© Denis Fitzpatrick, 2016
Johnathon Thomes-Speare had
just been labelled a ‘merchant of death’, because of his well-seasoned free
choice to pander in the many forms of tobacco, a substance which, really, is
quite harmless if taken in moderation. However, detracting from the scathing
invective, mildly delivered upon Johnathon, was the fact that it was declaimed by
some filthy tweenie, whose malodour was an utter original in just how offensive
some odours can be. Especially if left to rot on one’s shabby rags.
‘You stink, mate,’ replied John to this
lad. ‘Take a bloody shower.’
‘If I can get a pack on tick I’ll find
somewhere to wash straight away. I’ll smoke the first one on the way to the
shower.’ The fact that this filthbag seemed assured that he could get some
cigarettes on credit after having thus roundly abused Johnathon’s choice of
trade is explained by the fact that this filthbag was obviously in a psychotic
state. Not wildly grinning psychotic, but a very glazed appearance that says
there really is no such thing as unambiguous meaning.
‘I don’t know you, mate. No, you can’t get
tick.’
‘Aw, c’mon, man. I can give you
collateral.’
‘Go beg up a few bucks and then come back.’
‘Ok, man.’ Then the tweenie loped off,
thinking he was in for some discounted tobacco. The tweenie, though, also
allured Johnathon, despite the lad’s desperate situation, and because of the
freedom in the lad’s desperate situation. Sure, other deros had asked him for
credit, complete strangers, but this one was so utterly putrid and rotten
smelling, yet also looked so completely innocent. Unable to fend for himself.
He was obviously living the only life available to his feeble mind, living
utterly a wild life, accountable only to his simple self. This soon made the
youth’s accusation - of Johnathon being merely a merchant of death, a pedlar in
poison - sink deeper than expected. The lad, after all, spoke the truth as the
lad was at the naked centre of everything, his wild seclusion close to untamed
Nature probably able to show him all of our secret and hidden centres.
Yes, indeed, the lad, after all, spoke the
truth.
In fact, this dark nature of his business
had, he now realised, largely been at the bottom of his mind over the past few
years, seeming to mock him, questioning his very reason for existence. Johnathon
was also now distressingly aware that around fifty percent of his customers
will die because of his wares. Morally, at least, Johnathon - usually while
swimming awake - knew that he was a murderer. Johnathon, he further felt,
needed to be very seriously disciplined. It was at this point that Johnathon
became suddenly and fully awake, forgetting consciously that he was a paid murderer.
He wasn’t far now from retiring from the
workforce, two and a half years, so maybe he should get clean of this filthy
business now, before he retired, bringing no trace of any poison filth into a
calm retirement. Easy enough. In fact, it was all boon from Johnathon’s point
of view. Yes, certainly, he had to indeed rid himself of this disgusting trade.
If only for his own self esteem.
But at the crucial moment of Johnathon
selling his whole business, and in a meeting with an already primed, regular,
long-standing customer, he only offered her a half ownership of his steady,
safe business. He suddenly thought it might be best to keep a little of his
assets, just in case. You never know. The
customer, Vera Louk, only agreed to the altered purchase when she was told that
she would get the other half from his last will and testament. Vera was on the
lookout for something quick to feather her retirement’s nest egg, without
having to work very hard. She would, though, need to take out a business loan,
but in fifteen or so years, according to her calculations, she should be able
to travel throughout the world in fairly comfortable style. Both parties seemed
glad to have signed the final contract.
Vera
and John worked well together, although Vera was a silent partner. She also
pointed out, after Johnathon told her of that tweenie’s accusation, that the
world, like it or not, is a kill-or-be-killed place. It’s simply an unpleasant
truth. In fact, Vera further averred, her and Johnathon were simply doing the
only sensible thing - maintaining the status quo, maintaining peace and order.
They were, in fact, pillars of society. Johnathon practically adored Vera after
this declaration.
Johnathon was enjoying his work so much
now, having someone to share it with, that he began idly to consider trying one
of his cigarettes. Or maybe a cigar. Or a pipe. Either way he had always
thought it looked so sophisticated to have a smouldering fire dangling from one’s
fingers. It said so much about a person, about their style, their chic; it
alone really could be used to judge someone’s character.
He began talking to Vera about considering
taking up the smoke, like her, at one of their weekly meetings.
‘Well, yeah,’ she said, ‘you gotta try
one. It’s the only way you can really find out what it is we’re selling. And
the more we know, the more we can sell.’
‘And I can get the packets wholesale.’
‘And the lighters.’
‘Which do you recommend, the tailor mades
or the rollies?’
‘Personally I’m partial to the rollies but
I smoke the tailors ‘cause they’re the more convenient.’
‘Can you spare a tailor, mate?’
‘Sure. Now or never, eh, Johnathon?’
‘Now or never, mate.’ And he lit up.
And he loved it, despite the initial
coughing. All of Reality seemed to align itself when he was smoking, everything
made sense and he could clearly see its progression along a sure, certain, and
safe path forward. And it was an impression that lasted even after he finished
the smoke. It was simply too deep to be forgotten.
Johnathon’s joy with smoking eventually
began to subside, however, losing that ability to see life as moving along in a
planned way. The joy that a plan for life did actually exist, however, and that
there was a meaning to it, did get him out of bed early each morning. He
invariably smiled broadly throughout the first cigarette of the day.
He also smiled during the last cigarette
of the day, in his pyjamas in bed, cross-legged, and reading. He, of course, knew,
having seen the TV ads back in the seventies, that smoking in bed is very
dangerous. What was worse, Johnathon sometimes dozed off with the burning
cigarette in his hand, awaking when it had burned down to the filter and
scorched his fingers. But, hey, his life was still good and getting better, so
the normal rules can be relaxed a little.
This was also how he died, being found
burned to a crisp.
Johnathon lived above the shop and the
entire place was gutted. Vera found out the next day, on the way there to buy a
pack of smokes. Vera rang the insurance company straight away upon seeing the remaining
carnage. They would send an assessor out the next day.
She was eventually allowed in to view the
damage, when she showed her business card saying she was indeed the owner of
the shop, but was attended by an accompanying fireperson. The firey said the
fire didn’t look suspicious, but that was what surprised Vera. It all looked
like an act of Nature, Nature gone wrong, but Its will nonetheless.
Nothing was salvageable. She left quickly,
unreasonably and dejectedly lacking confidence that the insurance company could
help her. She would have to get another job now, if she meant to get by every
day as well as pay off her bank loan. She had never defaulted on a debt, had
always paid her bills on time, and she was not going to break that champion
situation now.
Her unreasoning confidence in being failed
by the insurance company did indeed prove to be correct, for they weren’t long
in denying her claim for any compensation monies. The fire was caused by an
unattended cigarette, and was thus the fault of at least one of the policy
holders. It was time to look for another job again. The bank had to have its
burnt offering and that was the only way she could offer her sacrifice.
She spent longer than she guessed she
would in finding a second job, and then only as a pizza delivery staffer, four
hours a night, six nights a week. She was passing the pizzeria, on the way home
after an interview, and one of the staff had just put the job advertisement in
the window. Sure, it was only a delivery person, but, mate, from little things
big things grow. She lied about her age, as she learned to do, and only got the
job because they needed someone immediately. The other driver was in a car
crash.
It was an easy job, and Vera liked how the
familiar places, to where she delivered, often changed aspect from visit to
visit. And thankfully her new job let the bank be willing to accommodate Vera’s
reduced ability to pay the loan for the shop.
Vera no longer thought losing the
tobacconist to be a veritable tragedy after she had her first heart attack.
Luckily she was not driving at the time, having instead just entered her car
and sat down to start the night’s deliveries. She wasn’t entirely sure that it
was a heart attack, but took herself to the nearest hospital - Westmead, western
Sydney - just to check. They quickly confirmed a mild heart attack after she
arrived there.
Vera now knew, without being told by her
doctors (which they did) that she would have to give up smoking. It was quite
possible that the next cigarette might be her last, causing a larger heart
attack, and she would choke on her own smoke.
Naturally, she gave up the smokes.
For four weeks. Exactly.
She blamed God for leading her back to the
smokes, and indeed everyone else in Paradise was liable too. On the night of her
exactly fourth week of successful abstinence, her dreams led her into Heaven,
but a Paradise that had long ago condoned and welcomed those imbibers of all
manner of poisons and potions. Vera discovered that in Heaven you can smoke if
you want to. You could be a chain smoker and things will only still continue to
get better thereby in Paradise. Here, have a cigarette.
Vera then sprang awake, about to light the
smoke. She had a very strong tobacco craving. Very Strong. Undeniable.
Her next cigarette didn’t strike her
heart, paralysing her. It struck her eyes, blinding her. On her bluer days she recalls
watching her vision film over as the last of the cigarette’s smoke curled up into
clouds. She’s still glad that she was never a big reader and has in fact now
become somewhat of an audiophile, finding that her hearing has compensatingly
improved. Vera also now easily understands why God permits cigarettes, and
other drugs, into Paradise. They are obviously there to show us that we can
safely indulge in vice, that vice and virtue are interdependent, and the highs
we get from these drugs is a hint of Paradise, a boon borne of bane. And she
now smokes a pipe, its sweeter scent reflecting her own dearly won wisdom.
~~~
If you have been enjoying Fitzpatrick's stories here you may also enjoy his short story collections, and other books, available online as both Kindle books and paperbacks (go to http://amzn.to/1NfodtN). Other ebook and paperback options are available at http://bit.ly/1UsyvKD Fitzpatrick is also having a collection of short stories, Aberrant Selected, published by Waldorf Publishing on September 01, 2018. You can follow its journey at www.aberrantselected.blogspot.com
