Evolution Of The Butt

By Cami Beiter – As a teenager, I coveted the occasional cigarette with a select few, a very small circle. Most of my friends played sports. If our dirty little secret (and occasional habit) were discovered, coaches and parents, would have something say about it. We snuck a drag here and there…whether it was at a forbidden kegger, the late night concert or sitting on a friend’s deck after school.

My high school had a designated smoking section. I’m not sure how it worked, or was monitored. I can’t imagine sending a note into school: “My child has permission to smoke in the designated area, stink like an ashtray and blow smoke rings with fellow classmates.” Those who frequented the smoking section were forever deemed a, “bleacher creature.” My friends considered it social suicide to be seen on that area of campus. Dudes sported Ozzy Osbourne T’s with ripped sleeves, big hair, acid washed jeans…while other creatures of the bleachers, the fashion requirement was black, black and more black. If my friends and I wanted to sneak a drag, we did what most girls did…smoked in the girls bathroom. We walked in, dead-bolted the lock to the main door, and lit up. God, how stupid we were.

Purchasing cigarettes was simple. Cigarette machines were in every restaurant, gas station and bus depot. The only obstacle was a lack of quarters to feed the machine. But between a handful of ambitious teenage girls, and a $1.75 price tag, solving that conflict required little effort.

There was an old smoke shop in California called Hellam’s Tobacco Shop, which I believe is still in business. It originally opened in the late 1800‘s and was located next door to the State Theatre, another historic landmark. After a night of movie fun, we felt grown-up going in and buying exotic Jakarta Cigarettes…and a Snickers chocolate bar. We obviously weren’t 18, yet the old woman behind the counter wasn’t phased. She sat hunched over on a wooden stool, hand open, accepting our crumpled dollar bills. Somehow we convinced ourselves candy purchases buffered and diverted the illegal purchase.

It was the only place in town to buy such glamorous smokes. The Indonesian tobacco crackled when you smoked it, leaving a hinted taste of cinnamon on your lips after each drag. The virgin smoker often felt nauseous after inhaling such exotic smoke. Rookie. Jakarta’s weren’t available in the slimy cigarette machine next to the men

s room at Denny’s. Jakarta’s were coveted like our habit. God, how stupid we were.

Then, once I got to college, smoking wasn’t as chic. Probably because we could purchase them legally. It wasn’t particularly socially acceptable, hence it was done in corners of undisclosed locations and huddled in small masses. The roof of my sorority house was a prime secret spot. Our house was conveniently located across the street from Jake’s Bar. Late at night, we’d sit hidden on the roof with our cigarettes and Keystone beer. During last call, we laughed and watched one-nighters sucking face behind the brick establishment. College coeds stumbled and vomited down the sidewalk. The next morning, our cigarette butts had collected under the “cigarette tree”…a mature boxwood that often fell victim of our part-time habit. Our house mother, Mrs. Robinson, was old and feeble. She either couldn’t see the evidence or chose to ignore the findings. God, how stupid we were.

A few weeks back, I walked into a coat room. As I looked for a place to leave my umbrella, directly in front of me sat an old cigarette machine. You know the kind…illuminated with a yellow light, familiar cigarette logos labeled single file with a solid plastic knob underneath each brand. It had seen it’s best days and was simply a relic – no longer in use and left as it was the last time someone pulled a knobby handle to extract a pack.

All the memories of my past escapades came flooding back. In the upper right hand corner, a tattered piece paper was taped over the insulated price. In blue marker, “$10.00” was written. Ten dollars? For a pack of cigarettes? I imagined a small group of teenage girls, each with handfuls of quarters, trying to feed this particular machine. I laughed…glad I smoked when it was cheap and easy…and I was young and stupid.