Saturday, October 13, 2001

The Last Time Jack Quit Smoking

Camping trip. Late Summer. Took a wander down to the campground-office-cum-general-store to buy a can opener, after a luscious afternoon swimming and slapping skeeters and with an evening of Czech pilsener and tales by the fireside ahead. Can opener, pack of cards, cheap plastic sandals for the littl’un, a few sticks of firewood aaaand—what the hell?—a deck of smokes while we’re at it.

Hadn’t had a cigarette in two years. Smoked one or two with a Starobrno longneck whilst cooking our one-skillet supper: sweet.

The campground showed movies on a big screen in the snack bar. While D and Claire were at the show, I strolled over to the showers, pausing to light up. As I rounded the corner by the snack bar, I saw two kids—couldna been more’n nine or 10—sneaking smokes behind the Dumpster.

I looked at the cigarette between my fingers: dropped it, crushed it out, and threw the pack in with the garbage.

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