TOBACCO ROAD

[MATILDA]

A Tale of Tobacco Road

Displaced smokers are a stoic lot. Ostracized, and often the target of ridicule, they gather on back porches and in segregated seating sections across the Capital City. Seeing them causes a wave of nicotine nostalgia to sweep over me. Suddenly, I am transported back to the secret places where I'd hide away to suck hot, poison smoke into the soft tissues of my tender, teen-age lungs: the bowling alley, the basement crawlspace, a vacant toilet stall. And-oh yes-on "Tobacco Road."

It was the year men frist walked on the moon and, more importantly, the year I snagged "Big Donny J." He was smooth, with his cool, sleep-eyed stare, Banlon shirt and Stacey Walker shoes. Up until the week before, he was pre-pre-engaged to Nikki Carp, a tightly wound senior with a two-story bouffant and a testy temper; but now I was riding shotgun in his '61 Chevy, ready to make my smoky debut one hub-capless morn on Tobacco Road.

We cruised into view about 7:30 a.m. and parked between Mojo, a James Dean wanna-be on his chopper, and the Spinazolla twins, two identically scarred throwbacks from West Side Story, leaning up against a metal-flecked GTO. Cat's eyes stares from the girls and macho nods of approval from the guys acknowledged our arrival. We smoked-even if we didn't want to. It was our job.

I enjoyed holding court there on the vinyl-covered front seat of the Don-mobile. Fellas with nicknames too stupid to remember came by to pay their respects and offer me a flick of their respective Bics. It was a dangerous business, but fun.

Fun, at least, until an obviously bitter and scorned Nikki Carp exploded through the swirling gray haze blowing smoke through her flared nostrils.

Horrified, I could do nothing as I saw two long-fingered hands with Fu Manchu nails sprung like talons headed my way. There was a pathetic little yelp (which I'm pretty sure came from me), and the next thing I knew, I had been pulled from the car and out onto the gravel road.

Dazed, but not altogether in a fog, I felt the sting of four girly slaps across my face. A screeching-sobbing banshee sound counted each hit.

"This is for Monday. This is for Tuesday. This is for Wednesday. This is for Thursday..." it wailed.

I knew I had to act fast or I'd be dead by the time she got to the weekend.

From the depths within me sprung a surge of survival adrenalin that could fuel any six sissies. In slow motion, I saw my one hand block the "Friday" slap mid-strike, while the other delivered a clean chop to her kisser. The single blow bloodied her lip and sent her wiglet sailing over the roof of the car until it landed on the radio antenna where it twirled like an impaled rat's nest. It left her coiffure with a crater big enough to balance a fruit basket, a visual that will live forever in my mind.

To make matters worse, her face screamed red as she bent over choking on the peppermint my defensive smack knocked down her throat. Instinctively, I gave her a quick kick in the butt to starighten her up and them a sharp slap on the back to dislodge the candy. It shot out of her mouth like a rocket and skipped the surface of the car hood three times before it ricocheted into the forehead of one Sarafino Calabresio, the class skank and female bone-crusher.

Time seemed to stand still as this greaser queen-of-swat thumped toward me, picking the shattered mint from her very furled brow.

I knew my life was over, but before I could hit the dirt groveling, she reached into the front pocket of her cabretta and pulled out a pack of smokes. Her outstretched hand offered me approval, friendship and a light to the cigarette she stuck in my trembling lips.

"Smoke wit me," she insisted. "I think we share da same brand." They were Lucky Strikes.

From that moment on, my reputation was made. No one ever messed with me again. I was McCarthy, the one who could "kickyerazz" without breaking a sweat. I knew long before the Surgeon General ever stamped it on any pack that" "Smoking may be hazardous to your health."

As for sweet Donald? We were an item for a carton or two, but he finally threw me over for some pretty little (smoke-free) Cuban number named Deetda. Go figure.

It's a wonder any of us ever survived teenhood.

(reprint from Tallahassee Magazine 4/99 by Maureen McCarthy)