Why Marlboro Menthol replaced Hope Menthol as my favorite cigarette (cont'd)

�Say, Jess ...� Her use of my favorite sobriquet got my attention and cheered me up a bit. �Jess, do you still have any more cigarettes? I ran out.�

Her request startled me for but a moment. My fingers fished for my reserve pack of cigarettes in my inner coat pocket as I replied. �Hope...,� I stopped halfway through my sentence, suddenly recalling the social divide that existed between CJ and me.

A person of her class does not smoke the cigarette of the middle-class Bohemian. Her upper-class lungs were probably more accustomed to the rich flavor and texture of the more expensive Marlboros and Capris. Out of necessity and consideration for my financial state, I had chosen to smoke the cheapest and longest menthol cigarette in the market, at the expense of quality and nicotine potency. She probably wouldn�t find satisfaction in smoking my second-rate brand of cigarettes; in the same way, I had gagged and coughed when I smoked the cheaper, non-menthol Winstons. My sentence continued; there was nothing else left for me to say other than:

�... is the only cigarette I have.�

Her lovely lips pouted in disappointment, as I expected. She returned her wistful stare to the rain outside, as the damp breeze caressed our faces.

I thought of the shopping complex on campus, two blocks away. The route to the shopping complex lay uncovered and exposed to the heavens� downpour, but it was the closest place for me to purchase cigarettes. �What�s your brand?� I asked her hurriedly.

Her response was immediate. �Marlboro.�

�Which one? Which color?�

�Marlboro Mentos...,� she paused upon realizing her mistake. �I meant, Marlboro Menthol.� Her eyes squinted in concentration over the rain-soaked asphalt.

I approached her and offered her my camera. �Would you kindly hold this for me?� She looked at me with a slight hesitation before she took the camera from my nervous hands. The heel of my shoe crushed my dropped cigarette against the floor as I secured my jacket for the sprint. Her expression declared her surprise upon realizing my intentions.

�Jess, are you crazy? It�s raining like hell!�

I shrugged.

�You�ll be soaking wet!�

�I know.� Her sharp disapproval mellowed after she noted my raised hand.

�You don�t have to, Jess. You�ll get sick.�

I took a step forward and approached the curtain of raindrops that dripped from the overhang above us. �I don�t have to, but I want to.� With those parting words, I took off, despite her protests. I relied on both my legs, honed by high school track and field, and my non-slip rubber shoes, which were already over two years old. Under the rain, I felt my shirt turn into a fully saturated sponge within a matter of seconds.

I returned to the church after five minutes, with my jacket dripping wet. I told her to take a few steps back while I shook myself vigorously to dry myself, in the manner of drenched dogs. The drops splattered across the marble floor while she silently watched. I didn�t expect the rain to be so furious and so cold; I prayed that I wouldn�t get pneumonia or, at the worst, mock hypothermia.

I looked up at her after inspecting the damage that the rain had ravaged on my coat, only to find my camera lens staring right back at me, with her index finger on the shutter. The familiar click from my camera stopped my hand before I could raise it in protest. She lowered the camera from her eyes and waited for my response. In my shock I just stood there, mute and shivering from the onslaught of the wind�s chill.

Disappointment washed over me and hung as heavy as the water that dripped from my sopping clothes. The last piece of film was gone forever, and the opportunity to capture the beauty of the moment was snatched before my eyes. I thought of the semesters that would pass, when our worlds would diverge, when the sight of her charming chinita eyes and adorable retainers would no longer grace the beautiful mornings. I would be seated in front of my Erlenmeyer flask, pipette in hand, surrounded by the cold, insensitive chemists. They would have mastered the ideas behind the hybridization of electron orbitals but would have no idea of what true beauty is or what it can do to sentimental people like me. I tried to smile, but my rueful smile only belied my frustration over fate�s cruelty.

The sound of her gentle laughter soon replaced my discontent and brought me back to my senses. The sight of her beautiful chinita eyes, which seemed to disappear as she took delight in my look of consternation, finally made me laugh too, this time in earnest. My spirits lifted, I straightened my soggy jacket and reached into it to search for her fresh, unopened pack of Marlboro cigarettes. We regained our composure and exchanged our articles, with smiles on both our faces, while I slowly burned the memory in my treasure trove of cherished recollections.

�You looked so funny,� she giggled, her lighter�s flame burning away the plastic cover that topped the cigarette pack. �You just froze there and stared at me like that proverbial deer before the car headlights. I thought it only happened in movies.�

�Yeah, I guess it was funny, wasn�t it?� The customary whirring from the camera indicated that it was already finished with another roll of film.

She held her stick between her luscious lips as she offered me one from the pack. I took one and inhaled deeply as I leaned towards the lighter in her outstretched hand. A sudden gust of wind sprayed fine mist upon us and bore away the twin curls of smoke. We stood in silence, relishing the fine flavor of menthol in our lungs.

With a raised brow and a sidelong glance, she slowly exhaled and then asked, �You have a crush on me, don�t you, Jess?�

The shivers underneath my damp clothes abruptly ceased upon hearing her question. Our eyes met, as I stood there, speechless and dumbfounded by her directness. Her angelic beauty arrested my thoughts; I felt my heart race in fear and apprehension over whether I should tell her truth or not. What was I supposed to say? She waited for my answer with a patient mien, her chinita eyes twinkling with amusement at my indecision.

I knew that the distinction of a true photographer is the ability to capture a single moment, one which occurs only once in a thousand years and yet lasts only for the briefest of seconds. I had waited patiently for the unannounced arrival of that which is divine and eternal and true, so that, in reaction, I can seize it and preserve these fleeting glimpses into the essential nature of the soul. Perhaps, I thought, it was time for me to stop waiting and, possibly, take a more active role in the discovery of the beautiful.

Jess is a big, wet hen. At least the �wet� part was true. Buckbuckbuckbuckbuckbuckaaack.

Time slowed to a crawl as I paused to reorganize my frazzled thoughts. It was now or never. I ain�t gonna live forever. Strike while the iron is hot. Opportunity knocks only once. A bird in the hand is worth ... wait a minute.

Carpe diem. Seize the day. Thank God for Robin Williams and the movie �Dead Poet�s Society�.

�Of course,� I finally replied. As an afterthought, I added, �Why else would I run out there and get soaked just to buy a pack of cigarettes for you?� I took another puff and waited for her reaction, unsure of how my rather frank admission would affect her attitude towards me.

She gave me a simple nod and took a puff of her own. �I know, Jess.�

�Oh.� I received my second shock for the day, effectively flooding my peripheral nervous system with enough neurotransmitters to drown out the chill, which had started its slow embrace around my shivering body.

�Good,� she continued. The silver bracelet on her wrist glimmered briefly as she brought up her hand behind the curl of her ear, smoothing away a stray lock of hair. �At least you�re honest.�

The unbearable heaviness of feeling departed from me like the ghosts of Milan Kondera�s novels. In my mind, I visualized myself taking the chicken, which had been pestering me for nearly a whole semester, by the neck. My bolo swiftly descended, and the annoying buckbuckbuckbuckbuck soon turned into a gurgle of blood instead. I marveled at the strong sensation of inner peace that flooded my soul, much like the delicious aroma of freshly cooked chicken tinola.

�See? That wasn�t so hard,� she said nonchalantly. I smiled in response. Carpe diem, indeed.

She returned her gaze to the melancholy scene before us, her eyes reflecting the gentle radiance of the minute diamonds that showered the earth. My heart took a picture of her at that moment, as she stood there, with her lovely straight hair, her chinita eyes and adorable retainers, with her tight white jacket and stylish clogs, and her green-striped cigarette in hand. I closed my eyes and held the photograph close to my shivering body, enjoying the softness of some newly-discovered music, which had gone unnoticed behind the irksome clucking all this time.

My lips kissed the filter as I took another deep breath. I opened my eyes and then gazed at my own cigarette. My former brand had less kick, I observed. Wait a minute. I paused to check my thoughts, asking myself what I meant when I said �former�.

CJ tapped my shoulder as she hurriedly consigned her cigarette to the dripping plants outside. Her warning alerted me to the sound of footsteps from within the church, presaging the arrival of either the priest or one of the caretakers. Their increasing strength bid me to quickly follow CJ�s lead. We entered the church for warmth, past the entrance archway and the posted �No smoking� sign beside it.

Only the pitter-patter of the raindrops on the roof comprised the silence that resumed between us.

Finis

Why Marlboro Menthol replaced Hope Menthol as my favorite cigarette (cont'd)

Related Links