A Very Small Matter, Part 2

    Notice: This story was been rated "NC17" for adult language, nudity,
strong sexual content, violence, and explicit smoking. If you don't like these
things stop right here, but you'll never know what you missed.


    This last is for Loring, who maintains the trough at which we all feed.


    "A Very Small Matter" Part 2 of 9

    Author's note: This story concludes (for the time being) the trilogy begun
in "Behind the Times" and continued in "A Letter from Paradise." As the
subject matter is more than a little strange, I recommend you peruse the
earlier stories (both available on Loring's page) before reading further. If
you find it all makes sense in the end, please e-mail me with the explanation.


    2. Smokin' in the Classroom

    I never returned to Borderlands. I couldn't face that empty double
cubicle, and I certainly didn't need the money. I phoned Ms. Jamison and told
her I was moving back east to care for my sick mother. She was not happy, but
understood. She didn't ask about Laurie and I didn't mention her. Maybe Laurie
had made "arrangements" for this situation, too.

    The New Year came and went. Happy 1997. I haunted the mailbox every day,
hoping to see a postcard announcing the new location of the Smoking Curios
shop. Nothing arrived.

    I began taking long drives in the Mercedes, full of foolish hopes. Maybe
I'd spy Laurie on the street. Maybe I'd stumble upon the shop in a new place,
open for business. Maybe my car would grow feathered wings and fly me over the
rainbow.

    I was cruising north on High Street, listening to the news.

    "Reports of Soviet troop movements near the Iranian border brought harsh
criticism today from President Clinton. White House sources quote him as
saying, 'I heah they don't inhale over theah...'

    "Final FDA approval has been granted for Dr. Jean Dricot's revolutionary
new treatment for a number of chronic lung ailments. Already in use in France,
the process involves...

    "In economic news, Philip Morris shares fell 5-1/8 to 187 in heavy
trading, following the company's announcement that fourth quarter earnings had
declined to $50 billion, down ten percent from third quarter results.
Increased Soviet tobacco exports were cited as the main..."

    It was early evening, and the street was crowded with Ohio State students
sampling the brisk winter air and the strip's many attractions. They were also
sampling cigarettes in awesome numbers, their exhales enhanced by condensing
water vapor from their lungs. It looked as if a steam pipe under the street
had developed a thousand leaks, all at once.

    I thought about parking and checking out the action at closer range, but
didn't. The last place I wanted to be right then was a noisy student bar.
Anyway, I'd have stuck out like a sore thumb. I'm too old for that shit.

    However, I continued to drive north with a new determination to find a
distraction somewhere. Being in a permanent blue funk wasn't helping me or
anyone else.

    I was passing an office park when I noticed the sign. It read: "Northland
Remedial and Advanced Smoking Clinic. All Ages Accepted."

    I pulled in. This I had to see.

    A pleasant-looking young woman rose from the reception desk to great me.
She was just lighting a Virginia Slims 180 Ultra-Rich, and her first words to
me were spoken through sweet clouds of exhaled smoke.

    "Good evening, Mr...."

    "Grant...just Grant."

    "Grant. I'm Erica Kingsley. Pleased to meet you. How may I be of
assistance?" Smoke continued to pour forth from her nostrils and mouth as she
stopped not a foot away.

    "It's my daughter, Stephanie. She's turned 13, you understand, and she's a
great little smoker..."

    "Of course. Do go on." She drew again on her absurdly long cigarette and
blew an immense quantity of smoke into the narrow space between us. My eyes no
longer stung or watered during these smoky "close encounters." I was fully
acclimated by now. I lit one of my more modest B&H menthols.

    "But you see, her mother..." My pained expression was in no way feigned.
"Is not with us anymore, and there are lots of finer points a father can't
really teach his own daughter..."

    "I understand completely. Would you like a tour of the facilities?"

    She didn't have to twist my arm. I followed her as she walked through her
own exhales, smoke swirling behind her like a veil of mystery between us. I
felt my spirits rise, and other things too.

    All of the classroom were equipped with large, two-way mirrors, allowing
us to watch without being seen. I noticed a series of vents above each
mirror/window which allowed some smoke to escape the rooms, but as usual there
was no special ventilation. Layers of smoke drifted lazily everywhere.

    We stopped at the first window. Erica said, "the two-way glass permits the
students to observe themselves, and allows the staff and visitors to monitor
class progress. This is one of our pre-teen classes, for ages nine through 12.
We accommodate both students who need additional supervised experience, and
those who wish to celebrate their "age of independence" early. Topics include
fire safety, etiquette, basic and deep inhaling, smoke tolerance, frequency
issues, and an introduction to developing style. We offer both single-sex and
coed classes, as you prefer."

    Before me was an all-girl class. It was amazing to watch the little ones
at their small desks, each with her own pack, ashtray, and lighter. Most were
smoking Winston Beginner Kings, but some had progressed to stronger brands.
One red-haired, dark-eyed little girl with an exotic look was smoking Bolshoi
Special Exports, one of the killer Soviet labels. I expressed surprise.

    "Oh, yes, that's Ekaterina. She really doesn't belong in this class, she's
much too advanced. I'll have to speak to Marcy. Her parents are recent
immigrants. Like most European countries, the age of independence in Russia is
nine, not thirteen. Little Katya is only eight and a half, and she smokes a
pack a day of those...things," Russian brands were frowned on in the States,
due to our strained relations. "And with gusto!"

    I had tried that brand. Once. It laid me out like eight quick belts of
scotch.

    I watched as Katya stubbed out her Bolshoi and immediately took another.
She looked bored as she observed her less advanced classmates, but her
expression brightened to an almost worshipful look as she regarded the fresh
cigarette she was placing in her small lips. Using the lighter on her desk,
she lit up with an expert flourish, her cigarette glowing an angry red on her
first puff. Smoke began to descend from her nostrils as she continued to pull,
I trick I had never quite managed (I can't walk and chew gum, either) but
loved to see. When she withdrew the cigarette at last, a cloud of uninhaled
smoke escaped her mouth, which she brought back home with a perfect capture
and snap inhale. I saw Katya's eyes grow soft and dreamy as she absorbed the
impossibly rich smoke through her lungs. She slowly let a cloud like a
towering thunderhead escape her mouth and nose, then reinhaled the rest of the
puff. She continued with slow, alternating mouth and nose exhales over her
next half-dozen breaths.

    I couldn't imagine what anyone might have to teach her about smoking.

    Three children stood close to the mirror (on their side, anyway) watching
themselves practice. Their instructor, Marcy no doubt, stood behind them,
giving pointers. Sound carried poorly through the vents, and I couldn't make
out her words, but the view was perfect. The girl's faces were only inches
away from where Erica and I stood.

    One girl, a cute, curly blonde, was having trouble managing a nostril
exhale. After her next puff, Marcy gently covered the girl's mouth with one
hand while her other pressed lightly on the child's diaphragm. Voila! A
perfect nostril exhale.

    The other two kids seemed to be doing just fine on their own. Their
exhales spread across the half-silvered glass like the mist on San Francisco
Bay. I could have stood there happily all night.

    "Now, Stephanie is smoking on her own, is that correct?" Said Erica.

    "Yes, she's very independent!"

    "Then she would be ready for our classes for 13 to 18 year-olds. Please
follow me."

    We soon came to another two-way mirror. "This class for female independent
smokers covers a broad range of topics, tailored to each student's individual
needs," said Erica. "We cover French Inhales, advanced smoke management,
proper consumption levels, smoke rings, creative speech modulation using
exhaled smoke, and, for the older students, attractive styling."

    "Attractive styling?" I asked.

    "Well, we could have called it 'seductive smoking,' but that isn't the
only goal." Erica batted her long eyelashes at me, the bachelor father. She
had a fresh VS 180 in hand, and smoke curled creatively from her lips as she
spoke. "You see, smoking style can be as important as wardrobe, speech, and
bearing to making a favorable impression, and not just on the opposite sex."

    As if she had to tell me! I took a look through the glass. The instructor,
a woman who looked young enough to be a student herself, was demonstrating
smoke ring techniques. It was fun to watch as about twenty students followed
suit. Most had it pretty well down, and multiple rings floated in the hazy
air. It looked like a scene from Fantasia.

    One girl, about 17, with ringleted, dark hair, was standing at the window.
Clearly, she was practicing her "attractive styling." She was dressed in
T-shirt and Jeans, but as she pantomimed I could almost see her in a prom
dress. She withdrew a cigarette gracefully from her pack of Enriched Junior
Miss Eve 115 Menthols, and held it demurely before her lips, as if waiting for
a light. I found myself quickly reaching for my lighter, forgetting for a
moment that I was invisible and separated by glass to boot. She lit it
herself, took a long drag with her chin enticingly elevated, swept the
cigarette from her lips with a slight flourish, and held it at a fetching
angle near her right ear. She began a slow, liquid exhale from her mouth,
small wisps from her nostrils joining the dense flow. In the middle of the
exhale, her imaginary date made a witty remark, and she laughed prettily, with
even prettier smoke escaping in little white bursts.

    It worked for me. And it would also work for her prom date, if he had a
drop of testosterone in his body.

    Erica smiled. "Of course, we also have available individual instruction
for smokers of any age, Mr. Grant..." Her voice trailed off suggestively as
she drew again on her cigarette.

    "Well, Miss Kingsley..."

    "Erica, please."

    "Erica, perhaps I could return another time, with Stephanie..."

    "Certainly, Mr. Grant. I'll make you an appointment for later this week."

    As I drove away, I made a mental note to have Niles call and cancel the
appointment. Ms. Kingsley was tempting, but I had someone else on my mind, and
there would be no hanky-panky until that issued was settled.

    Shut up out there! I'm not going to screw around on Laurie just to give
you guys some more naughty bits!

    It was after nine now, so I headed toward home. I was on a dark block of
High Street when I noticed someone standing between two parked cars on my
right. I could tell she was female, short, and that's about all. Her thumb was
extended in my direction.

    Now I NEVER pick up hitchhikers...but my foot was on the brake as if
someone else had put it there. The passenger door opened, a tight bundle of
coated teenager plopped onto the seat, the door slammed, and we were on our
way.

    "Thanks for the ride, mister," she said. I glanced over. Bundled up as she
was, I couldn't see much. She had long, straight, sandy hair tucked into her
coat, and her face was cute. She looked maybe 15.

    "What's you name?" I said with dazzling originality.

    "Julie."

    "I'm Grant. Just Grant. Where you going?"

    "Straight is fine."

    I was already smoking, and it came as no surprise when Julie produced a
pack of Big Girl Salem 100s and lit up. I have always gotten a thrill from
smoking with a girl in my car. Perhaps it was the forced intimacy, perhaps
just the fact that there was nowhere for her to run if she decided I was a
creep.

    Julie was a feisty smoker. She pulled on her Big Girl, double dragging
like she'd been a week without. Her exhale blanketed the inside of the car,
merging with mine and enveloping us both.
    Neither of us made a move to crack a window, even though the blower was
set on "recirculate." That just wasn't done here. "It increases the value of
the cigarettes," Laurie had said.

    Julie didn't have much to say as her form became more indistinct in the
fog. When her cigarette was mostly smoked, she said, "right here is good."

    We were south of campus on High Street, approaching the Broad-High
intersection. It was an almost deserted stretch of downtown, a strange place
for a young girl to be getting out. However, I pulled over without comment,
the door opened, and she was gone.

    As I pulled away, I noticed something on the passenger seat. It was a
three by five file card. I could just make out a single, hand-printed word on
it.

    "TANSTAAFL." What the hell was that? Probably the name of a new beer
joint. But I pocketed the card. Strange thing happen to me, sometimes.

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