Oh god, somebody please remind me of this again and again and again and again. Life has it’s moments. This is a crying moment, so if you are happy … leave this journal and don’t read this. You stand forewarned.
I just went outside to smoke. Yeah, yeah, yeah … again. Anyhow, I was standing there with my mostly full pack of cigarettes in my pocket, sort of cold, but it’s not as cold as it’s been this week. It’s sort of warming up.
Outside my office building there are big (very big) plastic clay-lookalike flowerpots with sand in them for ashtrays. I was thinking the other day that the housekeeping/maintenance department has been rather lax in their duty of cleaning these flowerpots. They’re overflowing with cigarette butts.
I was standing there in the sun, nothing going through my mind really, when this old woman dressed in a worn and used faded winter jacket scuttled up to my flowerpot and started rummaging around for longer butts. I didn’t move away. I thought about it, but I didn’t. I stood planted beside of that flowerpot watching her. I heard her talking. She didn’t seem like the kind of person to carry a cell phone. I don’t have a cell phone because it’s too expensive. I cut bills where I can (cablevision – nope, newspaper – nope, steaks – nope, Mercedes – nope). Anyhow, I soon decided that she was talking to somebody inside of her head. And she was carrying on a conversation about cigarette butts.
I stood there and watched her pick through the sand and either accept or reject this butt or that butt. It took her a long time. Finally she straightened up and I smiled at her and said hello. She smiled back and passed by me. I said “Hey, wait a minute.” I reached in my pocket and handed her a cigarette. She said “Bless you! I have to do this because when we get our check it isn’t much. We get a carton of cigarettes, but it doesn’t last the whole week. I feel awful about it, but …” I said “Oh, I know. It’s a hard habit to kick, isn’t it?” She said “Yes, and my brother is the one smoking all of them too.” I handed her another cigarette and said “This one is for him.” She said “Oh, thank you, I’ll save these and smoke the others first.” I said “Give him the others and you keep the new ones,” and we both laughed at my joke. Then I reached over and gave her a hug, a long tight hug. I got tears in my eyes. She looked at my blonde hair and said “I’ll trade ya hair, mine’s grey.” She pointed at her old stocking hat that covered most of her hair. I laughed and said “Have a good day.”
I walked in the building and wrote this. Shoulda gave her the whole pack and stopped right then and there, shouldn’t I?
