Kool Filters

The first time I bought cigarettes, I was visiting my aunt in suburban Chicago. Oak Park, to be exact. Hemingway's hometown. My Aunt Sally and her then husband had to work in the city, leaving me plenty of afternoon hours alone during a spring break week away from school and my sister, my mother and father. Especially my father. On that chilly March day, in search of new wave records and books I couldn't find in Central Ohio, I had so much freedom that a host of illicit acts occurred to me. Betting on horses or buying a redhead a martini in a dim bar didn't seem possible. However, if I got carded or refused a pack of cigarettes, I'd never see that clerk or laughing customers again. No one knew me here. I might pull it off. The store's name escapes me, but I recall the older white man working there, overweight, hooded eyes, long, gray hair slicked back and greasy. I'd likely interrupted his reading of the Trib or Sun-Times. My jacket collar up, concealing my unshaven cheeks, I walked toward the counter. I knew not to linger. That's what made you look underaged, all those indecisive laps around the store. I'm trying now to recall the array of cigarettes I could have chosen. In 1983, there weren't just Newports and Marlboros and discount brands. You could smoke Raleighs, Tareytons, Vantages and L & M's. Too many choices. Too many magazine ads to remember, determine which would suit me.

But that wasn't my only problem. Little time had passed, maybe a minute since I'd jingled the bell over the entry door. Though I'd smoked plenty of OPC's, Other People's Cigarettes, I'd never asked for my own. What did you even say to buy cigarettes? Every silent second made me look a year younger, I was sure. To steady myself, I placed both hands on the counter, stared at how brown they looked against the gray surface. Then I heard myself say, "Pack of Kool Filters, please."

As if he knew I wasn't old enough, the clerk sighed, but he dragged the green and white pack out of the shelves facing him and handed it to me. He made change for my trembling ten, and I stared at the money in my palm, unsure what to do next. Thank him? Walk away? Thank god I saw the box of complimentary matches and snatched a book before speeding away.

It wasn't the last time I'd hear my father's voice coming out of my head. How many times had I heard him say "Pack of Kool filters, please?" I couldn't count. I didn't know there'd been a time you had to clarify you wanted filters. I didn't even consider I might have revealed myself to be more black than not to this suburban Chicagoan. I raised a shaky match to the Kool and started sucking furiously until I coughed and hacked and spat out a gob of spit as big as an oyster. That next drag came easier, the menthol cool and welcome. As I strode toward my next purchase of the day, a Kool dangling between my fingers, another nineteen in my pocket, I believed I might smoke my father's voice out for good.