Lurker Chronicles (incomplete), Part 2

The Lurker Chronicles

	Welcome to the Lurker Chronicles. As always, these stories are 
published anonymously, in order to protect the privacy of the real 
people presented herein. Comments are always welcome in ASG or ASFS.

Chapter Two
The Breakfast Club

	It's not far from my digs down to the Beacher Cafe, and even though it 
was cold as hell, I dressed for the occasion and walked, making it there 
in record time. You never know when there may be a good sighting around, 
and I wanted to get there before Brenda did. The whole thing about 
sightings is getting a good seat, and that's why I like the Beacher. 
They renovated the place last summer, and the whole south side facing 
the street (where the smoking section is) is just one big window. I 
spend a lot of time in there, especially on sunny weekends, and I 
usually get rewarded with at least one excellent performance. Turned out 
though, on this particular February morning, I needn't have hurried. The 
place was empty, except for the waitress, and even she wasn't smoking. 
The coffee was hot, though, so I took off my coat, sat down, and started 
to read the menu from cover to cover. I was dying for a cigarette, but I 
didn't want to spoil things by having one before Brenda got there.
	Fortunately, it wasn't very long before I heard the sound of that big 
motor, and a second later I saw the black Lexus pull smoothly up to the 
curb. The door opened, and Brenda got out, took one last, long drag on 
the half smoked Camel, and tossed it into the street as she walked 
toward the restaurant, throwing her head back and exhaling into the 
stiff winter breeze.  There are some people who can just turn heads 
wherever they go, and Brenda Lewis is one of them. Maybe it's the curly, 
blonde shoulder length hair that makes her look like a cross between 
Cybil Sheppard and Virginia Madsen. Maybe it's just the way she carries 
herself, tall and regal and with a look that says 
"don't-even-consider-fucking-with-me". Maybe it's the money, and God 
knows there's plenty of that. I don't know, but whatever it is, she's 
got it in spades. On this particular morning she was wearing her 
favorite winter coat, the black leather number that went all the way 
down to her ankles. The collar was trimmed with silver fox, politically 
incorrect as hell, but somehow Brenda could always get away with those 
things. I couldn't help but smile. I bet that coat cost three grand if 
it cost a dime.
	Before I know it, she's at the table, and as she bends down to kiss me, 
I can feel the cold coming off her like somebody just opened a freezer. 
As her lips brush against my cheek, I inhale deeply, filling up my 
senses with the scent of her; that overpowering blend of perfume and 
lipstick and frigid air and tobacco, and I close my eyes and watch her 
throw that smoke away over, and over, and over again. She slides around 
to the other side of the table and undoes the coat. I can see she has 
her sweats on underneath. Even though I know she's been up all night, 
her makeup is done perfectly, and the blonde hair is soft and clean.
	"And how's my favorite piano player? Did you make enough money last 
night to pay for my breakfast?" I laugh good naturedly as she reaches 
into her coat pocket, pulls out the pack of Camel Lights and tosses them 
on to the table. There is no malice in Brenda's statement. Her money is 
as much a fact of our relationship as my career is, and if either one of 
us is envious of the other, we have never shown it. She has told me more 
than once that she would cheerfully give up her money to be able to play 
like I do, but we both know it is only an excellent lie shared lovingly 
between old friends.
	"I think I have just enough for a coffee". I say, just as the waitress 
magically appears with a steaming cup. Brenda seems not to hear me, 
though. She has taken the menu and is already studying it with the 
absolute concentration that she applies to everything in her life. I 
take another sip of coffee and lean back, watching as her hand moves 
slowly across the table to the Camels. Brenda's fingers are long and 
slim, and she wears no jewelry, but each nail is French manicured to 
perfection, and I can see the shine coming off them as she wraps them 
gently around the pack. Slowly, she turns it end for end, and pulls a 
smoke out onto the table without so much as giving it a glance. It is 
the very practiced mannerism of a very practiced smoker.
	Once, twice, Brenda taps the end of the Camel gently on the table and 
raises it to her mouth, placing it carefully between her lips, and holds 
it there, using the same hand to reach again into the pocket of her 
coat. There is a little "click" as the Zippo opens, followed by the 
familiar "crunch" as she spins the wheel, and only then does she glance 
away from the menu, a mere split second to apply the flame to the end of 
the cigarette. I see her cheeks hollow as she fills her mouth with the 
sweet smoke, and then she puts her head back and closes her eyes for a 
moment, opening her mouth and inhaling deeply around the cigarette still 
between her lips. Instantly, and without exhaling Brenda begins to pull 
on the Camel again, and this time, as her mouth opens I catch a glimpse 
of the dense smokeball before it disappears down into her lungs. The 
Zippo is almost back on to the table now, and I can see the little 
whisps of smoke beginning to exit from Brenda's nostrils as she pulls on 
the Camel for the third and final time. The hand is ready now, the long 
slim fingers in position to remove the cigarette from between her lips, 
but Brenda waits, eyes still half closed, almost dreamlike, as she 
continues to pull the dense, hot smoke into her mouth. What was at first 
just a faint gray trickle from her nostrils has become a thick white 
river, two long perfect streams flowing gently, slowly down, wafting and 
curling in the bright winter sunlight, making pools of luminescence on 
the surface of the table. Still the Camel continues to burn, it's end 
cherry red, until finally, after what seems like an eternity, I hear the 
familiar little "pop" sound as Brenda pulls the cigarette from her 
mouth. Dense smoke is pouring from the filter, and pouring from her 
nose, and even though I know it's only from the cold, it excites me to 
see Brenda's nipples beginning to harden under the sweats as her soft 
breasts start to fall with the exhale. Brenda never rushes.  She keeps 
the exhale slow and luxurious right through to the end, and only when 
the stream from her nose finally begins to lighten and fade does Brenda 
open her mouth to reveal the third and largest drag. She has been saving 
this one, and as her lips part I can see the creamy white smokeball 
swirl around as it suddenly makes contact with the outside air.  At 
first I think that the ball is too large, even for Brenda, and that she 
has let it creep too far past her sensuous lips, but she has practiced 
this move maybe a hundred thousand times, and she doesn't disappoint me.
	Without so much as a move of her head, she does a perfect capture and 
the ball instantly disappears deep into her lungs.
	Immediately, I begin silently to count seconds. "One steamboat, two 
steamboats, three steamboats". With me, it's Pavlovian, a reflex action, 
and  I've done it ever since I can remember, especially with Brenda. 
This time, nine steamboats leave the dock before she finally puts her 
head back and begins her final exhale. The stream is thin at first, gray 
from the bottom of her lungs, but it quickly turns into a fountain of 
smoke that mushrooms and swirls as it flattens against the ceiling.
	She has moved the menu now, into the same hand that holds the Camel, 
and I watch the smoke drift gently up the side of the cigarette, across 
her perfect fingers, and past the filter with it's telltale blush of 
lipstick, and suddenly, I want a cigarette more than anything on earth. 
Almost on cue, she looks up, and wrinkles her nose at me, Samantha 
style, her blue eyes dancing.
	"Do you want one of these, or what?" I have a full pack of Player's 
Lights in my pocket, but we both know the game. I stare right at her and 
nod my head, ever so slightly. "Well, here", she says, and pushes the 
pack across the table. "Help yourself."
	I never break my stare, but this time, instead of nodding, I shake my 
head from side to side, just as imperceptibly as before. She looks at me 
again, and this time her eyebrows go up just a touch. Brenda's voice is 
still quiet, but there is the tiniest hint of exasperation there.
	"I'm sorry David, but I can't help you if you don't tell me what it is 
that you want. Would you like a cigarette or not?" This time I crack a 
little smile, but I still don't speak. I just nod my head again, like 
before.
	She gives me a dirty look. "Well, fuck you then. You can buy your own." 
And then she smiles. The biggest, most beautiful smile I have ever seen, 
as she leans over, raises her hand, and
turns the already lit Camel Light end for end, holding it  between her 
thumb and second finger, and places it ever so gently between my lips. I 
can taste the lipstick, and the heat of Brenda's drag, and I feel my 
heart rate go up a notch. "Here. Don't say I never did anything for you. 
Now can we PLEASE get something to eat?"
	I'm hungry all right, but it's not for food, and as I sit there smoking 
the rest of Brenda's cigarette, I find my mind slowly drifting back to 
college again, and I think to myself, isn't it great how you can do 
something, something really important for somebody that you like, and it 
can make all the difference in the world...
***
	I think it was natural that Brenda and Kit would end up sharing a room 
in the UWO dorm. Opposites tend to attract, or so they say, and the two 
girls seemed to make a good team in spite of their differences.
	Kit was as dark and mysterious as Brenda was fair and outgoing; Kit was 
serious and reflective, while Brenda was equally spontaneous and witty. 
Kit liked English, Brenda excelled at science and mathematics, and 
interestingly, all through that first semester Brenda never complained 
once about Kit's smoking. Not that the girls didn't do their best to get 
her started, but Brenda stood her ground, refusing to take even one 
puff.
	One night in the Pub I asked Kit about it. We were standing at the bar, 
as usual, and I had managed to get her turned around a little bit to 
where the lighting was perfect, filling myself up with the sight of her 
long slow drags and voluminous exhales. She was just a bit drunk, more 
talkative than usual, and lighting one Marlboro right after the other. 
I, of course, was in Heaven.
	"So. Where's Brenda tonight?", I asked her. Kit made a face.
	"Studying, I suppose. That's all she's been doing lately." She took a 
long drag, and I could hear the hiss as she sucked it in. "This is just 
the beginning for that girl. Her parents have big plans, you know." She 
took a quick double drag and crushed the Marlboro into the ashtray, then 
reached immediately for the pack, shook a fresh one out and lit it.
	"So I've heard.", I said. "Does she ever hassle you about smoking in 
the room?"
Kit laughed out little jets of smoke. "God no! If she did, I'd have to 
move out. I couldn't imagine life without smoking. You know, it's 
funny.." Kit stared at the cigarette in her hand. "I always knew that I 
would be a smoker, and I think my mom did too."
	She looked suddenly embarrassed. "She caught me once, when I was about 
nine, and I really thought she was going to tell my dad, but for some 
reason, she didn't. Thank God for that, because he would have killed me. 
I must have stolen a thousand cigarettes from my mom over the next few 
years. She used to smoke Player's Filters, you know, the really strong 
ones, and I think that's how I got so totally hooked. Anything else I 
tried was just like smoking air, at least until I discovered these. My 
dad always brought these Marlboros home, but he kept the pack in his 
pocket most of the time, and it was a rare treat when I could get my 
hands on one. By the time I was about thirteen, I was already buying my 
own Player's, just like Mom, and smoking almost a pack a day, not really 
hiding, but not making a big deal out of it either. Finally one morning 
she just gave up and told me it was OK to smoke in the house." She put 
her elbow on the bar, chin in hand, the Marlboro easy between her 
fingers and close to her face, thinking. "Do you think that's right, 
David? To let your kids smoke, I mean? Everybody knows how bad it is." 
Kit took another drag and put her chin back in her hand, letting the 
smoke drift easily through her nose, as her free hand toyed with the 
lighter, spinning it on the bar.
	Of course I knew the answer to this one. "Would you have done it anyway 
Kit? Would it have made a difference either way, or would you still be a 
smoker?"
	Kit knows the answer, too, and she just smiles. "You know which 
cigarette is my favorite one, David? The one I have first thing in the 
morning, before I even get out of bed. You remember that feeling that 
you got the first few times that you smoked, before your body got used 
to the nicotine? That sort of dizzy, sick feeling, and that scary knot 
in your stomach because you knew you were doing something really bad and 
that your parents might walk in at any second? Well, that first 
cigarette every day still makes me feel like that, especially if I smoke 
it kind of fast and hold it in for a long time."
	"I know exactly what you mean." I say it quietly. I want her to know 
I'm interested, but I don't want to break Kit's mood.
	"I've tried to explain that to Brenda, you know. About that feeling 
that you get. It's almost like..oh, I don't know...." Kit looks at me, 
and even in the dim light, I can see the blush starting to creep it's 
way up her neck and on to her face." I am waiting, waiting for her to 
say 'like sex', but the words never come. Instead, she looks quickly 
away, and finishes kind of lamely. "I think she's afraid." She reaches 
for another Marlboro, and I'm there with the Zippo. Kit leans into the 
light, pulls deeply, and lets the uninhaled smoke out to the side as she 
leans back. It curls slowly up, halo like in the bright light from 
behind the bar, lingering around the edges of her long black hair. She 
follows with a long powerhouse drag, inhales deeply, holds, and finally 
blows it over my shoulder. Whatever Kit was going to say, it is gone. An 
almost perfect minute that will just have to wait. When she finally 
continues, smoke flows easily from her mouth and nose as she talks. "I 
mean, it would be a scene".
	She sees my puzzled expression, and her eyes open wide. "You know who 
her father is, don't you?" I shake my head and she laughs. "No wonder 
you don't understand! Brenda's dad is a doctor, David. A heart surgeon 
down in Boston. I can't believe you never heard of Dr. Aaron Lewis 
before. He's famous in the U.S. He's written books, been on TV and 
everything. I think he even operated on one of the Kennedys a few years 
ago. Honest to God, David, if Brenda's father even knew she was ROOMING 
with a smoker, he would KILL her."
	"Oh my God." Suddenly Kit is on her feet, looking at her watch, and 
trying to gather her stuff together as she takes a final drag and butts 
out the half smoked Marlboro. "I've got to go. They're showing "Citizen 
Kane" in the library at 9:00, and I'm doing a project on Orson Welles. 
If I miss this movie, I'm going to be sunk. I just can't be late, David. 
I'll see you later, OK?"
	Before I can answer, Kit is on her way, and I watch her exhale that 
last long puff as she marches across the floor of the Pub. "A doctor", I 
think to myself, as I down the last of my Blue and get up to leave, 
"Well, that IS interesting."  As I grab my change off the bar, I 
suddenly notice that in her hurry to get to the library, Kit has left 
her pink plastic lighter behind. I scoop it up, and as I pass the 
ashtray, I pick up the half smoked Marlboro as well, and place both 
items into my jacket pocket. I'll drop the lighter off at her dorm, and 
then later, in my room, I'll have a real good look at the Marlboro. 
Maybe even smoke the rest of it. I'm sure Kit would be happy to know 
that it didn't go to waste.
***
	"I'm not going to stand here all day, Mr. Hayes. Do you want some more 
coffee, or what?" The waitress is hovering impatiently beside the table 
with the steaming pot, and I jump at the sound of her voice. Brenda 
looks amused as she lights her fourth cigarette of the morning and 
pushes my cup across the table.
	"It's OK, Janet. Fill him up. He's still a little groggy this morning. 
Or maybe he's just overwhelmed by my proposition."
	The waitress glares at me. "Well. As long as we didn't poison him. What 
about you, Dr. Lewis? Get it while it's hot." Brenda puts her hand, the 
one holding the Camel, gently over her cup. "I've had plenty, thanks. I 
think I'm going to go home and go to bed. But you could bring the 
check."
	"Right away!" Janet nods, and then she is gone. Brenda leans forward.
	"So what do you think, David. Will you help us out?" I let out a big 
sigh. I'm confused. In all the years we've known each other, our 
relationship has never crossed the line between friendship and 
professionalism, and now Brenda is asking me to do just that. Not once 
has she ever passed judgment, ever criticized or made me feel 
uncomfortable or embarrassed about my fetish. And now, this.
	"I dunno, Bren. To tell you the truth, I'd feel as uncomfortable as 
hell having my story read by a bunch of strangers. To begin with, it's 
kind of personal, and I'm not some kind of weirdo, you know, 
some....child rapist or something." It's kind of a lame finish, but it's 
the only thing I can think of. We have a lot of fun, Brenda and me, and 
God knows there's been a ton of water under the bridge, but this time, I 
can see that the shock and hurt in her eyes is genuine. She reaches 
across the table and takes my hand, and her voice is soft.
	"David, you're my best friend in the whole world, and you always will 
be. I'd never do anything to damage that relationship, and you know 
that. Besides, you're not the least bit crazy." She laughs suddenly. 
"Whatever the Hell that means. I see fifty patients a week, and NONE of 
them are crazy. They're just people, people who are terrified of being 
different. People who can't deal with their problems on their own any 
more. People who are afraid to get up in the morning. People who want 
someone to tell them that it's OK to be unique. The thing about you is 
that you don't feel like that. You're not afraid of who you are."
	She's right on that. I got over it a long time ago, and I start to tell 
her so, but Brenda's on a roll.
	"You know, David. It's like each one of us gets a CD when we're born. 
Everybody gets a different kind of music, and we dance to that music for 
our whole lives. Every once in a while, somebody gets a bonus track, 
something that gives them the opportunity to experience some things in 
life on a whole separate level. Sometimes that music is bad, and it 
makes them do bad things, but more often than not, it's completely 
harmless.
	"We want to write about that, David. We want to tell people that it's 
all right to be different and that they don't always have to be afraid 
of the things that they think. I believe that it will help a lot of 
lonely, confused people. By telling your story, maybe you can help to 
make a difference. A big difference."
	"And I suppose I can also do my little part to help whatsisname to get 
rich at the same time? And maybe famous, too? Then the two of you can 
just sail off into the wacko-sunset, or whatever the fuck 
soon-to-be-married psychiatrists do after they write a book!"
	Maybe I'm jealous. I don't know. The rational side of my brain is going 
a mile a minute, and I'm asking myself how I can possibly hate somebody 
that I don't even know. Whom I've never even met. Maybe I just don't 
like the idea of everybody knowing my business. One thing I DO know is 
that I've crossed the line with Brenda, but I'm starting to get pissed, 
and being the friend of the friendless has never exactly been my gig. 
Besides, I've got a plane to catch.
	The hurt is still there in her voice, but there's a bit of a chill, 
too.
	"You don't have to be mean, David. Not to me, and certainly not to 
Martin. You had your chance. Plenty of times, as I recall, and if you 
think this is about money, then you obviously don't know me as well as I 
thought you did."
	The waitress is back at the table, but before Brenda can make a move, I 
tear the check from her hand.
	"Well I guess that's the difference between me and you, Bren. Because I 
DO know you. Probably better than anyone else on earth. And as for the 
money, you're goddam right. I think about money. I think about it every 
fucking day, and most nights besides, just like nearly every other poor 
asshole on the face of this planet. It builds a lot of character. You 
should try it some time."
	I have never spoken to my friend like this before, and as soon as the 
words leave my lips, I feel a sudden stab of pain, like someone has 
shoved the business end of a screwdriver in between my ribs. I have 
never seen Brenda Lewis cry, either, but right now those beautiful blue 
eyes are glittering like a million diamonds, and they are every bit as 
hard, too. She stands up, pulling the long leather coat up around her 
shoulders, and this time there is no mistaking the tone of her voice.
	"Fuck you." she says softly. And then she is gone.

(To Be Continued)

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