A Harsh Stance on Smoking
When Chicago posted their new campaign posters warning underage smokers, the uninspired public service announcements were plastered on walls and displayed in ad slots on public transportation. The message came down to these two highlights. First, check the label at the bottom for the correct age, and secondly, get a $100 reward if you report underage selling.
The idea was probably instigated by some well-meaning helicopter parent association that had enough sway to bring about a campaign. The problems was, how could you prove someone was selling smokes to a minor? Where was your proof? The biggest contribution these ads brought was increased phone calls to an already bogged down police department. While everyone agreed that smoking was bad, and statistics showed kids were better off if they never even started, the police also knew that catching those kids and the people who kept convenience stores running fell way down the priority list.
So when Harold called the first time, they tried to dismiss him immediately, as they had the thousands of other phone calls. The sergeant on duty figured it was probably another lowlife looking for a handout. He tried to give him the polite shove-off, but Harold barnacled his way through the conversation. After a minute Sergeant “Pindy” Pindelski picked up a notepad. This dude had dates, times, descriptions, even names.
“What are ya? The neighborhood watch?” Pindy asked sarcastically, even as he wrote. “How do you know this is happening?
“Well officer, I buy my cigarettes there,” the man replied simply.
There was a palpable moment of disbelief where the jaded man in uniform processed this piece of news. He really shouldn’t be surprised at this point in the game, but he hadn’t been expecting it. “You have to be fuckin’ A kidding me,” he finally managed.
“No sir, I am completely serious,” was the courteous reply.
“You buy your….” the officer’s voice trailed off. “Please tell me, oh concerned citizen-”
“My name is Harold-”
“Please tell me HAROLD, the concerned citizen, why? Why would you bother to take the surveillance time and effort to rat out the place you BUY YOUR CIGARETTES?”
Again, the voice on the phone was quiet, deferential and to the point, “Well I don’t want them to turn up like me. I can’t quit.”
So that settled the matter. Pindy went down to Klimpt’s Mini Mart the next day at one of the times Harold had advised was prime illegal sales hour, and caught the owner himself, Samuel Klimpt in the act.
Pindy leaned beside the “We Card Hard” sign and casually observed a young scraggly looking youth ask for a pack of Marlboro lights, and get handed the box of certain cancer and death (according to the parent association… and the surgeon general) without an eye twitch. The subsequent “sting” involved Pindy asking the kid to produce an ID. The request was followed by tears, protests, and general proclamations of ignorance. In the end Samuel was written a hefty fine, and told he would get a letter from the state proclaiming his day in court. Then Samuel would find out whether his license to sell alcohol and other questionable goods would be revoked.
A slight man with thinning sandy brown hair, a hooked nose, and a slouch from years of trying to look smaller than he really was watched from the back corner of the tiny market with obvious delight. He had been there the entire time, but only now, with his joy bursting forth, did anyone even acknowledge another human was there.
“Yes! There it is! Justice!” he crowed.
Samuel, his round bald face purple with rage turned to the man. “Harold? Did you do this? You come in here every day! You’re a good customer! What the hell?”
Harold’s face dropped as fast as a light bulb burns out. He took on the hangdog appearance that Pindy thought was his usual stance. “I like you Sam, but I don’t need them turning up like me. I’m sorry Sam, I am. You’re a good man, but this-” he pointed to the kid who had started crying at some point, probably when parents were mentioned, “Has got to stop!”
Without stopping his thought or giving any indication he was switching gears he turned to the police officer, “Can I have my money now?”
It caught Pindy off guard. After a second he replied, “You can take that up with the station manager. Or call that number on the hotline. I don’t carry reward money with me.”
“But I need it to buy my smokes!” the man whined.
Pindy really had nothing to say. There wasn’t any need. Sam lit into the man for the two of them, and was still yelling at the tall stooped man when Pindy left, youth in tow.
That was the first store.
Harold got his money, and was both puzzled and mortified when Sam would no longer sell him cigarettes. After a few heated debates that lead to police calls, Harold finally gave up. The story had already made its way through the department, and everyone thought it was a funny joke, but also felt that Sam had been through enough already. Harold’s persistent calls were put on hold and passed from one officer to another. Eventually the man stopped calling to complain about Klimpt’s, but only after weeks of dogged persistence. By then everyone knew Harold and his insistent tone. And so Pindelski was no longer surprised, but more resigned when he received a phone call from Harold about the second store.
The pattern played out in much the same fashion. The new store owner was hurt, upset and betrayed, Harold was both joyous and ashamed, and Pindy had a strong feeling that his future months held many encounters with this nicotine zealot.
He was right.
However, by the third and fourth store, a strange thing started to happen. Some say Chicago is the biggest small town you’ll ever see. The convenience store owners proved the adage as word got around. Like their own brand of mob justice, pictures of Harold started popping up on back walls decorated like the wanted signs from old timey days. Calls from one location to another would warn of his whereabouts.
When he managed to draw the police to a fifth store it was the final straw. By then no store would sell cigarettes to him. Even the police kept him on hold for longer and longer periods of time, tired of giving this man money.
His demeanor and hygiene, shabby at best, became downright negligent. Grocery stores asked him to leave as he was scaring the families. The network reported that he had become pitiful, walking around the streets trying to bum cigarettes from strangers. Most of the time his unkempt look and sheer desperation made them shy away.
And then one day Harold disappeared.
The store network and police station wondered at first what might have happened. There were no reports of bodies found matching his description, so most figured he moved away somewhere where he could buy cigarettes again. The network had a few exchanges of grim satisfaction at the outcome, led by Sam. Harold’s name was mentioned as a punchline a few times in the police station, but in truth there were more serious things to worry about than one nicotine vigilante. Then life returned to business as usual.
Weeks later he emerged, and showed up at Klimpt's Convenience Store. He looked healthier than Sam had ever seen him, if a bit haunted around the eyes.
“I quit, I finally got over that hump,” he announced as he walked through the door. “My head hurt like when those pretty little girls wear the headbands with the bows on them. Figured those always felt like a vice on your head, never understood why moms and grammies put them on their babies. Only I couldn’t take mine off….” his thin voice trailed until he regained the thread. “Now I’m done… Thank You.”
Sam looked at Harold and had a momentary pang of shame. It was true he had spent a lot of time working on the front lines of keeping Harold away from cigarettes. In the weeks since the incident, Sam had been forced to turn away a lot of kids, and in doing so, realized his place was cleaner and safer. Harold had benefitted him, and philosophically Sam reflected that much in the same way, he was responsible for helping Harold better his own life. Sam was about to become self-congratulatory when Harold turned to leave. He waved goodbye and paused at the door.
“Next I think I will go after the underage drinking in this town. It’s a problem too, you know.”