Cigs at Casey's

“My parents got an Irish Sweepstakes ticket from my aunt in County Cork!” “I know. That’s cool, isn’t it? We got one, too, from my uncle in Dublin.” These were the words of my excited Irish classmates on the Catholic schoolyard, back in the early ‘60s. How I wished back then that we had something similar here in the USA. Just imagine, I used to think, you could have a chance at wealth and riches just by buying a ticket. You didn’t have to be born wealthy, which I wasn’t. Your family didn’t have to work hard, save and invest, which somehow seemed beyond my parents capabilities. One of the younger nuns came out with the brass handbell. As she began to rhythmically wave her hand back and forth, the bell sound rang out, and the students quieted and made their way to the entrance door, thus signaling the beginning of our school day and the end of my daydream. I’d needed fuel for the car today and pulled into Casey’s General Store. The words on their signboard reminded me that the PowerBall has rolled over into one of those awe inspiring figures. So, when the gas pump LCD message popped up, directing me to go inside to pick up my receipt, I figured it was a sign that I should buy a chance at nearly 200 million dollars for the bargain price of two bucks, you know? like eight measly quarters? Who could not? Heck, if my memory served me correctly, my school friends’ parents were paying 20 bucks back in the 60s for a chance at only 20,000 pounds or so. Anyway, I’m pretty sure that even allotting for both inflation and the currency difference, the U.S. MegaMillion and PowerBall lotteries promised even more payout than the old Irish Sweepstakes ever did. I remember going home back in the day and asking my mom about the Irish Sweepstakes. She told me that in Ireland it was a way to raise money for charity. She thought it was for healthcare or something. Mom almost made it sound noble to purchase such a ticket. And she also informed me that she’d no opportunity to make such an illustrious buy, so I better just “forget about it.” Many, many years later I would read that the Irish Sweepstakes actually gave less than 10 percent of its assets to “charity,” and that their system of picking “winners” was suspect. So, today I marched purposefully into Casey’s to pick up my receipt and to buy a chance at my childhood dream. I figured I’d be out of there quickly. I felt lucky, you know what I’m saying? Plus, it looked like the store was empty, a rarity in itself, so I was doubly sure I was destined for some good luck. As I went through the door I saw an older woman draped across the counter staring straight ahead. She was facing the clerk. A slightly overweight woman, she had both forearms firmly planted on the counter, which was absorbing most of her body weight. Having no choice but to stand and wait my turn, I noticed that the woman was staring at a wall of cigarettes and various tobacco products rising behind the checker. I mean it was a wall, over six feet tall and at least equally as wide, lined with cigarettes, pipe tobacco, snuff and cheap cigars. After a time, sufficient to cause me to wonder if she was alive, I saw the woman shift, just ever so slightly, as she muttered, “Oh, heck, I don’t know...” The checker quickly interjected, “Like I told you before, the distributor will be here around 3 o’clock this afternoon, so you can always come back then. I’m sure he’ll have some...” “Oh never mind,” she cut the checker off, “I take 4 packs of the Marburra “shorts. They’re a quicker smoke but, they pack a nice punch.” The checker moved fairly quickly to grab the cigarettes and ring them up, but the mostly one-sided conversation continued. “I jest can’t believe you’re out of the longs.” “They go quickly. Marlboro’s are one of our biggest sellers.” “Well, heck yah, they’re a darn good cigarette. I just wisht they din’t cost so much. If the guvment keeps raisin’ the taxes on ‘em, I’m gonna hafta give up some of my luxuries, such as food, just to pay for ‘em. That or go to the tobacco store and buy the tobacco and them tubes with filters on ‘em and stuff my own. I figure I can roll 3 cartons for just about 20 bucks or so.” “That’ll be $24.95,” again the clerk takes advantage of the slight pause to get in a word. “You know I can remember when they’s a quarter a pack, but that was before your time,” she chuckles. “Made a dollar and a quarter an hour back then and paid twenty-five cents for my cigarettes.” The woman, still depending on the counter for support, shifts her weight enough to allow for the slow process of removing cash from her purse. She continues talking, “They got us in this country to where’s we can hardly get by. Taxin’ this and taxin’ that. It’s ri-dic-a-lus. No one can afford anything if, like me, their folks din’t have no money to send their young ’ens to college and so they’ve only been able to get barely decent jobs their whole lives. I wuz workin’ at the slaughterhouse in town until my car accident. Yeah I know, folks in town say how can you work there? The smell is so bad, ‘specially in the summer. You know what I tell ‘em? I tell ‘em: ‘That so-called offensive smell, that’s the smell of money’ ” Why do I always get behind people like this? But, I’ve invested this much time, so just out of principle, and the fact that I have that lucky feeling, I continue to wait for my receipt and lottery ticket. Outside of removing the money from her purse she hasn’t moved from her position of leaning across the counter. She continues to talk, “I quit cold turkey for nine and a half months when I was in my 30’s. You know the nicotine habit ain’t all that hard to break. I read somewheres it only stays in the system for ‘bout six, seven days. I started smokin’ when I was 16. I still smoke now at 59. ‘Cept now ya can't smoke in public places. And at work, I had to go to a designated area outside the building when I wanted to have a smoke, even when it was bitter cold outside. But that was back before that kid in the silver pickup truck with the bumper sticker that says “No Fat Chicks Allowed” pulled out in front of my car over on Route 64. That accident busted my knee and broke my ankle in 2 places. I hadta have surgery to put screws in my ankle. Ya know you can’t smoke in the hospital, right? And since then, I been on the couch. Doctor says to keep the leg rested and elevated. Or somethin’ like that. Somethin’ about rice, I think, rest, somethin’, somethin’, and elevate. I can’t remember what else. Anyway since I been outta work, I watch T.V. all day, and now I smoke more than ever. I tell ya, it’s a cryin’ shame. I was makin’ 9 and a half bucks an hour at the slaughterhouse before I was injured. And here I'm on disability and paying six to seven dollars a pack to enjoy my one and only vice, smoking. I have one of them air filters that cleans the air in my home, so it's not like I'm inconsiderate of those around me. I realize it's my habit. And I have complete respect for those that choose not to smoke, and that includes my own grandchildren. But, tobacco's been around since the beginning of time. Or whenever it was that God seen fit to put them seeds here on this land.  When I was a kid, doctors advertised cigarette smokin’ on T.V.  Heck, my daddy fought in World War II and risked his life so that this country could be so called "free." And the guvment seen fit, back then, to put cigarettes in his C-rations. So I’m pretty sure smokin’ was one of them guaranteed freedoms. All’s I know is I’ve worked hard, fur as long’s I can remember. And now I can't work because of some textin’ driver.” She takes a breath, coughs a bit and hands the clerk the cash as she is pushing her body up into a walking position. It is then I notice the cane she has propped next to her. She starts toward the front door. I rush to hold the door open for her as she ambles out of the store. As if just noticing that I’ve been waiting in the store all this time, she offers to me, “Thanks. Anyway I think the guvment should leave cigarettes alone for Pete's sake!” The door closes behind her and I raise my eyebrows a bit as the clerk and I exchange shy smiles. The clerk gently sighs and ever so slightly shakes her head in response. Back in my car with my receipt and lottery ticket tucked in the cup holder, I start for home and when I pull onto Route 73, I notice that the car in front of me has slowed considerably. It’s the woman, who just bought the “shorts,” right in front of me in her car. She has just tooted her horn at a passing farm implement. The farmer slows and stops, she rolls down her window and they begin to chat, no matter that they are both at the top of a hill and on the crest of a curve. The double, solid yellow line and “do not pass” sign let me know I’m not legally able to pass her. You know, maybe that luck I’ve been feeling up until now wasn’t “good” luck after all.