A Small Violation

To be honest, I was already in a temper.   

The latest software upgrade had - predictably - disabled our system for two days in a row and every other call was from tech support although none had proven useful.  I was tired from listening to their rapid-fire, third world chatter, tired of repeatedly asking them to please slow down and enunciate, tired of their excuses.  A mental health minute seemed called for - I snatched a plastic bottle of water and a single cigarette and went to sit at the back door - the office was at its usual meat market temperature and I thought a few minutes of warmth and quiet might help.

I didn't notice the old car until it had made its third pass - an ancient and uncared for rattletrap with a roaring muffler spewing exhaust - mismatched doors and duct tape holding the rear windshield together.  When it stopped in front of me, my heart sank.  An old woman climbed out, bent and limping and toothless, an old rag wound around her filthy hair and toe-less house slippers on her talon-ed and dirty feet.  The ragged edge of a torn slip hung beneath the hem of her grimy house dress and her ill fitting sweater was stained and faded with age.

Ma'am! she called out to me, Ma'am, you have 'nuther one?

I knew immediately that she meant my cigarette and shook my head.

No, I told her as she advanced steadily, Sorry.

She was so close I could smell the cooking grease and unwashed clothes and when she reached out one gnarly old hand toward me I almost flinched.

Den kin ah have your short?  she asked.

I've lived in the south for a good many years but it still took a second or two to make sense of the words.

Kin ah have your short, she repeated, 'fore you be finishin' it?

I looked at her, then at my cigarette, then back at her.  Was she really asking for my half-smoked cigarette, I wondered, and then realized that not only was she asking, she was expecting.  A twisted old hand with chewed up and dirt rimmed nails was inches away from me making grasping motions.  Somewhere deep in my belly, surprise, disgust and revulsion had a brief, acid-filled battle - an image of my mother surfaced and for an instant I thought I might gag - then the need to put as much distance between me and this sad, nasty, old woman kicked in.  I  shrugged, handed over what was left of my Virginia Slim Menthol Light and scrambled back inside, not exactly hurriedly but not taking my time either.  I didn't want to see her making her way back to the battered old wreck in the parking lot.  I didn't want to think about what would make a person so brazen that they would accost a total stranger for a cigarette.  Hey, look!  I imagined her saying to the driver of the car, There's someone smoking!  Let's get her!  Did they prowl around back doors and loading docks in search of victims?  Was her whole appearance a put on to gain sympathy?  Did I look like someone who wouldn't make protest?  I felt - ridiculous as it sounds - as if I'd been somehow violated. I've smoked for something over fifty years.  It's a vile and dirty habit, I'm not proud of it, and not a day goes by that I don't wish I'd never started (that's addiction for you) but nevertheless, there are rules.  You can, between good if not intimate friends, ask for a drag off someone else's cigarette.  You can bum off a friend and although more rarely, sometimes off someone you barely know.  You can panhandle for a cigarette but not the one someone else is in the process of smoking.

Not much of an infraction, I told myself as I scrubbed my hands in soap and hot water and added hand sanitizer for good measure, but I still wanted to wash it off.