There's a cigarette being passed around on Long Beach's Eastside. A longshoreman from the Port bought it from the L&L Liquor on his way home from work—he'd been living on the Eastside for 30 years, and working at the Port for 30 and a half. He shook his head at the price of a pack, as he did once a week, then handed the clerk his money.

On his way out the door, he slid the crinkling cellophane off the pack and stuffed it in his pocket, then pulled out two cigarettes, lighting them both. One he put to his lips and drew on—the other he held towards the ground, without even looking to acknowledge Veteran Johnny, who lived outside the liquor store and who was the once-weekly beneficiary of the longshoreman's generosity, even in the wake of rising prices and falling pay-scales.

Veteran Johnny waved bye to him, and smoked half of the cigarette, then pinched it off and tucked it behind his ear, for the morning. He rolled himself up in his ratty Salvation Army blanket, and fell asleep. When he woke, his ear was naked, and he slapped the ground. In a rust-bucket heading towards the Westside, a young wannabe-gangster was smoking the last half of the cigarette, his lungs fogging from the clouds of his first smoke. He'd seen Veteran Johnny lying there and thought, "Hey, what the fuck? Gotta start sometime."

As he finished it, sucking on the butt too long because he didn't know when to stop, a cop car flying up Santa Fe plowed into him, breaking his legs and sending the butt flying out the window, where it landed on the asphalt and rolled to the curb. Yoger, the homeless who lived on the corner of Santa Fe and PCH, stepped over to the butt, picked it up, and tried to draw on it—nothing left. He flicked it back into the street, and went back to his ratty Goodwill blanket, cursing.

Labels: Stories