PICTURES THAT PAINT A THOUSAND WORDS (0R SO)
http://muse.calarts.edu/~rjaster/edvard-munch/gallery/self/self_cigarette.htm
STAN AND HIS FAGS
Stan knew that he had to time his request very carefully.
Too soon after
breakfast and the staff would be busy tidying away so that they could have their own break. Near to coffee time and they would be tolerating the whinnying demands from the other guests; and then the marathon gallop to get everyone potted and placed for the main hot meal of the day.
But, he was increasingly desperate for a morning smoke; not quite gasping, that would come in about half an hour. Stan looked around the half a dozen other old fogies in the, until recently, communal fuming lounge. That had been half the reason for agreeing to come to this dump; for “respite, a little holiday break” after the amputation of his leg; a place to have a spit and a draw with like minded criminals who refused to renounce tobacco.
Except that, between the first visit and moving in a fortnight later, the managers opted to change all the public areas into non-smoking; obliging the die-hards to go out into the grounds to satiate their obnoxious addiction. Stan had been bought off by his niece’s promise that the “lovely nurses” would be instantly available to push his wheelchair outside when he wanted a cigarette.
And, for the first half-day, they had responded with alacrity; then muttering, followed by one of the time-of-day specific avoidance ploys.
After that
unappealing solid mass of cold, unsalted, grey porridge lying in a puddle of low fat milk, topped with a token sprinkle of white sugar that was mislabelled as breakfast; the first excuse would be “just a moment, Stan, we have to get Agatha/Beryl/Connie/Dennis/Eric/Fred back into bed.” Followed later by, “we have to finish putting around the tablets for Grace/Hannah/Iris/Joey/Kathy/Lola. Next came, “I’m just helping Muriel/Nora/Oliver/Patsy/Queenie/Robert with this hot drink. Then, ”no time now, we’ll be taking Tessa/Una/Vic/Wally/Youtha/Zoe to the dinner table.” Somehow, like the unknown X, Stan’s turn in the alphabet never arrived.
He had tried a number of alternative methods of obtaining a ride into the garden, with varying degrees of failure. On the fourth morning of his sentence, he asked a fit looking fellow fumer to help manoeuvre his wheelchair through the fire-escape. Between them they arrived safely, self-rolled, lit up, inhaled deeply but did not converse. Long before reaching the end, his new mate wandered off, out of Stan’s view, and so far away that the police did not find him until dusk. How was Stan to know that the other chap had severe dementia? And what bloody right did the senior carer have to bollock him so bluntly about letting the old fool out? For the next while, the staff had been a bit more willing to assist Stan out for one of his three-a-day post-prandial fags.
Then the pretences returned,
prompting him to seek a another method. Ignoring the other residents, because of whatever ailed them, Stan used his single functioning arm to drag his chariot over the threadbare carpets to the exit. By squirming and shoving, he opened the swing door and wedged it open with his chair. Having expertly prepared his fix, Stan sat quite contently enjoying the through breeze; unaware that the draught was wafting his smoke into the building. Until he was deafened by the crash of the fire-alarms and bulldozed sideways by the rush of bodies escaping the non-existent conflagration. In some ways, the entertainment was worth the tearful remonstrations by his niece’s embarrassed partner. Once again, Stan’s need for nicotine was grudgingly met by the helpers, until what they considered more important matters intervened. By the thirteenth day of his incarceration, Stan had perfected his own method of getting a free fag. By observing for yellow stained digits on the care assistants, he identified fellow addicts. Timing his request to the second, he called out in a faux accent, “Nursey, Ge yerus a ciggy, duck?” just as they wandered into the staff rest-room. Where, for some unexplained reason they were allowed to smoke indoors.
After a couple of false starts, Colleen had agreed to
accompany Stan into the external fall-out shelter, where he showed off his ability to create a self-roll with one hand. She had much enjoyed the aromatic tobacco, and willingly responded to further requests.
Accept that this morning, the one month anniversary, she was late reporting for work and Stan was at gagging point. Slowly, he manoeuvred his powerless chair out into the reception area, just as a police car parked up. Two officers were disgorged and pushed the front door bell; twice, when the first ring elicited no response.
When eventually admitted, they had a mumbled, whispered
conversation with the harassed looking duty manageress and then advanced on Stan. “Can we have a quiet word, Sir?” asked one of the constables, whilst the other peremptorily pushed him along the corridor to his bedroom. “What about? What’s happened?” “Do you know a young lady called Ms Dennison, Colleen Dennison, one of the carers here?” “Yes, of course. Why? Is she OK?” “She will be, eventually! Ms. Dennison crashed off her motorcycle last evening, breaking her arm by wrecking the bike against a couple of parked cars. The hospital did the usual urine drug tests, and found her prescribed hay-fever medicine, and a very high level of cannabis.” “Ah. Yes. And...” “And she, of course, denies any knowledge of ever taking any of the street drugs. Until, on reflection, she recalled the pleasantly soothing cigarettes she has been sharing with you for the last couple of weeks. Anything you wish to tell us about the special mixture you use?”
“Depends on what you’ll do with the ‘gen I give you? Surely, no prosecution for either of us?” “Probably not, no. But, where do you get it from?” “I grow my own, in the greenhouse. If you go and check, there should be seven plants behind the shrubs tubs. Assuming that my niece has been watering them; but she doesn’t know about my little secret, honestly!” “And for how long?” “I discovered the painkilling benefit of cannabis when I was in military hospital after being shot in this arm during the troubles in Cyprus. Since then, I have smoked dope three times a day, every day, without fail, and not cost the NHS a penny in tablets. Even the night duty staff let me have a joint straight after my leg was lopped off; better than Pethidine any day. And now that it’s a Class C listed poison, well, no worries eh?” “On one condition, Stan, “said the older police person, “that you keep a few reefers worth to one side for us, OK?” “Bribery and corruption; the language I understand,” replied Stan as he turned to the aghast care home boss, “shall I ask the nice rozzers to push me into the garden for a quick weed?”