Cocoa leaf cigarettes
...written on 09.03.02, @ 11:19 p.m.
Tue September 3, 2002
Restless. Slumped in the dregs of apathy or something, I have lolled around on my tatami mats for more than half the day.
Maybe I need to create. Let me see what I can remember . . . (Inspired by Jess @ dryad)
Tucson, Arizona 1979
The rain swooped down on me as I lunged for the protective stoop of a downtown store. Perched on the concrete steps I pressed my nose to the misted glass and peeped in. It was a tobacco store. Curious, I entered and a pleasing sweet herby aroma welcomed me.
A man stood behind the counter. He was in his early 50's, of medium height with a slight paunch around the middle. His graying hair was slicked to one side of a badly concealed bald spot. He wore black rimmed glasses and had a white pasty face with a large putty like nose.
His greeting was polite and rather poetic and he kindly answered my inquiries about the various bits of smoking paraphernalia nestling in blue velvet in the glass cases about the store.
The rain outside was fierce, a summer wonder of a storm in the desert, drenching the prickly heat of the afternoon. I was without an umbrella, so I chose to remain in the tobacco store talking with the proprietor.
I was 19 and freshly graduated from college. I had moved out to Tucson with my eyes veiled in stardust. It was my first big adventure out on my own in the REAL world.
You'd think that bulging tip filled pockets from waitressing would weigh me down, but as one of my theatre professors told me when I was 16, my acting scope would be limited due to my lack of experience, and I was anxious to try my hand at one of the cornerstone occupations of our society.
I was also a sucker for an educated man. Show me that I could learn something from you and you had an avid pupil in your pocket.
That is why I hung around so long. That is why I returned to the Tobacco Shop again and again. That man knew history, literature and drama. He kept me enthralled with the stories he'd tell. I'd run home and tell my roommate Mark the things he had said and then, I in turn, began to create stories of my own to share.
I would take these short episodes (largely based on characters I encountered at work), hastily scribbled on the back of paper napkins or order tickets, to the Tobacco shop and read them to my friend . He always seemed to listen with interest. I was an exuberant young woman at that time (oh, WHERE has she gone?!), perhaps with a small talent for putting a story together, but nothing overwhelming I'm sure.
One day I went in, and as usual, we were alone (it was rare that another customer would ever come in while I was there). I had a story I was eager to read, but my friend held me off as he began to explain an idea of his. I recall that he was indeed speaking English, and that separately I understood each word, but linked together in the manner he was using them, I felt somewhat lost and uneasy. I remember furrowing my brow, hoping that he would see this nonverbal gesture as a silent call to restate his point, but he continued looking at the walls and the ceilings, oblivious as he explained a peculiar prize structure.
I battled to understand and finally grasped that he was instituting a writing contest. I would be the sole entrant and he the judge. If the story were deemed to be of an acceptable merit, a dinner and a movie could be won as a prize. If the story was above average, well, then, perhaps a weekend at the Grand Canyon would suffice as a reward and should the story exceed all expectations and be of immense quality, then an even higher prize could be awarded. I remember feeling intrigued and then a little cocky as I felt I had a shot at the Grand Prize, until he told me the subject of the writing . . .
I was to write a story about the first time that he and I would make love.
My acting instincts took over at this point. I remember swallowing all of my fear and shock and maintaining an outwardly cool appearance. I pretended to go along with the idea and gathered up my unread story and made my way to the door, telling him I was anxious to begin the task and that I would see him upon its termination.
I have yet to write the story.