Old Tobacco

by Noble K Thomas
(a recent attempt at flash fiction)

Well, he’d done it again. Despite all the public warnings and tragic headlines, despite his vows to keep it clean and set the proper example for the boys, he’d stopped by the Firecracker lounge and had a few drinks. More than a few. Too many to count and why in the world would anyone in their right mind even bother to count?

     Certainly not him.

And then he’d gotten behind the wheel. Sure he had. And stopped by that old gas station just south of the highway where all the clerks look like sun-baked scarecrows and they sell those nasty barbecue burritos that taste damn good when washed down by cold beer. So he’d grabbed a six-pack and a couple of burritos and handed a crisp twenty over to the weather-beaten hag and the fact that he already reeked like an East Saint Louis brew house didn’t seem to affect her in the least. Then out that door and back into the leather sanctuary of his red sports car with the loud thumping music that sounded so fucking great and there was absolutely no need to rush home.
     And he thought, damn, I wonder if those cigarettes are still hiding themselves so cleverly deep within the forgotten clutter of the glove compartment?

A sober man would never be so foolish as to operate a vehicle in such an outrageous drunken state (and therein, of course, lies the crux of our modern problem) and he was set adrift upon a strong current swept so far away from the shores of sobriety that the notion of booking a return trip was becoming more and more ridiculous with each passing minute. Nothing mattered anymore anyway. Not the precious safety of the general public. Certainly not the recent phone calls from the state securities department, nor the e-mails from the concerned bank officer, and just when could he expect the federal agents to drop in for that unannounced visit? Good God the losses, the mounting losses, who knew there were that many zeroes, a bonafide avalanche and just when he was so close to a triumphant kick-up-your-heels tap dance upon the golden peak.
     He wondered again where they would send him when all was said and done, when all the crying was over and all he could see was an ocean of angry balled fists as they paraded him away. He hoped way up north to that new federal facility where you could watch television all day long (probably a lot of Martha Stewart – you had to admire the old battleaxe, she really took hers like a man) while squeezing in a few minutes on the putting green, or, and this thought made his stomach flinch, they might banish him to that old dump down in Texas where supposedly the warden had just found religion and adopted a steadfast appreciation of the physical sacrifices that must be made in order for his flock of poor sinners to have any shot at salvation.
     Or he could always flee. Right now, tonight. For the life of him he couldn’t understand why Bernie hadn’t pocketed a quick twenty mil and deposited his ass on some faraway sunny beach. The bastard must have had a conscience after all.
     At least he finally found those cigarettes, or more accurately, a cigarette, smashed within the back crevice tattered and leaking the precious tobacco. Boy had he meticulously sniffed the length of the crumpled paper rod and fired that fucker up and sucked in the harsh nicotine soot and it had been so long that he coughed and almost gagged and those barbecue burritos didn’t taste so good the second time around.
     But the beer had a way of washing it all away.

And he drove and he drank and he thought and he tossed that cigarette butt out the window. Toss it, fling it, flick it, eject the little asswipe, let it ride on that putrid schizophrenic wind and just FORGET ABOUT IT ALL!

Now he was back puttering up the driveway and his decision to bring an end to his night of zombie patrol and hometown circumnavigation was a somber mistake, it always was, but his ass ached and he was in need of a rather urgent piss, so with a sigh he placed it in park and turned off the ignition. As he ambled inside she didn’t say a word and the boys were nowhere to be found. No, she never said a word but she never looked away either, fully pouty-jawed, her arms folded as she simmered in the big chair and those elbows could be lively and surprisingly dangerous. And on the television, the drone of the local nightly news and the glow from the tube flared and caught his blood-shot eye.

…authorities are not sure how the fire started but they are almost 100% certain that it started just over an hour ago a little south of the highway, possibly by something as trivial as a passing motorist tossing a lit cigarette out a car window, and with these constant winds and the dry surroundings it sure didn’t take much. The Andersons, who are uninsured, suffered a complete loss but, as you just heard them say, at least they still have one another.

     Back to you, Ken.

Why are you looking at the god-damned TV set she asked? Look at me you son-of-a-bitch. Now she was talking and her elbows were flaring and as he sniffed the fresh stain of old tobacco on his fingertips one of the boys poked a head around the corner and sleepily asked, “Hey dad, is everything going to be alright?” He would have liked to answer sure son, no matter what happens we’ve still got one another, but he figured now was as good a time as any for the lying to stop.