A previous Tuesday, I was huddled with some fellow addicts under an awning by Kearny and California, as the clouds drowned San Francisco. It was the normal scene, an assembly line of one-cigarette characters. The marlboro men have the least endurance. Next come the women with lady smokes, virginia slims and somesuch, some longer than... some other dude's penis. Me and my kind last the longest, american spirits, organic, which means they burn slow and it's like guaranteed to give you less cancer.
I'd shepherded a couple acts already when a loud SCREECH-THUMP did a two-step between the raindrops. All the necks turned like wheat in a shifting wind, directing eyes to the white aston martin that had just planted its nose into a massive pothole. The bald driver got out, he was in a light gray three-button with a pink napkin in his pocket, and he started stumbling down the hill, shouting MOTHERFUCKER!, as his suit quickly darkened from rain and the blood dripping down from his forehead. The napkin was soon black like the asphalt.
We in the smokers' gallery were most impressed: his fingers still gripped a cigarette and he had the sense or practice to shield it from the downpour by cupping it backwards in his hand. After every third or fourth motherfucker he took a powerful and dramatic pull, before exhaling the smoke of the fourth or fifth motherfucker.
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