Premium Cigarettes

[Flamus]

Arthritic fingers clutch a cigarette to the mouth of an old man. The cigarette glows red as he pulls deeply on the but. Smoke fills the air in front of him as he exhales. A deft flick of a thumb sends ashes floating along in the wind; the same wind ruffles what is left of his hair, once jet black now gray with age.

The fading daylight casts shadows upon his lined face. The glow from the cigarette illuminates his eyes briefly. Bright green orbs filled with sorrow. He looks down at his cigarette, raises it for the final time and drags on it until he reaches filter. As he inhales he drops the but and steps on it; crushing the lingering life from it. He exhales slowly knowing that he might not have another for a while. As the wind blows the wind to the east he stands. Slowly. Ever so slowly. His steps are small and awkward suggesting pain received with each lumber some step. The light is almost completely gone now. The man examines his surroundings. The darkness slowly consumes the park around him. Trees casting large shadows on the ground around him and the bench on which he had been sitting for the past hour.

"Twenty years. Twenty long and difficult years." He remarks to himself as he looks around him at the growing shadows. His thought thoughts dwell on this until he reaches his lonely one bedroom apartment. He shuts the door behind him and is engulfed in darkness. He gropes for the light switch, finds it and flicks it down. The sudden light makes him squint. Through his eye lashes he sees his reflection in a mirror opposite the door. He looks haggard in his tatty khaki pants, blue linen shirt and brown jacket.

His eyes having adjusted to the light he shuffles down the hall to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water from the tap. He gulps down the warm liquid and pours himself another glass. Once filled, he sets the glass down on the counter and turns to face the room at large. He spots what he is looking for immediately. He crosses the small room and picks up the packet of cigarettes. He shakes the box lightly but there is no sound. He opens the box and sees that it is empty.

"Fuck!" he says as he throws the box down. He scans the room again but there too much of a mess for him to see anything. Almost every surface is covered with plates, cups and glasses.

He retrieves his glass and leaves the kitchen. He enters the living room, turns the light on and sets his glass down on the small rectangular dining table. The table is littered with papers: newspapers, magazines, TV guides. He moves aside a newspaper (dated two months previous) and finds another box of cigarettes. he opens it and sees that it is half full.

Ten premium cigarettes.

He places one in his mouth and takes a box of matches from his right trouser pocket. He strikes a blue headed match and lights his cigarette. Nine premium cigarettes.

He sits down at the table and rests his cigarette on the ash-tray. Moving aside more papers he clears a space for his glass and the two boxes. He picks up the cigarette and takes a drag. Once more his thoughts run back through the years bring up memories both good and bad. His brow furrows as he gets up, cigarette in hand. He transfers the cigarette to his mouth as he crosses the room. He takes an old typewriter from a drawer and returns to the table. He slides a piece of paper into the correct slot then stares at the keys.

"This isn't going to be easy." he mumbles. He lifts his hand to his mouth, extracts the cigarette then stubs it out on the ash-tray. With swift and sure strokes he begins to type. The keys dance beneath his fingers as he types line after line. As he types his expression changes. His frown becomes more predominant, his lips pull tight across his teeth and his eyes sparkle with moisture.

A knock on the door breaks his train of thought. Cursing to himself he raises himself slowly from his chair and shuffles to the door. He takes a deep breath, lets it out. "Who is it?" he asks through the door.

"Jack." comes the reply, "Who else comes to visit you, old man?"

"That's no way to speak to your elders, boy." He says as he opens the door. He smiles when he sees his grandson. The only good thing to come from a failed marriage and a broken relationship with his only daughter.

Jack is of a medium height with green eyes, dark brown hair and high strong cheeks bones. He is dressed like most of the teenagers of the day. Blue jeans, black t-shirt and trainers. Jack enters the house and hugs his grandfather.

"How've you been keeping?" asks Jack, shutting the door behind him.

"The same as always; my routine doesn't change. Come on through, son; lets not stand here like two stiffs."

Jack follows his grandfather to the living room noticing the increasing mess from the hall to the more used part of the house.

"You need someone to help you with this." says Jack motioning towards the general disarray around them.

"I don't need help. I can manage just fine by myself."

The old man turns his chair to face the couch where his grandson has seated himself. Sitting down he reaches for his cigarettes and matches, liberates a cigarette from it's cardboard prison and lights it with another blue tipped match. Eight premium cigarettes. They stare at each other for a moment before the old man clears his throat and asks, "Any news from your mother? I know she's back from her trip."

"She's as red as a lobster." chuckles Jack, "She sends her regards."

You're a nice boy to lie but I know she only speaks ill of me." The old man ashes into the ash-tray watching his grandson smile apologetically. The silence stretches between them, yet, it is not an uncomfortable silence. The old man is happy just to see his grandson. A sudden beeping fills the room breaking the silence. Jacks hand jumps to his left jean pocket and extracts a small mobile phone.

"Sorry." he apologizes as he flips it open.

"Not a problem, not a problem." says his grandfather with a dismissive wave of his hand. As Jack peers at the small screen the old man stubs his cigarette out.

"Shit! Sorry Gramps, I'm supposed to be meeting a friend of mine." He stands and looks around the room. "I'll be back tomorrow with some food."

"Oh... O.K. Don't worry about the food; it's not necessary. There's plenty of grub around the place."

They to the door together and embrace. As they pull apart Jack looks at his grandfather and asks, "Are you doing O.K.?"

"I'm grand, I'm grand. Just a little tired. You'll know when you get to my age."

They smile at each other before jack opens the door then leaves. The old man watches his grandson until he is out of sight then shuts the door on the chill autumn breeze. He walks down the hall to his bedroom and turns on the light. He crosses to the chest of drawers and opens the top right hand drawer. He rummages for a second then removes an envelope and shuts the drawer. He kills the light as he leaves the room, heading for the living room and his typewriter. He turns the chair to face the typewriter again, sits down and lights another cigarette. Seven premium cigarettes. He looks at the envelope for a second then switches his gaze to the typewriter. With a sigh he begins typing again. Smoke fills the air in front of him. A clump of ash dislodges from the tip of the cigarette and falls onto the keys of the typewriter. He stops typing to brush the ash from the keys. He looks at his cigarette, takes one final drag then stubs it out. His hands resume there spider like movements across the keys. He types a few more lines then removes the piece of paper from the dilapidated machine. He rummages through the papers strewn across the table until he finds what he is looking for. A pen. He signs the bottom of the page then places it, folded, into the envelope.

He places the envelope on the typewriter and lights another cigarette. Six premium cigarettes. He places the cigarette on the ash-tray after two drags then drains the glass of water he left next to the typewriter. He grabs his cigarette as he gets up from his chair. He walks around his small apartment killing lights as he goes. He lets himself out of the apartment and steps into the chilly, silent darkness. He steps are slow but sure; he knows where he is going. Two blocks later he stands in the florescent light of the one place he had avoided for twenty years. The liquor store.

He walks towards the entrance and is bathed in neon blue and red light. He hesitates for only a moment before pushing open the door and entering the one place he thought he would never set foot in again. He wastes no time in selecting a bottle of whiskey. He takes it to the counter and pays. The old man is filled with self doubt as he walks back to his lonely apartment. He enters the apartment and walks through the darkness to the living room. He sets the bottle down next to the typewriter, sits down and lights another cigarette. The only light in the room comes from the tip of his cigarette. Five premium cigarettes. He stares at the bottle for a while before he feels the heat of the cigarette on his fingers as he takes another pull on it. He stubs it out and picks up the bottle. His hand shakes as he removes the top and presses his nose to the small circular opening. A shiver runs through his body as he breathes in deeply.

“Twenty years on the wagon. Twenty long, fucking years!”

He takes a big pull from the bottle. He coughs as the harsh, amber liquid hits his throat. A bright gleam comes into his eyes as he drinks deeply from the bottle. Smiling he fills the glass that, not an hour ago, he had used for water. He lights another cigarette as he stairs at the glass.

Four premium cigarettes.

Edited October 7, 2012 by Emotional Outlet