Behind the Times, Part 3

Behind the Times, Part 3 of 6

This story is dedicated to Laura (LadySmoker) for her kind words of
encouragement.


3.  Speakeasy

The flame from the lighter is odd.  It is yellow at the tip, changing to
orange, then red, as his eyes move down the flame.  Near the wick, the flame
becomes blue, then finally white.  Grant wonders what Natalia had fueled the
lighter with…JP5?

The flame, however, is the least strange of the sights Grant is just now
trying to deal with.  The world seems to have slipped partially into slow
motion.  The woman is still raising her cigarette to her lips oh so slowly,
the lighter rising just as slowly to meet it, but other things are happening
with stunning rapidity.

Grant and the woman are no longer standing on stone steps.  They are sitting.
 On a loveseat.  Indoors.  The air becomes 50 degrees warmer.  Just like
that, in no time at all.  The overcast twilight is replaced by soft,
artificial lighting.  Other people are nearby, standing and sitting.  The
murmur of conversation, of glasses tinkling, becomes audible as the street
noise and wind abruptly cease.  Somewhere nearby tinny music is playing, a
jazz piece with a quick beat and the sound of many muted trumpets .

As the girl…is she younger now?…continues to raise her cigarette to the
flame, it grows a holder.  Her short blond hair whips into small curls tight
against her head, restrained by a red headband.  Coat and gloves are gone.
 She is wearing a short cocktail dress decorated with sequins and tassels,
like a costume in an old movie.  A silent movie.

Grant himself is not exempt from these galloping changes.  His overcoat is
gone.  The shoulders of his suit have narrowed, the collar of his shirt has
risen, his tie and jacket lapels widened.  Close by, he knows, is a
wide-brimmed fedora with his name on it.

Concentrating on the lighter’s flame in some way lends Grant the strength to
experience this…transition without losing it completely.  The cigarette, now
with holder, completes its ascent and finally touches the extended flame.
 Grant closes the lighter.

Click.

The world resumed its normal rhythms.  The glittering girl straightened, the
tip of the (now shorter) cigarette glowed, the mouthpiece of the holder
slowly moving from her face.  Smoke curled from the cigarette’s tip, and
emerged almost as thickly from the fluted end of her holder.

The girl had drawn in too much smoke to inhale it all.  As she withdrew the
holder from her mouth, a quantity of uninhaled smoke escaped as she
endeavored to swallow the entire puff.  He had seen this effect before only
with older men who smoked unfiltered cigarettes.  Her tassels and sequins
sparkled as her breasts lifted with the expansion of her chest.  She smiled
warmly.

"Thank you, Mr. Grant.  Always a pleasure to meet a gentleman."  When she
reached the word "pleasure" smoke began to escape her mouth and nostrils.
 She continued her exhale gently, the smoke filling the small space between
them with a fragrant fog.

Grant had a revelation, then.  This was one the things he longed for
in…wherever he usually was.  The 90s.  Smokers, even when in the company only
of other smokers, always seemed so careful to keep their exhaled and
sidestream smoke away from anyone else.  It was a habit,  born of years of
increasing intolerance from non-smokers.  As though any exposure to the smoke
of others was unpleasant.

Here, as in the curios shop, was an older, different attitude.  Here, one
naturally assumed that if you smoke, you LIKE smoke.  Why direct smoke away
from other smokers?  It was foolish.  The girl was not provocatively blowing
smoke in his face.  She was simply smoking with another smoker.  Wreathing
herself and her smoking companions with smoke was natural, pleasant, and not
to be given a second thought.

The impact of this revelation was such that it distracted Grant momentarily
from the strangeness of his situation.  He managed to reply, "You’re most
welcome, miss…er…"

"Banning.  Doris Banning.  But all my friends call me Babe."  She extended
her hand and he clasped it briefly.  She reached for a martini glass on the
coffee table nearby, and he noticed that he had one there as well.  He lifted
it and took a sip, noting in the process internal signs that told him he had
had several already.  Just as well, he needed the support.

Behind the loveseat was a window, beyond which was black night.  He could see
the lights of a an unfamiliar city burning dimly below.  It was not Columbus.
 It was not 1996.  It was, must be, an hallucination of some sort.

But, his pleasantly befuddled mind told him, if this was an hallucination, he
might as well enjoy it while it lasted.  He took a quick look around the
room.

It was crowded with men and women having cocktails.  Most were smoking.  A
white jacketed and bow-tied man stood behind a low bar, bottles gleaming on
the mirrored shelves behind him.  The women wore dresses of a similar fashion
to Miss Banning’s , and the men wore suits equally of another era.

On the coffee table was a copy of Life Magazine.  The date on the cover was
October 14, 1928.  Grant picked it up and leafed through it.  All of the
photos were black and white.  One spread which caught his interest was
entitled "Flaming Youth"  The photo showed a line of teenagers, male and
female, looking up from the edge of a pool.  Each had a lit cigarette in his
or her mouth.  A brief paragraph described the growing popularity of smoking
among "the youth of to-day".

"So, Mr. Grant," said Babe’s voice.  "you were saying, about stocks?"  Grant
looked up in time to catch her exhale, again wrapping the loveseat in a
lovely haze.

"Stocks?" Grant fumbled.  "Oh, yes stocks.  Miss Banning…Babe…please listen
carefully.  Sometime in the next year, sell all your stocks and bonds.
 Before next October.  Don’t leave the money in a bank, either.  Take it home
in cash, or gold.  Oh, excuse me, I forgot you can’t buy gold legally.  Take
the cash home.  If you want, buy real estate.  In the south.  Florida, or
Southern California."

Babe’s pursed lips were blowing more smoke, and she regarded him curiously.
 "Sell my stocks? Whatever for?  And buy Florida swampland or California
desert?  My, my.  Whatever have you heard?  Or been drinking?"

"Just trust me on this."

Grant rose and toured the room.  He was treated to sights he had never again
hoped to see short of heaven.  Lovely women smoking languorously, sensuously,
as if they were engaging in some illicit pastime.  Small wonder, Grant
thought.  Female smoking had only recently become socially acceptable, and
only in certain circles.

He struck up a conversation with a redhead named Cynthia who wore her hair
unfashionably long.  She asked him for a cigarette, and he reached into his
jacket.  He momentarily wondered if he would find the familiar B&H menthols,
and worried for a moment.  Those would look quite odd in his current
surroundings.  He needn’t have worried, however.  Whatever had changed his
clothes had also taken care of his cigarettes.  He withdrew a pack of Players
and took two, giving one to Cynthia.

As he removed his lighter for Cynthia, he thought for a moment.  "Four
times," Natalia had said.  "Four times for the benefit of a stranger."  He
had been talking to Cynthia for ten minutes. Was she still a stranger?  If
so, was this the right moment?  He dismissed the thought.  Just be myself,
that was the key.  He offered the odd-colored flame to Cynthia, then lit his
own.  Nothing odd happened.  

"Thank you," Cynthia said, with a light southern accent.  Her cheeks hollowed
as she took a long drag, and Grant did the same.  The unfiltered smoke was
strong, almost harsh, but if all these people could enjoy it, so could he.

Their exhales mingled in the smoky air.  "I seem to be dry, Mr. Grant,"
Cynthia said, then exhaled more smoke.  "Bourbon and water."

"I’ll be right back," said Grant, and made his way to the bar.  "One martini
and one bourbon and water," he told the bartender.  The man’s sparse hair was
greased and combed straight back from his forehead.  The wet head lives,
Grant thought.

"Four bits," said the bartender, handing the drinks to Grant.  Grant paid him
with a generous quarter tip.  His money had been changed also, fortunately,
and he seemed to have the same amount he’d had in 1996.  Here it would go a
lot further.

As he moved to rejoin Cynthia, a horrible crashing came from a door near the
bar.  Grant whirled and, to his astonishment, saw an ax-head poke through a
widening crack in the thick oak panels.

"Oh god, how stupid can I be?"  he thought.  Alcohol was illegal in 1928!
 This is a speakeasy!  And now he was about to have his ass busted!

Two men were opening a door on the other side of the room, and motioning
everyone toward it.  One of the men held a pistol.  Always the gentleman,
Grant made sure all the women had exited before following the other men
through the doorway.  Behind him, the stout door shuddered under further ax
blows.

Grant found himself descending a staircase in near-darkness, with other men
in front and behind. From above came the sound of glass breaking, and a
shout:  "Stop!  In the name of the law!"

"How trite," Grant thought as he continued his descent.  "Then again, maybe
not so trite in 1928!"

At the bottom of the stairs Grant and his companions-in-flight exited into an
alley.  To his right, the alley reached a wide street, dim under
old-fashioned street lights.  Those who fled that way were being grabbed by
police (who looked like the Keystone Cops, for Christ’s sake) and being
rudely ushered into a wagon.  A horse-drawn wagon.  Jesus, it was like the
goddamn middle ages!

To his left, the alley vanished into darkness. The others seemed to prefer
running right and taking their chances with the cops…or was it coppers, here?
 Some were making it.  Most were not. Grant, on impulse, ran left into
darkness.

The alley turned sharply several times.  Grant stumbled forward, upsetting
trash cans, and generally making quite a racket.  Finally, the alley came to
a dead end at a brick wall.

"At least they haven’t invented graffiti yet,"  Grant thought, staring at the
blank wall.  Behind him he heard a shrill whistle and the sound of running
feet.  Trash cans clashed distantly.  Apparently, the cops were seriously
after his ass.  What had Natalia said?  "You will find joy…and peril."  This
must be the peril part.

Whirling desperately, Grant noticed a narrow wooden door on the left wall.
 It had no handle.  He banged on the door and tried to work his fingernails
into the crack.  No luck.  The door would not budge.

As the running men drew closer, Grant had a chilling thought.  What if they
weren’t police?  What if they were gangsters in disguise?  He’d read of such
things happening back in bootlegging days.  If so, arrest was the least of
his worries.  His life could easily end in this dirty alley, more than 30
years before he was born.

He heard a creaking sound at his elbow and jumped a foot in the air.  The
door had opened to a deeper darkness.  He moved toward the opening, and
stopped when he heard a feminine chuckle from somewhere within.

"Got a light, big boy?"  the voice asked.  Grant stepped closer.  Still, he
could see nothing past the doorway.

His mind misfired like a bad piston, then stabilized.  "A light?  Sure…we
smokers have to stick together." He ended with a hollow laugh.

He fumbled in a pocket for the Zippo, missed it, found it.  The running men
were just beyond the nearest corner.  Now, he thought he saw a slender round
tube protruding from the dark doorway.  He extended the lighter.

Click.

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