And The Other One Ashed His Dust.
With the white stick they all held between their long, short, pudgy, thin to too thin fingers they were all what they inhaled. I called the boy with the dark brown crew cut and lumber jack beard Newport. Then there was the tall flimsy girl with hair that touched the small of her back, her name was American Spirit. At work I had this manager with a short black ponytail and untrimmed, but still short beard, who always had an opinion on politics and he was Camel-- the Turkish Royal kind. A block before they even reach you I could smell a Camel Menthol Crush. The ‘trendy’ smokers of the world who didn’t do it because they were addicted, but because they ‘liked the taste’. Newport would always comment on those types, “They don’t do it for the long haul. They aren’t living and dying for the cause, you know? Oh and don’t get me started on American Spirits. There is no healthy type of cancer.”
Life was full of Camel Menthol Crushes and Newports with your occasional American Spirit and I was just the non-smoker taking my fill of second hand smoke.