfiltered.
     "What makes you think they're for my father?" I said, handing over a dollar and waiting for my change.
     "Because," he said, "your mother never would have sent you out in weather like this."

Raising My Father  American Chimpanzee

No comments:

Post a Comment