Bamboo Among The Oaks: Contemporary Writing by Hmong Americans

Sharon Her

Sharon Her Smokes After years of going places he had to go—school, work, home, repeat—he decided today to break the mold. He wanted to go someplace else. Someplace where there was very little noise coming in from the window and from the other side of the wall. Because he was new to this neighborhood, or because it was a brown October evening quickly approaching night, or maybe because the thought just struck him at that very moment, he decided to buy a pack of smokes and go for a walk before catching the 8A bus home. He used to be a chain smoker before the wife and kids came into the picture. He used to flick the middle finger at people as they shot him nasty looks by the school door where he smoked each morning. So today, instead of going home and seeing his wife on the couch and his progeny gripping the walls and floors with their sticky fingers, he decided to take a left instead of a right and walk two blocks to the gas station to buy some smokes. The electric door chime and stale heat greeted him as he entered and took the quick four steps to the counter. “Camels, hard pack. Regular, not lights,” he instructed. The price, with tax, was $2.66. “What the fuck is this world coming to?” he thought. When he first started smoking, he could trade an even seven quarters for one pack. Now, it was two bucks and then some? What a rip-off. Thank God he didn’t smoke anymore. Well, except for today. Before he picked his smokes up off the counter, he remembered he needed a light. It pissed him off real quick that the glass-eyed old man on the other side of the counter didn’t respond to him when he asked for a light. Only after his followup , “I said, do you have a light?” did the man point to a halfempty box of matchbooks on the edge of the counter. His dull, perfunctory gesture reminded Tou of his own life. That con43 nection aroused a quick uneasiness in his chest, but he let it go. Poor bastard, he thought as he packed his cigarettes. Only when he heard the smacking sound of the cigarette box hitting callused palm did the old man say with a degree of passion, “Don’t do that in the store.” “’Scuse me?” Tou said. “I said, don’t do that in the store.” “Why the hell not?” “I’ve been sitting here every day for the past three years, listening to that fucking sound. I’m sick of it. Now don’t do that in the store.” Not wanting to start anything unpleasant, Tou left with a snarl. “What the hell was his problem? Crazy old man,” he thought as the door banged shut behind him. Back in the company of cold, sloppy leaves, he finished pounding his box. When he was done, he unwrapped the outside plastic and pulled off the shiny inner foil. Next, one slender stick was pulled out from the box and flipped around, marking it as the “lucky cigarette.” With this ritual complete, he liberated one of the other “unlucky” cigarettes and brought it to his lips. When he struck the paper match against the grainy brown strip on the back of the matchbook, a phosphorous spark sounded and a brilliant light escaped. Suddenly, he remembered an image from his past. It was a scene from his second year in college, Social Problems 1001. The class was a half-filled auditorium in the dingy Cohl Building . It was a night class made up of equal parts young and old students. Most of the young students skipped lecture on a regular basis because of a rumor that Mr. Jacobs was senile and generous with his As. What remained of the class was a handful of dazed young students, a corner of gray-haired women, a row of short-haired soccer moms, and Leah. He had never thought of Leah as beautiful. He just saw her 44 as another well-intentioned white girl who talked too much. She was short and round and came into class with her coat on. Underneath her coat, she wore layers of shirts under her sweater and thick brown corduroy pants. Sometimes she wore a pair of jeans. Her stringy, ash blonde hair was...