Behind the Deli

by Brendyn Schneider

When I was four years old, I made a deal with my dad.

“I’ll stop sucking my thumb if you quit smoking.”

“You got it, buddy.”

One of us kept his end of the bargain.

I don’t smoke. It never took. It’s possible that the anti-smoking movement had something to do with it. When I was in 1st grade, they passed around a pamphlet about this poor bastard who smoked so much that large sections of his lungs, nose, throat and mouth had to be removed. I was terrified. I brought the pamphlet home and showed my dad.

“Lemme explain somethin’ to you,” he said, placing the pamphlet next to the ashtray. “I like to smoke. It feels good.”

“But Dad, the guy’s lungs and lips–”

“Not gonna happen.”

“Miss Amols said it’ll happen to us if we start smoking.”

“Yeah, well, I’m an adult. I’ll be fine.”

“But…”

“You see this?” He produced a carton of cigarettes out of nowhere. “BelAir. Light, mild. Breath of spring time. Menthol. Don’t worry so much. Go be a kid. I’ll be fine.”

When he wasn’t looking, I hid the carton. If he wasn’t going to save himself, I would.

“Where’s Brendyn? BRENDYN!”

“I’m in the living room! Playing Q-Bert!”

“Put that on Pause.”

“It’s Q-Bert. There is no Pause.”

“Where are my cigarettes, Brendyn?”

I got Q-Bert down to the bottom of the pyramid but the snake got me. “Dad, you’re gonna get lung cancer.”

“I won’t get it today.”

“Miss Amols said–”

“I don’t care what Miss Anal said. Gimme my cigarettes!”

I ran. “No!”

“Aw Brendyn! My lungs aren’t gonna fall out!”

Later on, my mom reminded me that stealing wasn’t right and that my dad would just go out and buy a “fresh deck” if I didn’t return the carton. Beaten, I recovered the cigarettes from my dresser, only to spot my mom slipping a pack into her pocket. Jesus. Her too. Had they both gone mad?! What about Mr. No Nose Cancer Face in the pamphlet?

“C’mere,” my dad said, walking into his room. “I wanna show you something.”

He opened the bottom drawer of his dresser and pointed to three tightly-wrapped, rubber band bound packs of cards, each with a masking tape label: “100,” “250” and “500.”

“What are those?” I asked.

“The new barbecue.”

I wrinkled my brow. Then it hit me. “Wait, those are the little coupons on the back of the packs of BelAir. You smoked all those?”

“Just 150 more,” he said, “and we’ll have a brand new barbecue.”

His eyes sparkled with the fervor and burn of 1000 steaks sizzling under a cool Long Island sun. Our barbecue had produced its last warmed-over chop right about the time Roy Scheider shot Jaws. Spiders raised extended families on the burners.

“Y’see Brendyn, these are Raleigh coupons. You save up enough of ‘em, you can cash ‘em in for stuff.”

“What kinda stuff?”

“All kinds of stuff!” He dug out a catalog and handed it to me.

He was right. There really was all kinds of stuff. A few coupons would get you an ash tray, a coffee mug or a lighter with an angry animal on the side. These were for the casual smoker, the pedestrian. A more committed smoker could get the set of tools or the skis. Near the back of the catalog was where it got serious. Jewelry, the easy chair, my dad’s barbecue and on the back cover – Mother of God – the Mount Everest for BelAir smokers: the jeep. For one million Raleigh coupons (and probably as many dollars worth of doctor’s visits), you could be the proud owner of the camouflaged – with optional winter tires – all-terrain jeep.

I had to admit, there was an element of excitement to it all but, well…it was creepy. There were actually toys in there, and coloring books! Is this what happened to Mr. No Nose? Was he gunning for Raleigh four-wheel drive or something more sinister, like a swing set for his kid?

I handed the catalog back. “I think I’d rather you just quit.”

He didn’t. Both my parents kept smoking, and as the years went on, I became a reluctant participant in their habit, especially after the training wheels came off the Midnight Special, the best bike in the universe.

“Hey Bren,” my mother came into my room, her head appearing just above a comic book panel of Jimmy Olsen falling into a cement mixer, “do me a solid, willya?”

I groaned. “Come on. I don’t wanna help you guys get cancer.”

“Cut me some slack, Brendyn. I got dinner in the oven. I can’t leave right now.”

Superman burst through the mixer, carrying Jimmy, cement-y but okay.

“I hate going up there, Mom.”

“Up there” was the deli a few blocks from my house. Its name isn’t as important as the fact that it was run by a pack of large, tank-topped and sweaty (even in the winter) dudes who never knew the location of anything in the store. These cavemen were my introduction to that ultimate branch of humanity: the meathead.

“’SUP LITTLE MAN?”

“Hi. A pack of Salem Ultra Lights, please.”

“SALEM? DO WE CARRY DOSE? HANG ON.”

He sniffed around the inventory above the register and produced a red and white pack.

“HOW ‘BOUT A VICEROY?”

“No. It’s gotta be Salems. We tried that last time. She’ll just send me back. ”

“SLIMS? VIRGINIA SLIMS? I’M NOT SURE WE HAVE DOSE NEITHER.”

I sighed.

“OH WAIT. YOU SAID ‘SALEMS.’ I GOT ‘EM. GOT ‘EM RIGHT HERE LIKE A MOFO.”

He tossed them on the counter and I slid over a five. Ringing up the cigarettes, he peered at me with grizzly bear eyes.

“HOW OLD ARE YOU?”

“Nine.”

“DESE FOR YOU? YOU STARTIN’ EARLY. YOU SHOULDN’T SMOKE, LIL MAN.”

I sighed again. “I know. They’re for my mom.”

“YOUR MOM, HUH?”

He gave me the change, mustering the brain power to raise a single furry eyebrow.

“Yeah. I’m not stupid enough to smoke.”

“GOOD. YOU’RE A GOOD KID Y’KNOW DAT? WATCHU GONNA DO WHEN YOU GET OUTTA SCHOOL?”

“I don’t know.”

“YOU GONNA JOIN THE ARMY WHEN YOU GROW UP?”

“No.”

“YOU GONNA JOIN THE ARMY AND GET BIG. BRASS. BALLS?”

I turned toward the door. “No. I don’t think so.”

“DON’T SMOKE DOSE ALL AT ONCE! MAKE YERSELF SICK.”

Behind the deli, I would lean against my bike, every time, and consider the pack. What was it that drew people to cigarettes? People in old movies? The fire? The smoke? The cancer at the end of it all? I still don’t know.

It’s been years since I hopped on my bike to buy cigarettes but my parents are still at it. I’m 34 years old and I’m still behind the deli.

***
More stories by Brendyn Schneider can be found at brendynschneider.com © 2011-2012, Brendyn Schneider, reprinted by Dadity.com with permission. Use or reprint not authorized without permission from the author. All rights reserved.