Pudgy Patty, Part 2

Pudgy Patty
By Somers
Part Two

Spring eventually came, and we spent each day smoking after school, then 
again at night, and Christine started spending most of her nights away from 
home, taking her cigarettes with her. Her Mom and Dad got a peek at some of 
the things she was wearing, and that drew some immediate reactions. Her 
father got so mad one night that he threw out Christine's beautiful new 
clothes, saying they were complete trash, and they made her look like a 
slut, whatever that was. Then he made her stay in her room during the 
evening, for two whole weeks! I felt sorry for Christine after that night, 
because she cried a lot, but the smoking seemed to cheer her up a little 
bit.

Christine would stuff a towel under the locked door, open the window to the 
beautiful springtime air, and smoke at least one cigarette every hour that 
she was incarcerated in her room. Where the cigarettes came from, I didn't 
really know, but she had a fresh pack of Marlboro Lights every few days. She 
began to suck on them strongly, drawing more smoke into her lungs, and 
holding it there while she thought about her plight. Then, she'd look off 
out the window and blow a full and rich steam of smoke to distant lands 
while wearing a small smile on her face.

The day of her freedom came one Friday, and Christine smoked a lot that 
afternoon. I counted at least five cigarettes while she worked on her makeup 
and her outfit in front of the mirror, and then headed out of the house 
after writing a note to Mom and Dad. It read:

"Hi Mom and Dad- I went out with Samantha and a few other friends, and you 
can reach me on her cellphone in case of emergency: 908-427-6734. I was off 
grounding at 4PM today, and I couldn't hang around the house anymore. Don't 
worry and don't call unless one of you gets sick or something, because I'll 
be back before midnight. -Luv, Christine"

With a hearty flick of her bic, and a smile to the room that had been her 
prison cell for the last two weeks, she proceeded down the stairs leaving a 
trail of cigarette smoke behind.

I didn't see her much throughout the month of June, because she would always 
come in and smoke a cigarette while preparing her face for the evening, and 
she was usually done by 3:30. Then she'd go out, and stay out until 11, 
curfew time on schoolnights, and 12 on weekends. She would push the towel 
under the door, then smoke some more while lying in bed, looking at fashion 
and makeup magazines. She began pulling on those Marlboro Lights until they 
yielded the smoke that had become so much a part of her life, and genuinely 
seemed to enjoy the pleasure of casting her smoke out in streams which 
gradually became thicker and more robust as time went on. It was very clear 
that Christine had become a regular smoker. She became very skilled in the 
art of hiding her smoking behavior from her parents, tucking her ashtray 
into her drawer each night after emptying it outside the open window.

One day, after school was over and Christine had started her summer job at 
the supermarket, her Mom was home for a week's vacation time, and I heard 
her telling her husband that she was going to do some spring cleaning. 
Spring? It was well into summer now, but busy women have to take the 
opportunities they get, and this had to happen once a year. It was actually 
good to have her come into the room and visit with all of us shelf-dwellers, 
because we had seen so little of Christine lately.

It wasn't like she was really visiting with us, because she mostly ignored 
us while running the vacuum with a Marlboro red 100 dangling from her lips. 
I admired her energy while watching her pick up all her daughter's clothes 
from the floor, and place them in the basket, all the while sucking on that 
burning cigarette in her mouth. Christine's Mom was a sort of a sloppy 
smoker, leaking smoke out everywhere while smoking with constant drags and 
exhales, matched to the rhythm of her breathing. The cigarette seemed to be 
more intimately attached to her, while, in the case of Christine, it was 
really a fashionable accessory. I suppose it came with experience at 
smoking, It just became a part of your life after a while.

She finished the cigarette in absolutely record time, and only noticed it 
there within her lips when it started to burn close to her face, and then I 
saw her open up the window and take a glowing, face twisting pull at it, 
followed by the deepest and most voluminous inhale I had ever seen. She 
casually tossed the cork-tipped butt out, and then I saw that little smile 
there, just as I had seen on Christine's face so many times. As she emptied 
her lungs into the warm summer air of the open window and I saw the sheer 
and total volume of that puff and the pleasure that she showed upon her 
face, it was clear that she loved smoking. She had such a beautiful smile as 
she cast the smoke outward into the world and watched its glow gradually 
dissipate in the breeze.

She breathed air back into her lungs, and looked down for an instant, and 
then she stopped, changing expressions quickly.

On the ground outside she could clearly see the small army of cigarette 
butts which Christine had tossed similarly out of that same window for 
months. There were quite a few there, I was very sure, because I had 
observed the ash tray being dumped out there for the last nine months. It 
must have been a real mess. She stood there for several minutes, viewing the 
ugly scene, then drew her head back into the room, closed the window and she 
sighed.

She vacuumed the rest of the room, picked up the remainder of the clothes, 
then stopped and, somewhat clandestinely, pulled open Christine's night 
table drawer. I knew what she'd find in there, because that was the place 
where Christine kept her little glass ashtray. It was meant to be a jewelry 
container, a gift from her grandmother many years ago, but Christine had 
long since outgrown it as a jewelry vessel, and had started to use it as an 
ashtray. I thought it made sense, from a practical standpoint, but 
Christine's Mom apparently didn't agree. She took it out of the drawer and 
viewed it with horror, then threw the contents, three butts and the 
corresponding ashes, out on her daughter's otherwise clean floor. She then 
took the small ashtray, um- jewelry box out with her as she packed up the 
vacuum and left the room.

I didn't hear her running the vacuum any more that day, but about three 
hours later she came up the stairs, into the room and bent over to pick up 
the cigarette butts, and to brush the ashes away. Again she sucked on a 
cigarette in her mouth as before. I couldn't tell what she was thinking 
about all this.

Christine came home that day, and I heard her declare to her Mom that she 
was home, and then bound up the stairs and slammed the door as usual. It was 
close to dinner time, as it always was at about the time Christine got home 
from work. She carried her purse, and set it down on the bed, noticing the 
basket of laundry there, then put on her music. And started to take her work 
clothes off in favor of what she would wear that evening.

They really weren't flattering at all, those work clothes that they must 
have made everyone wear at the supermarket. I mean black pants might be OK, 
but a kelly green shirt and a green cap? I personally wouldn't be caught 
dead in such an outfit, though my blue plaid dress isn't anything to rave 
about in any fashion circles. I've had this same outfit on for my whole 
life, but some dolls are like that. Not all of us come with different 
wardrobes like the Barbies do. Stuck up, emaciated little plastic bitches 
that they are.

There was a knock at the door just when she had removed her top, and 
Christine called out, diplomatically:

"Yeah, what do you want, Mom?"

Her Mom didn't wait for permission to enter, but came into the room and 
flopped down on the bed next to the laundry basket she had been busily 
loading earlier that day.

Christine looked disgustedly at her mother, not that she had been looking at 
her any other way lately. It was simply the proper way to look at adults, 
when you had to look at them, and it must have been taught at all the 
schools. She clutched her shirt up against the tiny little bra that she 
wore.

"Mom! I'm getting dressed! Will you get out of here?"

"Not until you tell me why you lied to me," her mother slurred her words.

"What? I never lied to you! You're drunk again, Mom," Christine said, 
factually, as she dropped her work top on the floor, and began to rummage 
through her chest of drawers for something more suitable.

"OK, maybe I've had a few drinks, but I'm perfectly OK, Christine. Now I 
want an explanation of why you lied to me," her mom repeated.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Why don't you go and clean up 
before Dad comes home? You know how he hates to see you like this," 
Christine chose a pink tummy top, and proceeded to pull it down over her 
torso. Then she got out of her pants.

Her mother pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of the 
shorts she was wearing, and put it into her mouth. Then she lit the end of 
the cigarette, somewhat unsteadily, and leaned over the edge of the bed to 
pick up Christine's green work top and tossed it in the basket, saying 
through the cigarette that dangled from her lips:

"Always had to clean up after you, it's a mother's duty, you know? Spent 
much of my life cleaning up after my daughter, yes I did, and those were 
good years too. But she always told me lies that I could easily figure out, 
and I used to laugh about them," she sucked on the cigarette deeply, pulled 
it from her lips, and snapped the smoke in with a vengeance.

"Dad will be home any minute now, and I'm getting outta here," Christine 
hurriedly pulled on a pair of shorts, turned off the music, then neatly 
folded her pants and put them in the drawer. She rapidly slipped on a pair 
of sandals.

"Want a cigarette, honey? These Marlboro Reds are much nicer than the Lights 
you smoke," her mom breathed out the smoke slowly, playing with it in swirls 
around her tongue as she built up a large cloud of the stuff in front of 
her.

Christine stopped suddenly, and looked around nervously. Then spied the 
basket of clothes again, her clean floor, and immediately went to her night 
table to check to see if the ashtray was in the place where she left it. It 
wasn't, of course.

"OK, so I tried smoking. I didn't like it very much, and that doesn't give 
you the right to go through my private things! I wouldn't touch your fucking 
cigarettes, because I think they stink!" Christine wailed.

Her mother laughed softly, then took another deep and long drag from her 
Marlboro, and spoke with inflated lungs:

"Lies, lies and more lies. Christine, I wasn't born yesterday, you know." 
Then she proceeded to exhale a puff that extended clear across the room.

"What? Did you see me on a break from work, or something? I can explain 
that, but why should I? You're just a drunken witch who doesn't know what 
she is saying," Christine was trying to turn this into some kind of a 
shouting match, and preparing herself for the exit of indignance.

"Now, let's just look in your purse, shall we?" Her mom smiled and plucked 
it into her lap, opening it up in a quick movement.

"Mom! Stay out of there, you disgusting, drunken bitch!" Christine screamed.

It was much too late, of course, because the instant her mom opened the bag 
she clearly saw the pack of cigarettes, as she had obviously expected. She 
withdrew them, and the lighter, plopped them on the bed as if to say: `told 
ya!,' but she didn't say that. She took another long and delicious drag on 
her cigarette, and slowly withdrew the burning object from her lips.

"I'm just holding those for Chrissy, because she smokes, too. A lot of my 
friends smoke, so I was just trying it a little in the meantime," 
Christine's explanations became rather thin.

"Well, that's a pretty good explanation, except it doesn't really address 
what I saw today," her mom looked for a place to de-ash her cigarette, and 
not finding anything, said, through a rather thick exhale:

"Excuse me. I'll be right back."

"What? Are you going to tell me, or what? Whatever it is, I can ex-" then 
Christine thought of the window and went over to it and opened it and viewed 
what she could not conceal. She hadn't even looked at the devastation that 
had been going on in the bushes below. I mean, there were hundreds of butts 
down there on the side of the house, where no one ever walked.

Her Mom returned with the ashtray from her bedroom and saw Christine at the 
window, looking somewhat shameful and finally realizing that any excuse for 
the sheer magnitude of this would be useless.

"I'll clean it up, and it shouldn't be any big deal, really," she said, as 
her Mom sat back on the bed and held the ashtray on her lap.

"The big deal is that you've told me time and time again, that you haven't 
been smoking, and that was a lie. I don't want you to lie to me, Christine. 
Though I'd rather you didn't smoke, I can't really stop you from doing what 
you choose. You're becoming a young woman now, and I can't really hold you 
back from trying to explore life," her mom softened, and spoke soothingly, 
looking at her with eyes of understanding. Then she took the final drag of 
her cigarette, and blew it out across the room while squashing the remains 
of it in the ashtray.

"I'm sorry I lied about that, but both you and Dad seemed so set against it, 
and I mean, I couldn't tell the truth or anything," Christine sunk down on 
the bed next to her Mom, moving the basket of clothes back some more, and 
hung her head.

"Well, you're right, honey, we are against it, and we don't want you to 
smoke, but you're also right about it not really being that big of a deal. 
It would be much worse if you were taking drugs or something, and I 
certainly hope that you aren't doing that, and I would listen to you, 
Christine. I really would, but you have to tell me, and be honest." Her Mom 
looked at her with tears welling up in her eyes.

"No, Mom, nothing like that. Really and truly, and no bullshitting. Some 
kids I know are druggies, but I'm not, and don't plan on trying it anytime 
soon," Christine looked up at her Mom, and flipped a strand of hair out of 
her face.

"Kids get awfully screwed up if they get into drugs, and I know how those 
pressures are, believe me I do. So if there is anything on your mind, honey, 
I'd want you to share it with me, and don't feel that you can't. I suppose 
I'm not always the best of listeners, but I'll try harder," her mom smiled 
and brought her fingers through Christine's golden hair.

"No, I can't think of anything, except that Phil has been pushing me to have 
sex with him," Christine added.

Her mom reached for her cigarettes when she heard that, again drawing them 
out of her pocket, and placing one in her lips with an automatic action. 
Then she paused, and picked up the pack of Marlboro lights on the bed and 
held them out in Christine's direction.

Christine pulled one of the long whites out of the pack, and put it within 
her lips, then shared a light from the older woman's lighter. Both of them 
drew on their cigarettes silently, Christine dragging lightly, while her mom 
pulled on her cigarette hungrily. Her mom exhaled a huge puff of cigarette 
smoke, extending much of the way across the room.

"You mean that boy with the tattoos that has picked you up a few times?" 
Christine's mom looked somewhat apprehensive.

"Yeah, that one. I don't know what to do about him, except he kinda likes to 
get frisky at times?" Christine looked at her mom for some sort of a 
reaction as she took another light puff on her cigarette.

"Yes, honey, they all get that way after a while, but it's because you are a 
very pretty young woman, and they will all want you. It's important that the 
one you choose be someone that you love, and I take it that you don't love 
this guy, Phil?" Her mom looked at her with a question mark on her face. 
Then she drew on her Marlboro again with considerable strength and tapped it 
into the ashtray, discarding a small ash that had formed, and leaving behind 
a glowing and smoldering head. She tilted her head up, blew a perfect cone 
of smoke toward the ceiling, and followed it with a couple of coughs.

"Not really. I don't know, in the future, maybe, but for now, the answer is 
no, though I don't want him to be going with someone else," Christine then 
took a more powerful puff on her cigarette, drawing it inside herself and 
then breathing it out again in a long and thin stream.

"Are you seeing him tonight?" Her mom, asked, holding her cigarette in her 
fingers next to her face. Her Mom could smoke quite elegantly at times.

"No, he's out of town for a week, but I kinda miss him," Christine admitted, 
sucking on her Marlboro Light with considerable force and closing her eyes 
for an instant. As she drew the smoke into her lungs, she saw her mom 
looking at her with newfound eyes.

"Now, remember the protection we talked about? Just in case something should 
happen. To be used in case of emergency. I personally think that you can do 
better that that Phil character, but I don't really know him, so I can't 
pass any judgment. And, of course, I'm not condoning any sort of behavior 
like that, at all, don't get me wrong! I just- I just-" Christine's mom 
looked deeply into the young woman's eyes with a passion.

"You're really growing up fast, honey," the older woman said, and then took 
another strong pull of her cork-tipped cigarette, and brought the puff into 
her chest, where it sat in repose for several seconds. There was a male 
voice from downstairs, and Christine's mom hugged her daughter with her arms 
around her while blowing the big puff of smoke off in my direction.

"Dad!" Christine announced, wondering what to do with her cigarette and 
reaching immediately for the ashtray.

"Be right down, honey!" Christine's mom shouted in the general direction of 
downstairs.

"Now, I'll tell him about the smoking tonight. As long as you confine it to 
your room, I don't think he will really have any serious problems with it, 
and you'll tell me more about Phil tomorrow?" then she rose to leave, 
ashtray in one hand and half-smoked Marlboro in the other.

"You mean he won't get mad?" Christine looked at her mother with a surprised 
expression, nodding her assent at the question.

"No, I didn't say that he wouldn't get mad, but he can be quite gracious, 
knowing there is another lady in the house. I think he will understand, 
eventually." she winked at her daughter, and handed her the ashtray, 
flicking her ashes in it.

"Only in your room, though, you hear me young lady? God knows that you spend 
enough time in here smoking anyway. At least, for heaven's sake, use the 
ashtray, and empty it in the trash from now on? The last thing that your 
father and I need is you starting a fire somehow. And you did agree to do 
some raking outside?" Her Mom smiled at her.

"Yes, Mom, thanks." Christine stood up, looking at the ashtray in her hand, 
and the burning cigarette in the other and then watching as the door as it 
closed behind her mother, and I heard her footsteps descending the stairs.

Christine looked at the ashtray in her hand, then tapped her cigarette into 
it. She then took a gigantic puff, smiled as she swelled up her chest and 
blew the smoke out happily as she looked at me on the shelf.

"Pudgy Patty, I think today is the start of something new."

The End

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