CIGARETTES CAN BE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH
by
Jill Williams (copyright 1996 All Rights Reserved)
From the minute she boarded the SkyTrain, Beth knew
two things. She absolutely had to quit smoking. And the guy
sitting next to her was dangerous. Just how dangerous, she
wouldn't learn until much later. For now, though, it was because
he turned her on.
She'd smoked Du Maurier Lights since the age of
thirteen. Now, at thirty-three, having tried all the usual
tricks to end her love affair with nicotine--switching brands,
making rules about where she could or could not smoke, rationing
the number of cigarettes, etc.--she was positively obsessed with
quitting.
Of course, when her boyfriend dumped her after a three
year relationship, claiming he could no longer tolerate the
stench of her smoky apartment and smelly hair, she knew it was
time to make a few changes. No more cigarettes. And no more
abusive relationships. Billy had never hit her or anything. But
more often than not, his stinging criticisms felt worse than a
smack across the face. She couldn't wait to run into him six
months from now and, when he asked her how much she was smoking
these days, tell him she'd quit. Just to see the shocked
expression in those sexy blue eyes. He had incredible eyes,
actually. But eyes weren't everything.
Immediately after they'd split, Beth enrolled in a two
week crash course for people who wanted to quit smoking. It
wasn't cheap. Two hundred dollars. But as the seminar leader
pointed out, she'd be saving a lot more than two hundred dollars
once she became a nonsmoker. (He insisted on using the word
'nonsmoker' rather than 'ex-smoker' because it had a more
permanent ring to it.)
Well the two weeks were up today.
So she'd butted her last Du Maurier Light before
boarding the train and tossed the empty pack into the nearest
trash container. The time had come to quit or get-off-the-pot.
Except the idea of never inhaling that first delicious
puff of the morning, sensual as a lingering kiss, made her want
to slit her wrists. Or, at the very least, everybody else's.
"I know this must sound really strange," she heard
herself saying to the man seated next to her, "but I just quit
smoking and it's driving me crazy."
"I used to smoke," he said, "but I gave it up."
Like her boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, he had these
incredible eyes.
"Was it hard," she asked him.
"Depends what your definition of hard is."
"Saying no to cigarettes."
"Bad habits take time to break."
The way he emphasized the word 'bad' made Beth feel
uneasy. Maybe striking up a conversation with this fellow hadn't
been such a hot idea.
"I guess," she answered, thinking of all the friends
she had who smoked. And how she'd have to avoid them now.
The train pulled into Main and more passengers got on.
A deaf couple, conversing animatedly in sign language. Some
Japanese tourists, cameras in tow, who studied the map above the
exit door. Even if she had wanted to distract herself by talking
to other people, it wasn't possible. Not in this car.
"You live around here," the nonsmoker asked.
"I live in the West End."
The minute she said it, she regretted it. She didn't
even know this man.
"The West End, eh? Too many tall buildings down there
for my taste."
(His looks were definitely on a par with Tom Cruise
and Brad Pitt.)
"I know what you mean," she grinned back, unable to
stop herself from flirting with him.
"What kind of work do you do," his directness was
refreshing.
"I'm in between jobs right now," she said, feeling
slightly awkward about it, "I was working at The Bay. In the
housewares department? But I got laid off."
"My wife used to shop there."
Oh-oh. The word 'wife' meant trouble. Unless, of
course, he was referring to an ex-wife.
"How come she doesn't shop there now?"
It was a simple, straight forward question that would
tell her exactly what she wanted to know without him suspecting.
"My wife is dead. Now."
The way he paused between 'dead' and 'now' made her
visibly uncomfortable. She knew the chances of sitting next to a
psychopath on the SkyTrain were a million to one. Still, she was
truly sorry she'd blabbered on to him about where she lived and
what she did. She'd even told him which department she'd worked
in.
"My wife was decapitated in an automobile accident,"
he explained, "just like Jayne Mansfield. But then I don't
suppose you'd know who Jayne Mansfield is."
"Not really."
Beth was seriously beginning to feel afraid. Then she
remembered the seminar leader warning them that, in some cases,
withdrawal from nicotine could cause temporary paranoia.
"Only reason I know about Jayne Mansfield," he droned
on, "is because of this show I saw on TV. About Hollywood's
gruesomest deaths? Poor Janie headed the list."
Could he possibly be making a joke at his poor, dead
wife's expense?
"Well," Beth said, popping out of her seat like some
coked-up jack-in-the-box, "it's been nice chatting with you."
The train suddenly lurched forward.
"Better sit down," he suggested, taking hold of her
arm and guiding her gently back into the seat beside him. Once
she sat, his grip tightened. Beth looked around the car. Who
would she cry to for help? Only the deaf couple remained on
board now, chatting away in animated silence.
Maybe this was the first time he'd ever spoken of the
accident to anyone. Maybe that was why he didn't want her to
leave just yet. Okay. She could understand that.
"How did you manage to stop smoking," she asked,
hoping the change of subject would make him let go of her arm.
"I just woke up one morning and said to myself,
'Jimbo, you're killing yourself with these damn things?' So
that's when I decided to quit. Didn't even finish off the pack,
either."
"That's incredible."
As his grip on her arm relaxed, she noticed his
fingernails. They had rust-colored dirt under them. Furniture
stain, maybe? Shoe polish? Or was it dried, caked blood?
"One does what one must," he smiled, looking at his
hands.
It made her breathless with fear. She'd read somewhere
that, if you force a rapist to see you as a person rather than a
sex object, there's a good chance he'll let you go. She was
hoping the same principle held true here. So she shot another
question at him.
"But how did you stop the cravings?"
"Chewed a lot of toothpicks."
The SkyTrain was slowing down. The lights from
Metrotown flickered outside the window. What would he do, she
wondered, if she bolted for the exit door? Tackle her? Pull out
a knife and start hacking away at her shoulder blades? There
were people on the platform, waiting to board. Would he attack
them, too? It didn't matter. All she knew was, she had to get
off this train.
Once again, he took hold of her arm. Oh, god. Why her?
Why now?
"Well, good luck with not smoking," he said, getting
up and heading for the exit.
Before she could recover enough to thank him for his
encouragement, he was gone. Down the stairs and into the cold
December evening. Just like that.
When she finally unlocked the door to her tiny
apartment--where she'd carefully washed all the ashtrays, sheets
and towels so nothing would smell of smoke--she couldn't wait to
crawl into bed. Maybe sleep would relieve her gnawing need for a
cigarette.
She flipped on the TV and channel-surfed. Wait. That's
him! The man she'd been sitting next to on the SkyTrain. A
sketch of his angular face flashed across the screen. Some
policeman was saying the guy had killed three women. He'd
chopped their heads off with an axe and then left them in
various dumpsters all over the city. His name was Jimbo Malone.
They were offering a reward for any information leading to his
arrest.
After the detective down at police headquarters
ushered her into his own private cubicle, he offered her, of all
things, a Du Maurier Light.
"No, thanks," Beth replied, and she really didn't want
it, either.
"I gotta quit one of these days," he said, lighting
another cigarette from the one he already had going.
"You will when you're ready."
As she studied the sketch of Jimbo Malone, she felt
strange. Almost like she was betraying the man. He had to be
captured. She knew that. But she also knew he was the reason
she'd never pick up another cigarette as long as she lived. And
for that, she'd always be grateful to him.
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