The Lucky Cigarette

The pack felt solid and new. It had the clean look of an unopened purchase. Sammy almost hesitated before quickly packing it and feeling for the plastic tab on the side. He quickly pulled the tab, removing the plastic wrap from the top of the pack. Then, flipping one cigarette around and removing another, he walked towards his favorite bar.



Sammy enjoyed the Marlboro red, and took in the unusually sunny day. People sat in cafes and walked past the refurbished old buildings of downtown Portland. Sammy secretly enjoyed the disapproving glances of the people that he passed, especially the glares of obese passers-by, who would likely die of a heart attack before he contracted lung cancer. He was on his third cigarette by the time he reached the grittier neighborhood of Mike's Public House, the only establishment in Portland that allowed indoor smoking AND served Rainier beer.



Randy, a tall and dark skinned 23 year-old, sat in his favorite corner seat. He drank Olympia beer from a can, and an open pack of Marlboro hundreds lay on the table. As, Sammy entered the bar he greeted Mike, while Randy rose and yelled "there you are. What the fuck took you so long."



"Had ta pick up some cigs," Sammy replied, unable to stifle a smile. Sammy hadn't seen Randy since he had left for Bellingham two years ago.

"Still smokin hella marb regulars. Ha ha! can't handle the hundreds."

"You still chain smokin whole packs."

"Maybe. You aren't?"

"Only when I'm fucked up."



Mike lit up and shouted "Hey kids! This is a non-smoking facility." The fifteen other people in the bar, who were mostly smoking, broke into uneven laughter. Sammy walked over to Mike and threw three dollars on the scuffed wooden bar. Mike then, automatically, produced two Rainiers and a glass. The long winded "three dollars for your first two beers special" was part of Mike's greater business plan of attracting loyal customers while making almost no money.



Sammy sat down just as Randy walked to the bar for a shot of tequila. When they were finally both seated, they each lit a cigarette.



"So," said Sammy. "It's good ta see you man. It's been a long time."

"Yeah, you too. Western's been nice. Guess your works goin well."

"Yeah. The papers just stayin afloat, and I'm gettin paid. What're you gonna do now, I mean, for work."

"I dunno. I want to write or something, but I figure I'll work at a record store or something for now."

"You'll be good at it, but don't get stuck man. I know how much you like High Fidelidy."

"Real talk man, but... Shit this is just too heavy for right now. Y'know. How bout girls. Are you gettin any."

"There was this hipster chick at work. Really fine man. Brown hair, pale, kinda skinny. Anyway we fucked a couple times... But... I dunno. She wasn't lookin for a real relationship. She just slept with the next guy up on the ladder. Fuckin intern."

"Yeah. Girls man. There was this fine girl at Western. Fuckin... Blond, nice ass. Ha ha. Enough said... No, I mean, she had good taste in music. We had a lot in common."



Sammy finished his first beer and tilted his glass, pouring in the second. Randy threw back the rest of his shot. Sammy lit both of their cigarettes. They were already a little buzzed, so even the dark subject of breakups was suddenly lightened.



"So... what happened," said Sammy, French inhaling smoke.

"Well, I started smokin weed again. Stopped drinkin."

"That's never good for relationships."

"Yeah. I just started stayin in my dorm. Cheifin with the guys. Listenin to music. I was kinda depressed cuz I didn't know where I was goin. So... She left... She... Cheated. Guess I don't blame her. I wasn't givin her attention... Y'know."

"Y’know what they say: bitches ain't shit but tricks and ho's!"

"I'll drink to that!"



Just as Sammy and Randy began to walk to the bar, they realize that Jen had been standing just out of their view for some time. She was a short, pretty Asian girl. She looked at them with mock anger, smoking a Newport.



"The bitch is here," she said.

"We won't call you a bitch if you buy our next round," said Randy.

"Good to see you too Randy," she said walking slowly to the pool table in the back of the bar.



Both men stared at her butt as she left. They were both attracted to Jen, but they thought of her as a friend. Even as "one of the guys". This was mostly because she could kick either of their asses if provoked. They both jokingly called it "kung-foo bull shit", but Jen had learned how to defend herself the hard way. Everyone at Mike's usually accepted that.



"Well," said Sammy. "It's too late fer a sexist toast, but I'll cover the next round anyway."

"Nah man. I got it."

"Bull shit man. Just buy me a pack some time."

"K man. Ha ha ha. I'm not here to argue."



Standing at the bar, you come to realize something about Mike's. It has none of the micro brewed ales that the Northwest is known for. There isn't even beer on tap. There is only a tattered list taped to the corner of the bar, which listed around ten brands of cheap brew. Hard drinks were on a shelf behind the bar, and a chalk board over the door displayed the scribbled name of the import beer of the month. This beer was sold at twice the price of most other brews, and was usually a cheap Eastern European brand bought at a bargain in the Portland suburbs. Mike slammed a plastic two-liter bottle of Ukrainian lager on the bar.



"Welcome back Randy," said Mike. "It's about an hour late, but here ya go. I'm not takin yer money!"

"Our memories are all shit, eh," said Randy.

"Ha ha ha. Anyway, I'm glad you got outta this shithole and got a education."

"Dunno," said Sammy. "I was at the U of O fer four years. There were twice as many alcoholics and three times as many dumbasses."



Mike chuckled, turning to pour a drink for another customer. While walking back to their seats, Sammy and Randy were startled as two arms wrapped around their shoulders. One of them grasped a red party cup.



"There you fuckers are," shouted Terry. "I was gonna be here, like, earlier, but I got a little side-tracked."

"We don't wanna know," replied Randy.

"Where's Jim," said Sammy.

"Hell if I know. There was a crazy party after work, and then I went straight here. I'm surprised he isn't here by now."

"Yeah," said Randy. "He's the fuckin do-gooder isn't he. Ha ha ha!"



Randy cracked open the bottle of cheap beer, and the three friends filled their glasses. Jim lit a camel red and took a heavy drag, quietly saying "this is gonna be a good night, I can tell."





[to be continued]