Memoirs of the
Marlboro Man
Six Sixes by Thane Thompson
Snapshot I When I was six months old, my mom took a picture of my Dad and me. In this picture, I don't even know there's such a thing as the Marlboro Man. Dad has fallen asleep in the butt-ugly, orange and green flower print chair, "his chair," that he would later have to evict me from during my teen years; and I am dead to the world, crashed out on top of him. If you look closely, you can see the blue-collar grease embedded under his fingernails, and the deeply-etched lines of new-parent exhaustion carved across his forehead. My chin is nestled into the curve of his chest, and my face is pressed against the bulge in his left breast pocket. I am certain, even at this young age, that I am indelibly linking the rich loamy smell of unlit tobacco with the essential foundation of my father's strong, manly scent.
Snapshot II I have a mental picture of my dad; sitting on the top of a picnic table at a family reunion and talking about the lack of rain and the cost of gas and the price of feeder pigs. In this boyhood memory, my Dad makes me dream of being the Marlboro Man. Just for that weekend, my grandparents had turned their garage into a bunkhouse for us kids, hoping to distance themselves from our noise and perpetual shenanigans. I remember that night, because it was the first time in my life that I ever stole something. When I got back from my raid, my cousins and I all huddled quietly by the back corner of the hay barn, taking turns puffing on that single stolen cigarette. We all tried to remember exactly how our Dads talked and acted and held their smokes, trying to seem as cool and worldly and knowledgeable as them, even as we struggled to keep from puking on our shoes.
Snapshot III He was never a cowboy, but my favorite picture of him is when he was sitting on the back of a horse. In this picture, my Dad has become the Marlboro Man. Muscular and lithe, he is exactly as old as I am right now, and he peers over his gingham-clad shoulder, past the cattle pens and the dust and the eight buck-an-hour job; into the future. When I was younger, I used to think he could see it, out there in the forever; all the way down those millions upon millions of long and lonely trails. But I don't think that any more. Otherwise, he would have stopped being the Marlboro Man; and I wouldn't have needed to help my mom pick out a casket for him when he was fifteen years older than I am right now.
Snapshot IV I've obviously outgrown my "disaffected youth" look, but I must have taken it out and dusted it off for the benefit of the photographer. In this picture, I have become the Marlboro Man. I stand near the campfire, pulling in a deep drag with the skill and practiced nonchalance of a 3pack-a-day man. Shirtless and bearded, heedless of the mosquitoes and black flies, I stare into the camera with a Heinz 57 gaze of college-aged angst; displaying my many varieties of hope and disillusionment, fear and anticipation. I remember smirking and laughing with my buddies, quoting Vonnegut's line about smoking being "the only socially acceptable form of suicide." Five years after this picture is taken, I'll think that joke is a lot less funny.
Snapshot V I look pretty good tonight, as my powder blue shirt and Pierre Cardin tie peek from beneath my double-breasted, pinstriped lapel. Two months ago, I wore this suit to bury the Marlboro Man. In this picture, I stand in front of the marble bust of some forgotten University President, and hold up my Master's Degree diploma. I remember the exact moment that it was taken, because it was the first time I ever saw my mother-in-law cry. After the shutter clicked, I went to her, asking what was wrong, and she said, "You looked so much like your Dad, just then, and I know how much you wanted him to be here." I didn't know how to respond, so I turned abruptly away, studying the President's Eton collar and outdated hairstyle; wondering if he'd been dead long before Kinsey joined the faculty, let alone stopped collecting his gall wasps.
Snapshot VI We are celebrating her fourth birthday. My father was dust in a box before she even came into being, and my daughter has never met the Marlboro Man. I watch her from a distance as she takes in a deep breath, pauses, then sprays the top of her cake with a fire-hose of air; at which point my wife snaps the picture. Later, I will study it, thinking about how much she's grown; that she isn't my little baby girl any more, and I'll find the wispy gray strings from the blown-out candles frozen around her face. In this captured moment, her self-satisfied smile and devil-may-care demeanor makes her look just like her grandfather, and there is something about that glance from the past that makes me fear for the future. I send a little prayer upward, hoping that somehow, in the years to come, I can continue to find ways to give my daughter all that is best of my father,
but still avoid passing on his scent of smoke.
About the Author Thane Thompson writes horror, dark fantasy, and science fiction. His work has appeared at The Writer's Eye Magazine, Flash in the Pan, MicroHorror, and PenPricks Micro Fiction. He lives in Ohio with his wife, daughter, and two highly opinionated cats. He freely admits to liking cheap wine, expensive movies, and hand-blown glassware.