Scott's Philosophy Notebook

That day, the most adorable little girl was riding her bike down the street. She couldn't have been more than seven years old, black with black hair tied up in sweet little pigtails.

"Are you a captain?" She asked me.

"No," I replied with a smile.

"You look like a captain," she said. My smile remained as I kept walking.

"Are you a killer?" She asked me.

"No," I replied. "I'm one of the good guys."

"Oh," she said. I kept walking.

"Wait!" She said, and she followed me on her bike. "Who are you?"

"I," I replied simply enough, "am Scott."

She tried to comprehend what I just told her, then asked "You ever ki' someone?"

I thought she said kissed. "Once," I said, "A long time ago." And my mind wandered briefly back in time as I remember the most wonderful, beautiful woman that ever lived.

"You did? With a knife?" And she made a vicious stabing motion.

I was puzzled. "Er, no."

"With a gun?"

"Oh," I said, finally catching on. "You said killed someone. No, I've never killed someone. I thought you said kissed someone."

"Oh," she said. She seemed somewhat relieved, yet also disappointed, as the hint of adventure had left this chance meeting. Then, she seemed intrigued.

"You kissed someone?"

"Yes," I said. "A very special girl."

"I kissed someone, too," she said shyly.

"Oh really?" I was enchanted by her coyness. "Who did you kiss?" She answered with a muttered name I didn't comprehend. She seemed a little cautious, as though this boy could be lurking around the corner, ready to spring out and shout "You promised not to tell!"

I smiled again. "Was this your boyfriend?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said sweetly.

Just then, an equally charming white boy called from back up the street from whence we came. The name he called was likewise incomprehensible, but the girl responded.

"Coming!" She shouted. "I gotta go, bye," she said.

"Bye," I said. And thus we went our seperate ways.

"Excuse me," she said. "Can you do me a favor?"

"I'll try," I responded.

"Are you old enough to buy cigarettes?" She asked.

"Yes," I said. I already knew where this was going.

"Could you, maybe..."

I was wincing already. For some reason, I felt compelled to follow that ridiculous law that says only people beyond a certain age can buy tobacco products. In my opinion, people of any age can be stupid enough to destroy their own healths.

"I really don't want to contribute to the delinquency of a minor...." I said, most apologetically.

"Well, I am eighteen, and I'm just on my way to work..."

Suddenly, it seemed like life was a multiple choice quiz. Do I A) Buy this girl cigarettes, contributing to a possible life of bad health, and experience the very slight risk of being fined, or B) Decline, and send this girl into endless nicotine fits for the rest of the day?

So what was my choice? Simple. I made up my own answer.

"Can I just give you a couple? Will that work?"

"Sure," she said.

I opened my fresh pack and handed her four cigarettes.

"Thanks," she said, very appreciative. She may not have aquired a full pack, but at least they were free.

"My name's Jessica," she said.

"My name," I replied simply enough, "is Scott."

"Nice to meet you," she said.

"It was nice to meet you, too," I responded. And thus we went our seperate ways.