Prayers into Smoke.
 
 

The man walked into the Tobacco Finance and Distribution Center, holding his breath as he walked across the threshold.  What had looked like any other building from the outside - square, white, lots of windows - now loooked like the lobby of a fancy hotel.  The man was an average man: just slightly over average weight, a little taller than some but smaller than the standard pro athlete was.  He ran his fingers through his thinning blond hair nervously before walking up to the pretty, young receptionist.  "Hi," he started but she simply handed him a clipboard.

"Here," she said quietly, not breaking the incredible feeling of stillness around them with her deep voice, "fill out these forms and I'll send you up to our next available counselor."  He nodded, walking toward the group of chairs she had pointed to, sitting on the one in the corner.  He wouldn't have believed ten years ago that he would be here of all places.  He still remembered when tobacco products were under five  dollars a pack.  Hell, he even remembered when you could sometimes find them on sale for under two dollars.  But here he was, filling out paperwork to buy one of the most expensive luxuries on earth, or any other planet.

He read over the form as he filled it out.  "Name, Steve James.  Age, forty-six.  Occupation." This one made him pause.  He had just been forced out of his teaching job due to his age and he hadn't found a new one yet.  He decided to leave that one blank.  Maybe if he was lucky, they might give him a job as a test subject, then he could have all the cigarettes he wanted for free.  "Time smoking, five years total," he said quietly as he wrote, the sound of the pencil loud in the still room.  "Number of times you quit smoking and for how long?  Hmm, once, for almost twenty years." He smiled in fond remembrance; the feeling of not being chained to anything he didn't want locked to him.  He got up, bringing the form back to the receptionist. "Here," he said.

She flipped it over, pointing out a line with the back of her pen. "Sign there.  This waives your right to sue us for any damages our product may cause you.  It's also a medical waiver that says we can use the records of any illness you might have from our product as part of a study."  She watched as he carefully signed on the indicated line.  "Thank you.  Take the elevator to the third floor to get your ID card made please."  She turned away from him, answering her phone.  "Tobacco Distribution Center, how may I direct your call?"

Steve walked toward the elevator, pushing the small button and waiting patiently.  He got on, heading up the few floors, got off and walked into a small office. "Hi, I need…"

The man on the other side of the desk rubbed his overhanging stomach and sighed.  "Yeah, I know.  You're the tenth today.  Stand in front of the red square please."

Steve walked over and stood in front of the red square of fabric hanging on the wall. "Here?"  He was blinded by the flash of the camera.   The card popped out of the printer and was handed to him.  "Thanks."  He walked out of the office, heading where the sign on the wall pointed.  He walked into another office, looking around at all the little gray separators marking off individual spaces, and sat down to wait on the person who would come out and make him pay the horrible price for the habit he had thought he had given up for good twenty years ago.

"Mr. James," a young man said, walking out to meet him. "I'm Mr. Slaver, come this way please."  He led him back to one of the little cubicles, motioning him into a hard plastic chair.  The young man sat, brushing his dark hair off his collar.  "So, you quit for twenty years?" he asked, looking at the newest applicant.

"Yes, my wife, my future wife back then, told me it was her or the cigarettes.  She won."  Steve smiled gently. "Those were the good days."

"I'm sure they were."  Mr. Slaver looked over the application, frowning.  "You left your occupation blank."

"I was a teacher until a week ago.  I was pushed out due to my age.  I'm looking for a new one."

"Ah, so you're starting again due to stress?"  Steve nodded so he checked a box on the back of the form.  "Any other reasons?"

"My wife died three months ago and I've been craving them ever since.  It's almost like all my bad habits were hiding from her and now they can come out and pick up where they left off."

"I can understand that, the death of a spouse is a very traumatic event," Mr. Slaver said as he wrote something on the form.  He turned his desk chair around to look at the applicant.  "Do you understand the payment expected of you?"  Steve nodded.  "You're sure?"  Steve nodded again.  "Do you have a preference on how you wish to pay the price?"

"I don't know.  I figured you'd have some options.  Some sort of list or something.  I'm just glad that the people I'm going to be paying to have decided to let you do this."

"Of course we do," he said, pulling a sheaf of plastic-coated papers out of a drawer by his knee and handing them over.  "There are many options available."  He leaned closer, pointing at a few with his pen.  "This one is always a popular choice.  As is the one three below that one."  He leaned back, smiling gently. "We do try to understand our client's needs here and if you need more help in making your decision, we have a variety of counselors available to help you chose."

Steve read down the list and kept coming back to one name.  He pointed it out.  "I'll pay to him."

"Whatever you wish," Mr. Slaver said gently, picking up another paper from inside the drawer and taking the new id card, putting a sticker under the name.  "All set.  Please go to room 523 to give your first payment and to get your first cigarette."  He smiled, shaking hands with the newest client.

Steve numbly walked out of the office, heading for the elevator.  He got on and went up the two floors, taking deep breaths the whole way.  When he got off, there was only one door, 523.   He walked inside, hands trembling as they pushed open the door.

"Go to the blue door," a voice said over a speaker.

"Thanks."   He walked down to the blue door, walking inside.  There was a padded bench, a small rail, and a window.  That was it.  He closed the door behind him, not wanting anyone to hear his moment of embarrassment, and sat down on the bench, bowing his head.  This was the price he paid.  "Please, God, hear me.  I thank you telling your people to serve us in this manner for I would surely go insane without them.  Please watch over me and wherever my wife may be.  Thank you."  He looked up as the little window opened once his payment was done, taking the lit cigarette and inhaling his first puff. "Thank you, God," he whispered.  This time.  There would be more of the same in his future.

The End.