Thursday, November 18, 2004
When did I get to be so callous?
I remember a Friday night a couple weeks ago, sitting on the Numbers patio talking to friends about who was going to Dan's funeral. Craig's left hand in my right. A strawberry bidi in my left. And someone asked me what I was smoking.
"Oh, it's a bidi," I said. "A flavored tobacco leaf rolled by Indian slave children. Goes against everything I stand for," I said, blowing out the smoke in half-laughter.
Today I walked into the Downtown specialty tobacco store a block up the street from my work. Two men were smoking cigars and talking in business suits. I asked the man behind the counter if he sold bidis there.
"No, I quit selling those years ago when I found out they are manufactured with child labor."
"Oh," I said quietly. "OK, thanks."
And I left, just like that.
I could see Cara, in a t-shirt and torn-kneed bell bottoms with embroided flowers, protesting the war at a march some two years ago. I could see her shouting the rhyming anti-Bush sentiments. I could see her writing opinion columns. I could see her having a conversation with the man behind the counter about the world and all the injustice and all the horrible circumstances in it.
And I saw her turn left at the green light, pull up a chair on the local coffeeshop patio around the corner, pick up a Houston Press and open it to the music listings, sit comfortably, and light one up.
I remember a Friday night a couple weeks ago, sitting on the Numbers patio talking to friends about who was going to Dan's funeral. Craig's left hand in my right. A strawberry bidi in my left. And someone asked me what I was smoking.
"Oh, it's a bidi," I said. "A flavored tobacco leaf rolled by Indian slave children. Goes against everything I stand for," I said, blowing out the smoke in half-laughter.
Today I walked into the Downtown specialty tobacco store a block up the street from my work. Two men were smoking cigars and talking in business suits. I asked the man behind the counter if he sold bidis there.
"No, I quit selling those years ago when I found out they are manufactured with child labor."
"Oh," I said quietly. "OK, thanks."
And I left, just like that.
I could see Cara, in a t-shirt and torn-kneed bell bottoms with embroided flowers, protesting the war at a march some two years ago. I could see her shouting the rhyming anti-Bush sentiments. I could see her writing opinion columns. I could see her having a conversation with the man behind the counter about the world and all the injustice and all the horrible circumstances in it.
And I saw her turn left at the green light, pull up a chair on the local coffeeshop patio around the corner, pick up a Houston Press and open it to the music listings, sit comfortably, and light one up.
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