The 200th Cigar
Chapter 21 of
By Jack Riepe
Copyright © 2000
The sub-tropical sunset bathed the mountains, jungles, and beaches of the Socialist Workers Paradise in various hues of red when the roller completed his 200th cigar of the day. It would take an expert to discern the subtle differences in the aged roller's first cigar of the day and his last, but the aroma of the filler and distinctive color of this cigar would make it stand out even without its canary-yellow and black band. The roller stood up and stretched. The rolling was beginning to take its toll. The pain that once began and ended in his knuckles was now in his shoulders by the day's finish.
Still, cigar rolling provided a living. The aged roller could hardly know that the price of just one of these cigars in Geneva, London, Paris, or Berlin was the equivalent of his salary for a week. He went outside, squinted in the early evening sunlight, and lit up a cigar. Not one of his, of course. They were too precious and the country needed them to bring in capitalist currency. It seemed odd that cigars and sugar, the principle products of this country, should always be in short supply, but that was the way things were. The politics of economics and revolution belonged to other old men, in wrinkled jungle fatigues.
The cigar was placed in a box, which was carefully nailed shut with two taps of a little wooden mallet. It was briefly aged in a room slightly more humid than the rolling floor and eventually sent off to a tobacconist in London. The London shop was nicely situated in Knightsbridge and did a steady business in custom-rolled cigarettes, expensive antique pipes, and exquisite cigars — some with bright yellow and black bands. The shop's clientele ranged from ageing London clubmen to tourists.
Bill Kreiger was one of the tourists and he had a yen to try a cigar with a distinctive yellow and black band. He was amazed to learn that a box of these island beauties cost as much as two radial tires, what with taxes and the unfavorable exchange rate. But Kreiger was a man who understood a gesture. It was his intention to present these cigars to his hunting buddies on the last day of black powder season back home in Wilson's Corner, Vermont. The trick was to buy the cigars and take the chance that customs wouldn't search his bags back in New York. Bill Kreiger was a sport. He took his best shot.
Cigars are a rather democratic lot and take no notice of their change in surroundings. Whether coddled in the steamy embrace of a humidor or shoved into the coat pocket of a bum, they are destined to satisfy. Kreiger's cigars — with the bright yellow and black band — were packed away in the laundry of his vacation. He figured laundry was a kind of personal domain and not likely to be the subject of official inquiry in a big city like New York. You can imagine his surprise then when his bags and his laundry were exposed to all and sundry at customs.
With all the efficiency of an assembly line welding robot, the customs officer separated the box of cigars from the boxer shorts, advising the chagrined Kreiger that this wanton act of criminal behavior forever marked him as a potential enemy of the United States. He faced a fine equivalent to the French national debt, longer prison time than the OJ Simpson trial, and a permanent blot on his record as a closet smuggler. From now on, Bill Kreiger's boxer shorts would be examined for hidden content every time he re-entered the United States from any country that had a fine smoking tradition to uphold. Kreiger was led away to a secret room (giving fellow travelers the impression he was in on the Lindbergh kidnapping) to sign forms naming his accomplices and to repack his shorts. The cigars were now labeled “Exhibit A.”
The cigars were placed in an evidence room where the contraband of socialist tyrannies, unlawful farm products, furs, rhino horns, and items of dramatically understated value were stored pending further investigation. The investigation must have moved swiftly as unseen hands hustled the cigars with the bright yellow and black bands to a place of even greater security in somebody else's home. This home was far removed from tranquil society of Wilson's Corner. In fact, it was a lot closer to the Beltway surrounding Sodom-On-The-Potomac. And so it came to pass that the 200th cigar of a nearly endless day in a nearly endless lifetime of cigar-rolling crossed the threshold of the rundown city that serves as the capital of the United States. But cigars lend a note of class to just about anything, so it was still all right.
After a brief couple of weeks, in which half of Mr. Kreiger's cigars went up in thick, luxurious smoke one at time, the 200th cigar and a handful of others found their way into a briefcase that was headed to a congressional hearing. This hearing was called by an important subcommittee, which plays a significant role in finding a cure for somnambulism. By the end of the four-hour hearing, it was obvious that another session had worked its magic as the participants appeared to be in a coma. The cigars changed briefcases and were now keeping company with a lobbyist, who understood the importance of airline ticket surcharges and their relationship to funding the expansion of international airport operations, like customs.
The lobbyist had lunch with an influential elected official who could easily recognize a cigar with its bright yellow and black band, and who didn't mind accepting the 200th cigar of the nearly endless day in the nearly endless lifetime of cigar rolling, along with the handful of others. The official was on his way to forestall the closure of a naval facility in a state 1,200 miles from the nearest ocean in a meeting with another man who needed some help in getting support for social programs that were as dead as Kelsey's nuts. The cigars entered the official residence on Pennsylvania Avenue like they entered the country, through the back door. The meeting opened in the Oval Office with a handshake, a little backslapping between the boys, and the presentation of the 200th cigar. An hour later, the visitor trudged off feeling like his pants were gathered about his ankles, wishing he had the damn cigar back.
The Oval Office was a great place to conduct business, concluded the remaining occupant, as nobody could hear the screams of the victims. The last victim came to deal and could only squeal, as they say back in Little Rock. The man picked up the cigar from his desk and savored the aroma of the tightly rolled tobacco. He sliced off the end with a razor-sharp letter opener and searched the desk for a match.
“Don't light that damn thing in here,” said a woman's voice from the hallway.
“Aaah, c'mon honey,” he said in the same tone that had worked so well with a senior citizens group earlier in the day. “I want to.”
“Forget it,” she said. “Think of the children.”
“What children?”
“Any children,” she replied. “The ones we're always talking about.”
“But they're not here now!” he whined.
“Honestly, you can be so dumb sometimes,” she snapped. “They could be outside looking in the windows. Look, go downstairs and order 50 pizzas for Ken Star. That'll give you something to do.”
“I just did that.”
“Well do it again,” she said.
The man got up and headed to the special unlisted, untraceable scramble phone downstairs. She listened for a few seconds to make sure he was actually speaking to Domino's. The last time he'd tried this by himself, he scrambled a fighter wing in San Diego. The woman slipped into the Oval Office and sat down behind the desk. She put her feet up on same the polished surface that Lincoln had used to sign the Emancipation Proclamation, struck a match on Harry Truman's favorite chair, and lit the cigar.
“The co-President really can't be impeached,” she thought, filling her lungs with the rich Cuban smoke. “That's not so bad.” Then she started humming the theme from Evita.
The old man went to his worktable on the rolling room floor. He took his seat and looked over his tools. It would be hotter than hell today in the Socialist Workers Paradise, and he had 200 cigars to roll.
Chapter One
A First Time For Everything...
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