New Horizons

I bought my first carton of cigarettes today. They weren't mine. They were for my mother-in-law. Really.

Being the goody-two-shoes that I have perpetually been since toddlerhood, I have never bought or smoked a cigarette, and my entire experience with alchohol consists of one sip of seurat, and one sip of port at a vineyard in central Texas. (Yes, they do have vineyards in Texas, with bed-and-breakfasts run by delightful Afrikaners. And now you know.)

On my way to town, I mulled over how one goes about asking for and purchasing a carton of cigarettes from a locked cabinet behind the last checker at WalMart. I thought I might say, "Could I have a carton of Misty Lights 120's, please?" and smile and say, "They're for my mother-in-law."

But why do I have to tell him they aren't mine? I wondered.

Because I'm a goody-two-shoes, I replied. Buying cigarettes would tarnish my white-bread-Southern-Baptist image. Duh.

So I decided to just buy them, as though I did it all the time.

Attempt #1

I get in line to check out at WalMart. The store is closing, and each register has at least a ten minute wait. I head toward the checker at the cigarette counter. Then I notice the sign over his head. "Ten Items or Less." Nevermind. I choose a line two aisles away from the cigarette counter.

Fifteen minutes later, I check out. As she rings up the last items, I casually say, "Oh, and I need a carton of Misty Lights 120's, please."

She glares at me. Glares. "You can't do that here. You have to be in that line." She indicates the cigarette counter.

"But it says, 'Ten Items or Less' on that line."

"Yeah, but they'll still let you through."

"Okay. . ."

So I flip my cart of freshly checked merchandise around and stand in another line.

Attempt #2

Ten minutes later, I am face-to-face with a pimply high-schooler, perhaps 18 years of age, at MOST. He is nervous, because he has caught me staring in his direction for much of the fifteen minutes during which I stood in the first line.

I have studied. I have practiced. I am prepared.

"I'd like that carton of Misty Lights 120's, please," I say, in my most authoritative, yet courteous voice. He retrieves the carton, and places it on the counter between us. Success!

"May I see your I.D.?" he asks.

"Oh, um. . . It's in the van." (And I'm like 10 years older than you!) "I have my bank card. It has my picture on it." I hold it out. He doesn't look.

"You need I.D.," he says, in a surprisingly authoritative tone.

I feign annoyance. "Well, do any of the gas stations around here sell those by the carton?" Nice recovery.

"Um. . . yeah. Like all of them."

"Okay, then."

"Sorry."

Attempt #3

I pull into the USA gas station on my way home. Two scruffy men mill around the front counter, chatting with the clerk. They stare when I walk in.

I bravely approach.

"I'd like a carton of Misty Lights 120's." I declare.

"Got your I.D.?" he asks, frowning.

"In the van!" I dash out to the parking lot, grab my bag, and fish out the billfold. And I'm back, shoving my driver's license at him.

He holds it up to the light. Reads the date. Humphs. "1979," he reads, amused. He scrutinizes. "Summer Street. Ojai. Nice."

"Well, we're not there anymore." Did he just read my address? Oh yes, he did. The creepy fat guy with belly bulging out of his sweatshirt is reading my address. Thanks to my mad powers of procrastination, my OLD address. I'm so glad I procrastinate.

He gives me my license, and searches the cartons. "Misty Lights 120's?" he asks.

"Yeah." Finally. "Or Eve Lights 120's."

I have impressed him. "I haven't seen Eve Lights around here for years! I wonder what ever happened to them."

His friends wander off without saying good-bye. He hands me the carton. It's smooth and slim and blue.

"Those are my snowboarding partners." He waves toward the scruffy men.

"Oh," I say, trying to picture the fat man on a snowboard. "I've never tried it."

"Really?" he says. "It's so easy! You should try it!"

"Well, I've seen people much more athletic than I am suck at it."

"Aw, you don't have to be athletic. I'm a big, fat guy, and I do it. Thirty-three, forty-nine."

I chuckle. And hand over the cash. He gives me my prize.

"You have fun now," he says. Like I'm going to go party with my Misty Lights 120's. Seriously, they're just cigarettes, not hard liquor, folks.

"I will."