‘THE MAN TOBACCO COMPANIES FEAR MOST’ AND ‘DROWNING IN THE SHALLOW END’ — short stories

The town of Ashland hung in limbo, suspended off of  Interstate 5 in the heart of the Central Valley, California's version of the midwest. It would have keeled over and died decades ago had the town not been given an IV, a lifeline, through the trickle of travellers stopping off at the interstate exit. The plan for paving the red clay roads to the exit was negotiated by a businessman from Los Angeles, by the name of Mr. Elvis Johnson, who believed in progress. He was the grandfather of Lisa, an Ashland native, who worked at Dean’s Cafe, one of the only jobs in town where you could make tips and still be home for dinner. Lisa’s front door stood exactly 1,448 steps away from Dean’s, except on Wednesday mornings, when the nice Mr. Malady came into town with the week’s shipment of milk, and Lisa skipped a little on her way downtown. She knew all the cafe’s regulars, and was careful to always keep track of and ask about their lives so as to keep them coming back, because good customer service will get you ahead in life, alongside big city things like planned progress and innovation. 

“Happy Birthday Bunny!” Lisa bounced over to the booth where the older woman was sitting.  As Lisa stood next to the table, Bunny looked up at her slowly, offering  a drawn out, “Good morning.” 

“Well thank you kindly,” Lisa said. She smiled, and pulling out a notebook asked, “How do you feel today?” 

Bunny looked up at her. “ I don’t, really.” Her answer sought no pity, “I’m passed all of that.” 

Her cheekbone dug into the edge of her palm and it seemed her neck wanted to break off in the opposite direction. 

“65 is a strange age, Lisa.” 

Like the initial static when a vinyl record is played, there was a scratchy tone that accompanied the soundtrack of Bunny’s words, caused by years of smoking. “I can’t afford to retire. And hell am I young to die. But what else have I got to look forward to?” 

“Well,” Lisa smiled, “There’s your Eggs Benedict.” 

“I suppose there’s that.”

Lisa scribbled on her notebook while Bunny ruminated. Bunny had given up dyeing her hair long ago. She figured the encroaching grey would lower expectations at her job. She worked graveyards at the gas station which sat three (empty) buildings away from Dean’s. This close to the Interstate, plenty of strange characters walked in through those doors– but Bunny hated things like fiction. The store, spare Bunny, was staffed exclusively by dropouts of the community college near Bakersfield. They hated Bunny after she asked why they insisted on being skateboarders with no future despite the fact “that went out of style in the 90’s”. Needless to say, Bunny didn’t like them either. In fact she didn’t like anyone, least of all herself. 

Too many years neglecting her appearance had greatly expedited Bunny’s ageing process. To a stranger she looked to be 85 years of age, or possibly a 17 year old in some old lady stage makeup that might merit a passing grade in a high school theater class. Or maybe just like one of the lizards that hung out by Ashland creek. Her leathery skin hung loose, rolling over her bones almost like it wasn’t attached at all, instead merely draped over her frame. But why should we care for her appearance? She didn’t.

Bunny pulled out a cigarette. It was a Virginia Slim- this lent itself to the “85 years old” hypothesis. The cigarette served to bring some comfort to a solitary existence; it’s hard for someone to live with nothing besides their own person. The cigarette provided a healthy air of Sic Vita to her disposition. 

“Lisa. My only vice in life. My only vice,” Bunny croaked, waving the Slim between her fingers before placing it in her mouth, “Honey, do you have a light?” 

Lisa’s sweet eyes opened wide as she frowned, “Oh, I’m so sorry Bunny! I don’t have one. But I’ll go check if there’s one in the back!” Lisa disappeared through the double doors to the kitchen. 

As soon as they swung shut, a head popped up over the booth opposite Bunny. It belonged to a man of about 30, peering over the divide at Bunny. He looked like a greasy gym sock. He smacked his gum, causing the grey fedora on his head to bob up and down on his pomaded hair, as the black curls were encroaching over the brim of his hat. He was too far to smell, but Bunny knew for a fact he reeked of aftershave, his cheeks glistened with it.  He removed the fedora without taking his eyes off of Bunny. “Little early for a cigarette, don’t cha’ think?” He spoke like a carnie at a street fair, as if the more you paid attention to his personal belief that he could convince you of anything, the more you were blinded by the fact that he was doing it right then and there. 

Bunny was unphased, and unenthused. “What’s it to ya?” As she talked the cigarette moved up and down on her lips, like a seismograph etching the magnitude of her inflections. The man reached into the inside pocket of his sport coat. He handed her a business card. 

He mouthed the words as Bunny read them out loud, “D.F. Kellogg. SMOKING CESSATION FACILITATOR. The man tobacco companies fear most.​     ​” Bunny inspected it for a further second, then put it down on the table. “They must be shakin’ in their boots. Good for you, ‘D.F.’” 

“You can call me Don,” he said. She wouldn’t be calling him anything. Bunny declined further comment by show of picking up the menu despite having already ordered.

 “Don’t worry,” Don pursued, “I am not trying to sell you anything. Really, I’m not. I am simply offering you a fresh outlook. Now, listen. Bunny, I guarantee I can forever and ineffably change your existence in such a positive way that you will wake up every morning thrilled and grateful for the mere chance to experience another day of your happy life.” 

“Not interested.”

Don slid around to her booth, and sat directly opposite Bunny. If Bunny’s cigarette etched her emotions, Don’s hands etched his.

“I’ll give you the short version. Bunny, I’ve picked you specifically– not many people get to hear what I have to say.”

“I have a feeling everyone gets to hear what you have to say.” Bunny sighed. Maybe because she had nobody else to talk to on her birthday, she relented, and put down the menu. “Clearly you’ve already rehearsed this whole thing. That’s how it is with most people. They usually have a conversation nailed by the third or fourth go around and I’d bet you’ve had a lot more than that. If you want to talk, shit, go for it. I’m not doing anything here but passing time, so go ahead.” 

Her indifference breezed into Don’s sails. “All I have,” he said slowly, “Is one question. And there are no wrong answers.” He exhaled and placed his palms flat on the table, a smile crept across his face as his fingers tapped on the table.  “I must ask you- why do you smoke?” After he asked the question he sat back onto the buoyant leather cushioning of the booth. The raised expectations were far overplayed for such an innocuous question. 

Bunny paused and squinted, “Are you shittin m- what kind of a stupid question. I don’t know why I-” her words were cut off as Don, unable to help himself, jumped in; “Wrong answer!” He slammed the table with a fist, “You do know, you do!” 

Bunny finally removed the cigarette from her lips and placed it on the table. “Okay D.F., if you really need an answer; I am addicted, to cigarettes. That’s why I smoke them.” Her response was matter of fact, but left Don unsatisfied.

“You’re addicted.Oh, yes, aren’t we all...” for a second he psuedo-ruminated, then whipped around with excitement, “But you weren’t always addicted! Were you?” 

Bunny was getting tired of voicing obvious answers, “No, Don. No I was not.” 

“Of course, of course. Habits die hard. But you are not born with them,” Don’s tone made it sound as if he was onto something, but Bunny’s jury was still out. He pressed further, “So the better question then is not why do you smoke, but why did you start?” 

Bunny sighed again, and looked out the window. “Probably because my mom smoked a pack a day. But so did everybody. That’s how I picked it up. But who the hell cares about that?

My mom came to this place every morning, now so do I. Does that matter to you?” “Oh yes.” Don affirmed. “Can I ask– have you ever tried going to other diners?”

“At one point or another, sure I have,” Bunny answered. 

“And is this the best ​ ​diner?” 

“Yes,” after a beat, she answered firmly, “For me, it is. I know this menu, I know the food. And I know that, most of the time, I won’t be bothered. Same with the Virginia Slims. I grew up with em’. Like a delicious Eggs Benedict, every puff.” 

Don nodded in appreciation of the honesty. “Fascinating,” he said, mostly to himself. He digressed, “The social economics of smoking a cigarette. The psychology behind it. It’s all of interest to me. You smoke a pack a day? Hell, I was goin’ through a lighter a day. I could smoke in the shower. It was a science. While the reason I started was different from yours, in the end, the result is the same. In my case it started with a poster I had over my bed. Growing up, I was a fan of The Eagles. It was a big photo of Joe Walsh leaning over an acoustic guitar with a cigarette in one hand. The hair, the clothes, all of it. It was so cool. It was, copacetic, as they say”

“As who says?”

“Look, everything  about that photo was desirable. But,” He was drawing himself into it, and leaned over the table towards Bunny, “if you took that cigarette out of his hand...it would not be the same poster. Not even a shadow of it. That was the effect of the cigarette in that context.

Audrey Hepburn, the Marlboro Man. Iconic images of those people can be aided by the cigarette. So I did it for the image of it. It was for the aesthetic. But that’s what is so strange. In the photo it’s cool, but right here next to us, if he was here smoking a cigarette, many would take offense. ‘It’s gross!’ I’m assuming they only let you smoke in here because you’ve been coming in since before most of the employees were even born.”

“Since Dean himself was around.”

“So my point still stands. The second hand can be highly off putting.” Don didn’t break his train of thought, and Bunny was starting to make eye contact. “Many start for the style. Others maybe out of pure boredom, a need to have a real, tangible thing that they can add to their personality. Another group I’ve noticed, they use it as a crutch. They know what it is and what they lack. A life built on dependencies. The cigarette can romanticize the self loathing. It’s a straw man. And on top of it, we’re all trying to quit, aren’t we? Either you’re a smoker or you’re not. And you, Bunny, you ​     ​are a smoker. You try to quit but for some reason you just keep coming back. To the diner, to the Virginia Slims. So what I’m telling you isn’t to quit, Bunny. Not at all. What I’m saying is to know why you picked up that first cigarette. Is this the best diner? Or is it your diner? It should be a firm knowledge, one way or the other.” 

Lisa approached, cutting their conversation there. “Can I get you anything, sir?” 

She was looking at Don who had paused. “No. I’m on my way out, actually. Thank you though,” He turned back to Bunny as he scooted out of the booth and made for the door, “Call the number on the card. I have a class. One hour every week.”

  Lisa watched him go, pleasantly amused at what a fun character had walked in. She turned to Bunny, “I found a pack of matches in the back. Sorry for the wait. Your eggs will be out shortly,” Lisa hopped away.

Bunny held up the matches and inspected them. She picked back up the cigarette from the table and lit it, taking a long drag. The taste seemed a bit off. 

“Too early,” she muttered, and put it out on the windowsill. 

“Drowning in the Shallow End” Braintree Medical Journal  
From the 16 year old Stanford Medical prodigy, Doctor Saul Italo, in conjunction with the RNLI. These are notes from his London Lecture Series, “The London Lecture Series”

In case you find yourself drowning, The Royal National Lifeboat Institute offers plenty of life-saving advice. As someone who has drowned multiple times, I also have arranged a set of guidelines– tips and tricks, if you will. The RNLI will tell you not to swim, but to fight your natural instincts and simply tread water, and depending on where you are, to remain calm through the first 60-90 seconds of cold water shock. If you can float then do that, but either way, try to wait for rescue. 

My advice is a bit different, and perhaps far simpler. If you’re drowning– just tap your feet.

This is helpful if you’re prone to ROD. Don’t worry if you don’t know what that means, I just made it up. ROD stands for “Random Occurrences of Drowning”. It’s one of those nifty acronyms where you don’t include the small letters in order to be succinct. Basically, if you drown a lot, it means you have ROD.

Some people don’t drown at all, and that is a very good thing. My mom doesn’t, and if I ever asked she’d probably say something like, “I have a full time job and three kids, I don’t have time to drown.” She’s also a doctor, and has a lot of patients who rely on her, so it’s good she doesn’t drown. But I do, a lot. 

It started after that one thing that one time that I can’t really​ ​ tell you about because when I told my friends at the boys retreat mom was very upset about how people might look at me and our family, and I had to swear I wouldn’t say anything on the school trip to London, so we’ll skip this part. 

Sometimes people drown because of their problems. Besides the one thing that one time, I don’t have any real problems. Oddly enough, not having problems is maybe part of why I started drowning, and couldn’t stop. Well, not until I started tapping my feet.  And now I can’t quit.

...Tap tap tap​ ​. Keep a steady rhythm.

But none of that is of any interest to you. What you’re here for is to find out what happens when you stop​      ​ tapping. So let me explain: Your leg is your enemy. Tapping it is like throwing a piece of meat away from you while being chased by a rabid dog. Why you have a piece of meat in the first place, who’s to say. But it works, right?

...Tap tap tap​ ​. A good little distraction.

When you decide to make your leg stop tapping, the first thing you feel is the one leg twisting and wrapping itself around the other leg in some sort of serpentine constriction move. And you can tell your leg in as many ways as you want that it’s being very silly. You can say, “Excuse me, sir, you’re only hurting yourself.” But legs can’t talk. And when you reach down to unclasp it, your arms go cold and wet and you remember that you’re in an open body of water.

The water is that numbing, sad, California northern coast cold that dips into the neck crease of your wetsuit and spiders across your lower back. And you’ve got one leg choking itself around the other, essentially morphing the two into a singular snapping muscle like you’re an eel, and despite what the RNLI recommends, there’s no way you can tread water. 

And then a voice starts up, and it might be God talking to you because it just seems correct and providential that God would finally talk to you, right before you drown;

“Are you okay?”

But then you squint and blow a little water out through your lips and you can see that the voice is from the man with the pea-green coat who was sitting across from you on the overground train a moment ago. Calling out from the shore, his voice whips around your ears like the sea breeze. He’s just a little jumping figure set out against the massively unmoving strip of land. 

“Yes, I’m alright! Thank you for asking.”

It’s strange, isn’t it? A heavy coat at the beach.

“Sir, are you okay? Do you need help?”

“You really should be wearing a swimsuit!”

The beach is so far from where you’re drifting that he can’t hear a word you’re saying. Another person, the woman with headphones and high heels comes trudging up the sand next to the pea-green coat guy and asks,

“Should we call someone for him? Where’s his teacher?”

You want to explain that high heels are totally improper beach attire, but they’re 100 yards away, or 100 miles away, or 500, or 1,000, or 5,540 from Stanford to the London Lecture Series. 

Besides, at that point the number one thing to concentrate on is the sea sickness. From a distance the ocean always looks like a coherent unit, but in it you realize that it’s totally disparate forces, all colliding into each other like an angry, swelling bar fight. Sometimes when you drown you get really sick in the process and start to retch and hopefully keep the vomit down, because that would be pretty embarrassing. And anyways at that point their voices begin to cut in and out over the sound of what you know is an incoming wave. You know this from surfing. You’re not very good at surfing, in fact you’re not very good at anything. Except, like, the child doctor thing. 

The incoming wave is one that doesn’t arrive on schedule with the other waves in the set. Instead it rolls in, already frothing and boiling at its peak, and before you’ve even had a chance to take a breath it curls and peels and clips the back of your head and drinks you.

The cold water plasters over your face as your airways automatically snap shut and your capillaries tighten to redirect blood flow away from your skin and limbs and back towards your vital organs. If a wave catches you right it feels more like being dragged down with a rope from the bottom than pushed from by some force from the top. When you’re in the thick, there’s a flirtation with scale, with your own helplessness in the water- in the universe, maybe. At least on land you can run or jump or yell or even grab a weapon, if you’re so inclined. When you enter the water you enter the food chain. You are nothing. You are zero. You are a flaneur among the carp, watching the waves rip into themselves and seal over again. And– you need to breathe.

You try to push off of the sand on the bottom and shoot your singular double leg down. But you realize there is no bottom. And your stomach knots and drops with each empty swish at the bottomless bottom, and then you look up, and you realize there’s no surface either. And you keep swishing around even though the RNLI told you that’s a very not good thing for you to be doing. 

Your muscles will be operating strictly on anaerobic energy metabolism, and building up deposits of lactic acid...which you definitely can agree doesn’t sound great. The longer you hold your breath, the more carbon dioxide will dilute your blood. And you’re wondering why you didn’t breathe before the wave swallowed you, because now you’re really in for it. This inability to breathe is sometimes called a laryngospasm (I only know this because I am a doctor). It’s often caused by allergies, or anxiety, or a panic attack. But if you were drowning, you’d definitely be panicking, so it all kind of makes sense.

Anyways, as they teach us in the medical trade, blood + carbon dioxide = bad. This is what’s called a breakpoint. It’s where the natural instinct to breathe overcomes the agony of running out of air. At that point, no matter what the RNLI tells you about fighting instincts, no matter how hard you try not to, your body will trigger an involuntary breath. With so little oxygen in your blood, you have no say in the matter, it’s neurologically transmitted. And so you suck in a full breath, but it’s all water. And remember that laryngospasm? This is where it becomes important. While your windpipe fills up with water, your brain decides the flood threat in your voice box is more alarming than the lack of oxygen, and so it completely axes your breathing reflexes. Which kind of makes you wonder why your brain was being so silly and forced the breath in the first place. Well, anyways, you go unconscious and you die with no oxygen in your lungs and water lodged in your windpipe.

Why did you stop tapping?

You die and meet God.

He’s wearing latex gloves and holding your neck, saying things like Tachypnea? Just get​  me O2 please​, and putting some rubbery thing over the bridge of your nose.

Later God starts asking questions about Visas and registering for a National Insurance Number. A Visa to get into heaven? Cruel, but no surprise.

And then God decides you’re not fit to die and he sends you back to the world because you didn’t apply for your Heaven Visa and you know how it is, the rules are the rules. 

And so you’ve drowned on the train. Or at your desk. Or in the elevator.

There’s other ways of drowning. Sometimes it takes months. To stop it you can use a really cool thing called a Xanax prescription. They’re not hard to get, but sometimes it’s easier to just use alcohol (it’s okay, I’m a professional). But never take them together, otherwise you go for a really big sleep and might need to reapply for that Visa.

Or, you avoid all this by sticking to the well researched method of tapping your feet.