Cigarettes

An old man on a greyhound bus uses cigarettes to measure his progress on a trip to his hometown to confront his troubled past.

On the long, cold, weary bus rides between towns the old man counted his cigarettes. He sat sideways with his back to the window, turned out his pockets and ran his fingers through every corner of his luggage, dropping each cigarette he found into his lap. Then, he stuck a cigarette between his lips, lit it, and counted the others. They were somewhat crushed, from being loose in his suitcase, but they were still smoke-able. Today he had eleven cigarettes. He also had a bus ticket that would take him from Denver to Wichita, and a handgun carefully hidden in his duffle bag. All these things made him nervous.

 

He counted again just in case he got it wrong. He hadn’t. He sighed, checked the time, and huddled in his coat. The bus was scheduled to leave at eight, and it was seven fifty eight. The bus door was wide open even though it was stupidly cold outside.  It was a cold winter. It was February and it was supposed to be getting warmer, but it wasn’t.  If anything it was getting colder. There were only four people on the bus. There was a small blonde girl sitting in the back. She looked like she was twenty something. She had pimples scattered across her face. She had hoped they would stop after puberty, but they hadn’t. She clutched a backpack to her chest. There was a strict looking woman with a pinched face and hair pulled back so tightly that it looked painful. There was the bus driver, Ernie, who had a beer belly and so many acne scars that his face looked like a bowl of oatmeal. And there was an old man with grey hair who had just finished counting his cigarettes a third time only to discover that he still had eleven. He wondered if that would be enough. He decided to buy an extra pack before the bus left, but as he stood up the doors shut and the bus started moving. eleven would have to do. He sat down and prepared for a long ride.The heater started working, and it smelled like piss. But nobody complained because it was better to be warm and smelly than not warm at all. The old man had a brother to visit. He would smoke his way home.

 

The old man lit a cigarette. 10 left, he thought. He was burning through them fast, but Christ, it was cold. There was a pounding on the side of the Bus.

 

“Hey!” shouted a voice. “Hey! Stop the bus!” Ernie pulled over to the side of the road. The bus doors swung open. In stepped a skinny man with a tangled grey beard. There were wrinkles around his eyes. “Hello, Everyone!” he shouted. “My name is Jack!”

 

Nobody said hi back. They just stared at him.

 

Then Ernie said, “Do you have a bus ticket?” Jack fished through his pockets and produced a crumpled bus ticket which Ernie punched and handed back to him. “Sit wherever you like,” said Ernie and he put the bus into gear and pulled away from the curb.

 

“Do you mind if I sit here?” Jack asked an empty bus seat. Apparently, whoever he was talking to didn’t mind. He sat down, pulled out a tattered magazine and laughed hysterically at every page.

It was a long ride. For the next few hours there was nothing but the bleak, winter landscape outside, and the sound of Jack laughing at his magazine. The old man smoked more cigarettes than he would have normally. He was down to eight. Jack looked at him.

 

“Smoking gives you cancer,” he said. The old man ignored him. Jack made cat noises and then laughed at himself. “You’re dead meat!” he said. “We are all dead meat! You, me, the cat.” He meowed and then cackled with laughter. The girl in the back looked terrified.

 

The old man stared out the window and watched as they passed a sign welcoming them to Kansas. This was his third time trying to go home. The first time was only a week after his brother died.  He was going back for the funeral. He was going to speak. He scribbled speech after speech in a notebook during the bus ride home. Each speech was shorter than the last. They grew smaller and smaller until they were blank pages without anything on them. He ran out of words. He didn’t even make it to Kansas. They had the funeral without him. Nobody said anything.

 

Jack was still making cat noises. Ernie was the first to crack.

 

“Hey, Jack?” he said with strained politeness. “I think everyone would appreciate it if you could read your magazine a little bit quieter.”

“I will be quiet, it’s no problem, I will be quiet.”

“Thanks.”

A moment of silence then another cat noise. A high pitched meow. The vein on Ernie’s forehead was glowing bright red.

“Jack, what did I just ask?”

“Wasn’t me. I’m being quiet.” He said it with such innocence that everyone knew he was telling the truth. The meowing noises continued and everyone looked around trying to find the cause. The girl in the back clutched her backpack to her chest and desperately wished she were somewhere else.

 

“Is there a cat in here?” asked Ernie.

The girl gave in.

“I have my cat in my bag.” she said. “I know its against the rules but I didn’t have another way to take him with me. Please don’t make me leave. I just need to get home.”

Jack laughed as if it were the funniest thing in the world. Ernie sighed. He wished he had a different job.

“I don’t care.” Ernie said impassively. “there’s only five of us, so long as nobody tells and I don’t get in trouble he can stay.” He looked over his his shoulder. “Is everyone okay with that?”

The old man said that it was. The woman with the tight face looked like it most certainly wasn’t okay, but she didn’t say anything. Jack reassured Ernie that he didn’t mind. The girl looked relieved. She reached into her backpack, pulled out an angry looking tomcat and set him in her lap.  He was black with white patches, and he looked glad to not be in a backpack.

 

The old man watched as they passed the town of Mcpherson. He smoked and smoked and smoked. The second time the old man tried to go home he brought his guitar. He had learned to play after his brother died. Song after song. It helped. He sat in the back of the bus and played every song he knew. He played past aching fingers, and a sore throat. He played until he was only four towns away. And then he ran out of songs. Now he was on his third and last attempt. This time he brought cigarettes. To smoke his way home.  And a gun just in case he couldn’t. He was at five cigarettes and they had passed Mcpherson. This was the closest he had ever gotten to home.

 

The cat sat in the girl's lap for a while but soon became curious. He jumped off her lap and wandered through the back of the bus sniffing and staring.

“What is the name of your cat?’ Asked the man, feeling he had to say something.

“Sylvester.” She said. “Like from Loony Tunes.” The old man nodded.

“Thats a good name.” He put a cigarette in his mouth and offered one to the girl.

She smiled sheepishly.

“I don’t know how to smoke.” she said. “But I’ve been meaning to try.”

“I’ll show you.” said the old man. He grabbed two cigarettes and went to the back of the bus, leaving three in his bag.  He sat down next to her and showed her which end you lit and which end you put in your mouth and how to light it with your hand cupped around the flame to keep it from blowing out.

 

Jack watched the old man walk to the back of the bus.

“Smoking gives you cancer.” He muttered under his breath. While the old man was teaching the girl how to smoke Jack looked through his bag. He found the three remaining cigarettes and he tossed them out the bus window. “He’ll thank me later. Smoking gives you cancer.” He giggled and returned to his seat.

 

“Well?” asked the old man, “what do you think?”

She let a cloud of smoke leave her mouth.

“Its kinda relaxing. I thought it would make me cough.”

“Depends on the person. Some cough some don’t.”

“I kind of like it.”  she laughed and took another drag on her cigarette. Doing something forbidden felt nice for a change.

“Where are you traveling to?” He asked.

“I’m going back to Wichita to live with my mom for a little bit. I used to live in Denver. With my boyfriend. But… well, we broke up. He’s an a*****e.” She added.

“I’m sorry”

“It will be okay.” She said. “That’s what I’m going to start saying. It’s not okay right now, but it will be soon.” She smoked her cigarette. “Besides, I still have Sylvester. I know he’s just a cat, but he helps a lot.” she paused.  “He’s been there for me through everything. My parents divorce, high school, everything. He’s like the brother or sister I never had.” The old man looked out the window and thought.

 

“Ive never had a sister. But that’s what having a brother feels like.” Sylvester was standing on top of a seat looking out a window they had opened to let the smoke out. He looked proud and mighty; like a cat much bigger than himself.

“Maybe we should shut the window. He’s making me nervous.”

“He won’t fall out. He’s a smart cat.” The cat jumped onto his hind legs and put his paws on the edge of the window. He was leaning his head out the window, his fur shimmering in the wind. And then he was gone. Sylvester screamed, as only a cat can scream, as he fell out of the window and landed on the icy highway. There was a soft thud as the bus hit his body and then left it behind. The girl gasped and looked out the back window. Sylvester’s corpse was visible just long enough to see the car behind them hit his body. And then he was gone. Someone was laughing in the front of the bus. It was Jack. He was laughing his head off.  Splitting his sides. Rolling on the floor.

 

“What happened?” shouted Ernie. Nobody said anything. Ernie put two and two together and stopped talking.

The old man went back to his seat. Jack was still guffawing.

“Hey A*****e!” shouted Ernie, “Shut your face.”

But that just made him laugh harder. He was crying, he was laughing so hard.

“I told you!” He said between giggles. “I told you.” And then he made cat noises. He screamed like Sylvester had screamed, and then he shouted, “WHAMO!” And laughed harder than ever.

“That’s it,” said Ernie. He swerved the bus to the side of the highway, cutting across three lanes. Everyone fell to the right. Jack fell hard against the side of the bus and hit his head, but he was still laughing. Ernie slammed hard on the brakes and stopped the bus. “Get out.” Jack was more than happy to oblige. He hopped out of the bus, still giggling, and took a bow as the bus pulled back onto the highway. And then Jack was just an image in the back window, dancing in circles on the side of the highway. It was -5 degrees and he was already shivering.

“We have to go back.” Said the strict looking woman. It was the first thing she had said the whole trip. “He’s going to freeze to death.”

“Lady, I ain’t turning around. But you are welcome to join him.”

 

The lady was silent.

 

The girl didn’t say anything. She just cried. She leaned her head against the window. Tears rolled out her eyes and down her cheeks. She didn’t sob or make noise. She just cried. And she looked horribly, awfully, sad. Like she had lost everything that could ever be lost.

 

They traveled in silence. The strict looking woman got off the bus at the next stop.  The girl and the old man were the only passengers left on the bus. The old man stared out the window and tried desperately not to think. He only had three cigarettes left. If he could make it through this bus ride then he could buy more in Wichita.  He reached into his pack to count his cigarettes, to calm himself down. They weren’t there. He checked again. And again. Then he stood up and emptied his pack into an empty seat searching through everything. And they weren’t there. He had run out of cigarettes. Just like he had run out of words. Just like he had run out of songs. And just like he had run out of every goddamn thing he had ever lived for. He put everything back into his bag, zipped it up, sat down, and waited for the next bus stop. He hoped that the girl made it to Wichita. She deserved to make it. If anyone ever deserved anything, she deserved to make it to Wichita. He got off the bus in a small town that he didn’t know the name of. He stood at the bus stop until the bus was gone. Then, he walked behind a gas station and shot himself.

 

He was only three towns away from his brother.

 

The bus was silent for the last two hours. The girl cried and cried and cried. The bus arrived in Wichita. The girl was the only passenger left. As she was leaving Ernie touched her arm.

“I’m sorry.” He said. And this time she didn’t say that it would be okay. She didn’t say anything. She just nodded, buttoned her coat, and stepped into the cold.

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