The wheel turns, the seasons pass, the world adds yet another bark-ring to its thermally threatened girth, and Time marches on, in that plodding, straight-line manner it always adopts whenever the humans are watching closely. The last slurred echoes of “Happy New Year!” carom off the dirty walls of vague memory, and all the clocks reset to one.
Inside the dingy pub of my subconscious mind, the floors are getting a thorough sweep and mop, as I struggle gamely to focus on what will be my next great cause. So many windmills, so little beer. In a smoky back room my Trust in Government is playing pool with The Corporate Machine. As always, money is discreetly involved. The few snippets of conversation which carry to the next room do not bode well for either my money or my Trust.
“Really?” says my Trust in Government, “The one who breaks, always gets two turns on Tuesdays? And you get to alter the rules as you see fit?”
“Absolutely!” say The Corporate Machine, “If you don't believe me, ask The Government.”
“What ever Corporate says is fine by me,” chimes in The Government in its official capacity as referee.
“Well, if The Government says it's okay...” Never, in the history of words, have any words so clearly summarized the phrase, “Not bode well.” My wallet might just as well be balemic. No sooner do I feed it, than the twin fingers of The Government and The Corporate Machine are jammed down its throat with the most predictable and projectile of effects.
I often think it would be much simpler if every time my Trust in Government saw The Government and The Corporate Machine coming it would just lie on its back and start saying, “Beige. I think I'll paint the ceiling beige.” It is among the most time honored of coping mechanisms.
At the bar itself, my Thirst for Knowledge is reading the ingredients on a bottle if FOX News, and silently weeping at the amount of artificial flavorings and Red-White-and-Blue Dye No. 3. My Need to Find Meaning in It All lies slumped over its bar stool. With Dick Clark out of the equation, why bother? My Illusion of Purpose is passed out on the floor, much the same as last year and the year before that. Repeated taps by the broom and splashes from the mop have elicited no response. Once again, as in years past, someone has drawn cat whiskers on his face in indelible ink and his right hand is in a bowl of water which was obviously warm enough when it was introduced.
Me? I'm the one pushing the broom. Each year I'm the one who has to try to make sense of the besotted shrapnel that was once a lucid mind. Each year I have to decide what to keep and what to throw out. Neither confetti nor self-recrimination are attractive in the harsh light of the morning after.
Perhaps this year I'll start by getting rid of that big Tobacco monkey on my back. I call him Kong. He was a cute, little Reese's monkey when he boarded, but in the years since then he's grown to Hollywood preportions. After giving him the best thirty years of my life, what has he ever given back to me? A hacking cough? The lung capacity of a ninety year old? Clothes that smell like an ashtray? I keep throwing money at him, and he keeps throwing back what monkeys have always thrown since the dawn of time. How hard can it be? It's only a monkey. A giant, clawed, starving, thirty foot monkey.
“No antidepressants,” says I.
“Just the thing,” says the doctor.
“One hundred and sixty seven dollars,” says the pharmacist!
“Beige,” says I, “I think I'll paint the ceiling beige.”
The box warns that, among other things, the medication may cause, “unusual dreams.” Really? For me? This is my reality and they think they can go me one better in my dreams? Bring it on, rookie!
Reports from previous users say that in a week or two cigarettes will start to taste nasty. Start? Just in case, I've started switching over to a brand whose flavor is widely known to be so noxious that the only reason people smoke them is in an effort to quit.
I tell you all of this to remind you that when the smokers in your life start snapping at you or yelling for no reason, it's not their fault. They're just trying to get the Tobacco monkey off their backs. They're killing King Kong.
For those of you who never smoked... Yes, we know. You're the smart ones. We were stupid. Let it go. Nicotine acts like a Dolby system for the brain. It helps dial down all those petty annoyances. You know, like those people berating us for smoking in the first place. So if you truly want to help us quit, try not adding to the chaos of reasons that make our brains cry out for the muffling peace that the monkey offers. Try not flinging any of what the monkeys fling. At least until we're done.
Spotting the smokers who are trying to quit will not be hard. Our hair will look like Nick Nolte's mug shot. Our eyes will look like Marty Feldman on a four day coke binge, and our shoes will probably be on the wrong feet. If barefoot, our feet may be on the wrong legs. I can't explain it. I just know it's true. Most noticeably though, every three to five minutes we will yell, “I WANT A %$&#&ING CIGARETTE!”
Please. Be gentle.
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