Escape Route
To the
side of the restaurant foyer, left
and
down a plush carpeted dim-lit corridor
lined
with reproduction German Expressionist paintings,
past
an alcove housing gentlemen’s and ladies rooms,
beyond
banquet room number one, turning right
into
banquet room number two and then, to the far side,
there
is a locked storage room, empty,
that
has an exit to the rear parking lot.
It is
a small room, about 10’ x 12’,
walls
and floor painted industrial grey,
with
no windows or shelving, no paintings on the walls,
no
telephone, not even a fire extinguisher.
The
maître ‘d shuts the entry door, opens the exit door
to the
parking lot a crack and pulls a soft pack of Camels
from
his side tux pocket. It is unopened,
and he
firmly tamps the pack against the palm of his hand,
pulling
the gold tab around the pack but leaving
the
cellophane covering on for protection.
He has
limited time but takes care to lift the foil
with
his fingernail, tearing just enough of the
top edge
for a couple cigarettes to show.
He never
refers to them by any derivative name
nor by
their brand name. They are cigarettes.
The
front portion of foil is removed, crumpled,
but
the silver that wraps around the cigarettes in the pack
is
retained for freshness and armor against the hazards
in his
jacket pocket. A soft pack is susceptible
to
damages but has a feel, touch and history
that a
hard pack lacks. The cellophane feels refreshing
to his
uncallused palm as he runs his fingers around
the
Camels, tapping out a cigarette, hoping they
never
change the design of the camel in profile,
pyramids
and palm trees in the background.
A flaring
wooden match from a vintage
Diamond
match box lights the tip, smoke
immediately
drifting toward the exterior door.
The
spent cigarette arcs into the rain-soaked parking lot
like a
lone firework, a moment’s pleasure. Back to work.
Brief
Bio: Gene McCormick has smooth but macho hands,
does not smoke
but occasionally smolders.
Once again, engaging and finely crafted work!
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