L.K.

"It's not carbon dioxide that makes champagne fizz. It's dirt. Dirt acts as condensation nuclei for the dissolved CO2. In fact did you knooow there are over 250 million bubbles in evvvery frickin’ bottle of Moët?" ######
"Quit talking dirty, nerd.” Jackie lazed. “And bring me a beer. It’s getting warm out here." ######
Not many apartments in the hood had backyards, let alone vegetable gardens, but Jackie’s did. Before its transformation friends had jokingly baptized the former rubbish-stuffed eyesore, “Fresh Frills,” however the nickname had stuck. Cucumbers and tomatoes and sugar snap peas and basil and fennel and mint and lemon balm and edible nasturtiums now all thrived, one of those trees which blooms tulips kept the space pretty and cool, plus if a sheet were to be tossed over the rotten fencing that needed replacing she’d be able to host barbecues with projected films come summer. Better yet, maybe now it’d be possible to adopt a dog. ######
Feeling ambitious, she’d decided to clear an additional plot for a patch of hybrid Hakucho Charentais melons. Delicious. Though the thought of mangling helpless earthworm bellies with the crux of a spade grossed her out. Besides. It soothed to investigate the earth with her bare hands. Digging, delving, jabbing deeper. Her fingers struck rock. Or was it wood or plastic? Sub radish, sub centipede, sub rosa. She less than sublimely broke a nail. ######
“Oh, wow,” nerd boy, a.k.a. her neighbor proclaimed. “Buried treasure? Not. Looks like more junk." ######
Jackie worked to fully extricate the object, which had clearly been cached with purpose. ######
“Which reminds me…were you awaaare that King Charles II of Spain, the crazy inbred freaky fucker, once demanded that a bunch of his ancestors corpses be exhumed so that he could stare at their rotten faces for fun?!”¬
“That sounds nasty.” ######
“And did you know that Van Gogh’s casket was found wrapped in the roots of the Thuja occidentalis, eye eeeee so-called absinthe tree, when they¬—” ######
“Jezuz, do you eeever stop yapping? You’ve only told me that story like five times already. I also know it’s illegal to pretend to be drunk in Iowa. With imaginary BEER. Now how about making yourself useful. Bring us those bevvies or mine your mind for Trebekkie fare about THIS.” ######
On her lap sat a filthy, albeit intact, large red and white thermos with a pivoting handle. Mmmm…Nothing like guzzling agua or lemonade accompanied by a refreshing douse of vintage tobacco swill. She shook it. Something rattled. ######
“Marlboros were initially marketed as chick cigarettes,” her neighbor informed in response to the iconic logo on the thermos’ side. “Beauty Tips to Keep the Paper from Your Lips. Mild as May. My great grams used to buy those. Smoked until she croaked. 92. She was really feisty. She told me they used to print a red band around the filter to mask lipstick stains. I can’t imagine her wearing lipstick. I don’t like it when women wear lipstick. I don’t like the taste. Damn. I haven’t made out in a really long time. In fact did you knooow that—“ ######
Jackie blocked out the clatter of his blah blah blahs in favor of focusing on that of her newfound maraca. ######
“Incidentally, Erin and Jason mentioned that some kooky old dude used to live here. That he’d amassed a bizarre fortune selling vacuum cleaners and purportedly hid his dough somewhere in your apartment. Maybe he plopped it into the ground.” ######
Jackie perked up. The excitement of having potentially deracinated some geezer weirdo’s financial grail set her mind into overdrive, paired with an ineluctable urge to reveal its guts. But whims of instantaneous riches were quickly dispelled after removing the thermos’ lid. This was probably some kid’s time capsule, dating from the early-70s to mid-80s if one considered the number of jaundiced news clipping found within. The rest of the container’s spoils were incredibly hodge-podge. ######
“A Donkey Kong cartridge,” Jackie began. “I’LL STAY IN SCHOOL TILL ’82 SO I DON’T GO TO DIEN BIEN PHU,” she read from a remarkably virginal button. “A purple friendship bracelet. Two pennies from 1968, a broken King Tut coffee mug and like a reeeally creepy looking homemade doll wearing Romanian flag suspenders. Let’s see…One corroded AAA battery, a paperback copy of Bob Vlasic’s 101 Pickle Jokes. A publicity portrait of Gertie from E.T. This really is junk.” ######
“Nah, everything has significance. Keep going. This is fun!” ######
“An Apollo launch sticker. An unidentifiable cassette tape,” Jackie continued. ######
“Oh, man. Did you heeear that the Concise Oxford English Dictionary removed ‘cassette tape’ from—” ######
“A dried out travel-size vial of Binaca Blast? A swiveling, wooden thingamajig with what looks like RS5 penciled on one side…” ######
“Kachcha kachcha? Pakka pakka? RS5 crore. Who wants to be an Indian millionaire!” ######
“Huh?” ######
“I am not a bum. I’m a jerk. I once had wealth, power and the love of a beautiful woman. Now I only have two things. My friends and—“ ######
“Steve Martin. Plus this Luke Skywalker action figure with a retractable lightsaber built into his arm, a torn off cover of In Praise of the Sensitive Man by Anaïs Nin as well as some French title I don’t understand by some guy named Vernon Sullivan. Garbage Pail Kids trading cards with bubblegum. Ew. Petrified. Never been opened. And that’s it,” she concluded. “No, wait! I feel something else at the bottom but it’s stuck. It won’t pry loose. Can you see it? It’s, like…It’s kinda…” ######
Eyes widened. Flesh made like geese. For several minutes the sound of silence deafened. ######
“Holy shit, Jackie. Shouldn’t we tell someone?” ######
“No…No…“ she whispered. “I think we need to keep this dirt a secret.” ######

Tony

The Marlboro Thermos

The boy sat on the curb, package in hand, waiting for the rusty Ford Rambler to rupture the stillness of the trailer park, with its rattletrap muffler hanging low and grating against each speed bump as it lumbered down the driveway. He stared at the bent and twisted cigarettes butts scattered everywhere. He knew his grandfather had tossed them there; he was the only one who smoked on this side of the park.
###The old man approached in the old car, the boy sat still. He didn’t want to think the words that the doctor might have said today. All he could think about was their shared birthday. All he wanted was to give him the package, ride out to the old metal bridge, and throw rocks into the water with the old man. The car leaped abruptly to a hesitant stop and the old man hollered,
### “ Are you going to get in or what?”
### “Yeah I’m coming, hold your horses, this door’s still sticking”
### “Just wiggle the little dealy-bob and it works fine” muttered the old man.
###He wiggled the handle and opened the door, sliding into the Marlboro tinged fog. The grey smoke blended with the sallow grey sky, merged into the sallow gray man sat in the drivers seat. For a moment it looked eerily like a black and white movie.
###The window was rolled down, as the old man tried to reposition his oxygen tank and lean on the armrest to blow the smoke out of the window. He held the cigarette in his left. The boy had religiously collected every “Marlboro mile” coupon and then sent them off for this package. He quickly handed it to the old man,
### “Here I got you this.”
###The old man tore open the package and when he saw the Marlboro thermos bawled
### “What do I need a thermos for? That’s about as useful as tits on a bull!”
He saw the boy’s crestfallen face and slapped his knee,
### “I guess now I got somewhere to flick my ashes when I’m driving around.”, he mumbled at the boy.
###He stared long and hard at the Marlboro thermos sat it beside him. The air in the Rambler was oppressive. The old man turned to The boy, his eyes red and tired.
### “Before I give you your present, promise me something boy!”
### “Promise you what?”
### “Promise me you ain’t never gonna start smoking these goddam things.”
### “I ain’t never gonna smoke”, the boy stated sternly.
### “ yeah I know you say that now...just listen. Just promise that you’ll never ever smoke! Ever.”
### “I hate smoking, I wish you would quit! It’s gonna kill you...”
### “Yeah, I will quit one day, but not today. Any ways look what I got for you.”
###The old man got out of the car and opened the trunk and then came back and flopped a droopy-eared white puppy with a red patch on his left eye. The pup saw the boy and wiggled free from the old man, who burst into a new round of coughing.
###The red and white pit bull puppy jumped into the boys lap, licking his face.
### “You got to take care of him, and remember no smoking son, promise me.” The boy held the pup and nodded.
###The night the old man died, he buried his face into his dogs neck, he smelt like cigarette smoke and old spice. He licked the boys tear stained cheeks as he lay quietly sobbing on the bed in that tiny attic room. He knew it was coming, the coughing, the choking and always gasping for air. There was always a cloudy silence after the doctor’s visits. His mother opened the bedroom door and said,
### “You’re worthless granddad’s dead”
His mother closed the door and just left him there. To here his mother say it like that though tore him up.
###After the memorial his mom handed the ceramic urn and the flag to the boy. She grimaced and said that she did not want “it” anywhere near her clean house.
### “Take “it” out somewhere and dump it in the woods”, she said.
### “He’s not an it, he’s my grandfather”
### “Then get him out of this house!”
###He slammed the door and ran with the urn towards the old mans place, his dog at his heel. His eyes were caked with tears and dust. In his haste he tripped over the last speed bump and saw the urn glisten in the sunlight as it arced and smashed on to the road.
###The boy stood up stared at the broken urn with the ashes spilled into piles around its shattered pieces. The dry summer sky, windless and humid, left the ashes untouched where they’d fallen. The dog nuzzled his bare legs. He doubled his fists and screamed at the top of his lungs, “I promise, grandpa…I promise”.
###He wiped the tears from his eyes and saw the Rambler sat silent. He opened the door and saw the Marlboro thermos lying on the floorboards next to the oxygen tank. He grabbed it and walked back to where the dog stood guard over the old man’s remains. He gently swept up the ashes and let them sift through his hands into the thermos.
###The boy walked down the road, red and white Marlboro thermos in hand; filled to the brim with the old mans ashes. He and the dog would walk to the bridge today. The still heat of the summer was breaking into understandable droplets of rain on his cheeks, washing away the twisted cigarette butts and the remaining ashes of the only man he would ever love.

Gary

O.K. Do I have everything. Kool-Aid. Check. Sugar. Check. Coleman thermos. Check. Cyanide. Check. Why end it? Could it be my failed marriages? Check. Wait, wait. Stay on task. Where is that measuring cup? Who cares just throw in the Kool-Aid and get on with it. Why now? Depression? Check. Hopelessness? Check. Fill water and a dash of sugar. Still watching my weight. Cyanide. Cyanide. How much to take down a 200 pound man? Don't want to live in a coma. Focus. Look at the label. Read. Come on before you lose your nerve. Four tablespoons should be enough. How about the cat. He weighs 7 pounds. Should we see. No. Just stir it up. Shake it. Marlboro. Funny. Never smoked but Marlboro is going to kill me. Funny how live is. Focus. Double check. Ready? Note? Have to explain. Make them understand. No paper. Sharpie. Check. How about the thermos. That's creative. Did he leave a note. Only the thermos. Funny. Do it. O.K. Ticking. Ticking. Elton you knew me well. Ticking. Ticking. Check.

Dagna

Coming home it was later than usual – 2am. I worked the line at a new Brooklyn restaurant. Outside my apartment on the stoop I spotted a red and white thermos in a ‘free stuff’ box , most likely from my neighbor who has a Jack White fixation and only owns things that are red, white, and/or black. I picked it up, taken in by its Marlboro logo. I brought it inside. I set it on my counter, next to the Kombucha starter and the mandolin I was trying to learn. The thing started shaking and spinning and rattling until lo, a genie appeared.

The genie told me to assume a yoga cross legged position and he’d grant three wishes. I thought and thought and was focusing on that Marlboro thermos so I made my first wish: to time travel back to where the thermos was from. The genie looked around at my throwback Southern cookbook, Yamasake whiskey, and culturing butter, laughed and said, it’ll be a real palate cleanser.

Poof! Off we went to a Wisconsin Piggly Wiggly. I could smell the plastic and fluorescent grocery shelves and there on one such shelf was the thermos. Next to it were potato chips and not far off squishy hot dog buns. Other shelves were packed with things to add to casseroles, frozen food, and all manner of tacos and pizza. No bottled water though… I figured I was in square arout 1975.

After Piggly Wiggly we went to a football game where the thermos supplied strong black coffee. I drank Tang from one such thermos and it tasted like coffee flavored Tang. Oh this was getting fun! I needed to make this into an organic popsicle and high tail it to the Flea Market. This genie was genius, this genie was going to make me rich!

Ok enough with the time travel, what was the next wish? I looked over at my bubbling kimchee, my laptop tabs full of the words ‘Taste’, ‘Simple’, ‘Quince’, and ‘Passionate’ and I said for the love of God can you bring me a TV dinner from that Piggly Wiggly where you came from? Poof! There it was in front of me, piping hot. I pealed back the lid and the started chomping away, devouring it in fact. The green peas were salty, the apple pie was weird but sweet and somewhat discernable, and the Salisbury steak reigned supreme in its little tin coffin, stewing in its fatty hot broth.

You’re killing me genie! I’ve got not one but two great ideas to make a buck off of. But the genie was nowhere. Genie? Genie? I thought maybe genie and fermenting things didn’t jibe, something about odor with non-matter or maybe he just wasn’t into odor? He was gone in any case. Maybe he granted me the last wish by leaving me with his thermos. I set it on my shelf. It wasn’t cute enough to be ironic but it did provide inspiration: my fantastic reprieve from my fabulous, fantasy, blood sport, sprouted spelt life. Bring on the coffee Tang!

AC

Annette exhaled and let go of a half-crumpled laugh. What a close call, and after all that work! For how many years had she been shuttling Carter’s teammates back and forth from practice? Videotaping inning after inning for parents who couldn’t make it to the games? Substituting applesauce for canola oil in the brownies, so she could tell the mothers they were “tasty and healthy, too!”? She tugged at the wheel of her van, making a sharp right back in the direction of the baseball diamond. No, she hadn’t been elected Parent President of Covington Hills Little League for nothing. The job took guts, stamina, and salon highlights every six weeks.###Again, a laugh, more bitter this time. To think of the other mothers who had tried to shut her down since the start of the season. She could see the hope in Lorrie Turner’s eyes when Carter realized he had forgotten his water bottle. Well, guess what, Lorrie? She lived only ten minutes from those bleachers and could walk back home if it weren’t for her brand new patent platform pumps. And while she was at it, couldn’t Lorrie’s kid stand to donate some water of his own? He appeared slightly bloated from never moving off the bench.###Three more stop signs to go. Lip gloss at the first, an Altoid at the second, and then nothing at the third, lest someone catch her preoccupied behind the wheel. She had been gone just long enough for some jerk to swipe her parking spot. Annette reflected on this for a moment as base runners shifted in the distance. It had only taken her fifteen seconds to spot an old thermos at the back of the garage, and another thirty to fill it with water from the hose. She couldn’t have been quicker.###One casual mirror check, and, clutching the thermos, she made her way toward the team. She passed Colleen Erickson, mother of Jacob. Sofia Lopez, mother of Santino. Both women received a fervent grin and wave, but Annette knew that Lorrie Turner would not be rewarded with such warmth. Lorrie Turner doubted her prowess.###“Carter!” she shouted, shifting the weight of the thermos to her left thigh, which, she recalled, had been two inches wider in circumference before meeting her personal trainer at Bally Total Fitness. “Water, sweetie!” He waved her off and punched his mitt twice, keeping an eye on the batter. Annette bristled slightly but set the thermos down by his jacket, in plain view of the spectators. Slightly worn but still bright red, the thing was twice as large as all of the others. Had she any idea how much better it would look compared to the neon squeeze bottle Carter usually brought, she would have dug it out of its hiding place long ago. She found herself feeling grateful toward her husband for once, whom she would normally chastise for hoarding junk from his college days.###With a flip of her hair, Annette shifted her focus toward the bleachers. There was an opening next to Lorrie Turner, and, being a classy woman, she would take it. Even though Lorrie Turner was smirking. And staring at the thermos. Yes, staring and smirking, never a good combination. Only pointing could make things worse. Did she just point?###The letter arrived one week later.###Dear Mrs. Annette Moran,###As you know, the Covington Hills Athletic Association has many duties, all of which we take very seriously in order to facilitate a sporting experience of the utmost quality to each child. It has come to our attention that you have promoted tobacco usage through your prominent placement of a thermos featuring the Marlboro logo. I remind you that Covington Hills has a zero-tolerance policy of any product which encourages the abuse of such destructive substances, as outlined in article 4.3 of the “CHAA Healthy Habits” charter. Regretfully, we must ask you to resign from your presidency.###We thank you for your five weeks of service.###Regards,###The council members of CHAA:###Joseph Turner, Eleanor Turner, Richard “Dick” Turner, Gordon Jensen, and Louise Schultz

Nancy

What do you do with when your dog dies? ### Easy. You take the thermos from Marlboro, the one your husband uses as a flask for his weekly football games, and put your dead dog’s ashes inside and take it to the Holy Land for an appropriate burial. ### Or at least that’s what my Mom did. The thermos was my Dad’s, a pack a day smoker; the thermos and a lifelong cough were his reward from a grateful tobacco company. Filled with scotch and soda, the thermos fit neatly in my father’s jacket pocket, a man-sized flask for football games. Or at least it was until the dog died. ### The thermos was the perfect urn for my mother’s 14-pound Lulu. My father never liked that dog, whose yapping would interrupt his afternoon naps on weekend when there was no game. Now, even after she was dead, she had managed to interfere with his pleasure. Lulu stayed in the thermos for several months, on a bookshelf in the den, until my parents traveled to Israel for a relative’s wedding. “I think we should take Lulu to the Holy Land,” my mother said, and so she was packed into a carry-on and stowed overhead on a flight to Tel Aviv. ### After the celebration, they traveled on to the Jordan River. My mother thought it would be fitting to scatter Lulu’s ashes in that famed Biblical river. They traveled north to a vacation area beyond the Galilee, staying at a kibbutz run chain of budget guest houses. A muddy tributary of the Jordan River circled the resort site. But the river was a disappointment. Picnic tables rested in the river, with benches in the river for tourists to dangle their bare feet in the shallow water as they devoured wine and cheese. A family of Arabs dined on upstream benches, while downstream a group of German tourists, also with their feet in the water, invited my parents to join them. The Marlboro thermos stood unopened, a centerpiece on the picnic table, as my father downed German beer and my mother’s determination to leave Lulu’s ashes in the Holy Land wavered. ### My father, however, had resolved to get his thermos back. Back in Jerusalem, he and my mother taxied up to the Mount of Olives, overlooking the Tombs of the Prophets. The catacombs contain the oldest and largest Jewish cemetery in the world. My father announced his plan to scatter Lulu’s ashes in full view of Jerusalem, the Dome of the Rock and the Temple Mount. According to tradition, the resurrection of the dead is scheduled to take place at the Mount of Olives, once the Messiah arrives. Christian tradition has it that Jesus rose to heaven from there. ### The ancient tombs were scattered like Monopoly pieces along the hillside. Workers were eating an early lunch. Camels slumped curbside. ### Still early morning, it was already the hottest day of the year. Again, my mother wavered. It was such a hot, merciless site. Was this really the right final resting place for her beloved terrier? ### My father had a back-up plan. They descended to Gethsemane, at the base of the Mount, where ancient olive trees lined the road to Jericho. Here Jesus wept, and wandered the gnarled rows. My father readied to empty its contents over the wrought iron fence that enclosed the still grove, and my mother nodded her agreement; it was the perfect place. ### As he prepared to cast the ashes over the fence, a couple of robed priests strolled into the courtyard, eyeing the couple carefully as if they had been waiting for tourists to come from America to throw a dead dog’s ashes into the holy site. ### In the shadow of the Church of All Nations, my parents were forced to admit defeat. There was nothing to do but slink home, their joint mission a failure, the thermos of canine ashes tucked safely back in my suitcase. My mother was going to return Lulu to her perch on the bookshelf, when my father told her that dog or no dog, that thermos was going with him to the next football game. As good as his word, the thermos went with him, tucked into his jacket pocket until a touchdown lifted the fans from their seats and my father tossed Lulu into the deafening storm of cheers. And that’s how Lulu’s ashes came to be scattered over the field at the Meadowlands.

cathy

I needed a total reboot, and all I had was a lousy cup of coffee. Bam, bam – the throbbing in my head was so loud I thought my eyes might be bulging in rhythm with it. I did not want to be in the meeting room, but there I was at 10 A.M. for a session of what we called “team brainstorming.” Bad name, since I was the one on the team with all the good ideas. And that morning, I was the only one whose brain was storming. ###

Damn if I was going to let my pulsing head stop me. It was hard, but I took myself by the shoulders (ad men imagine stuff all the time) and said, Jack, you can do this. We’re the geniuses who made Marlboro from a lady’s cigarette to a man’s. And we have to step up to the plate again and get them to buy more. And how are we going to do this? Premiums! Every gas station and bank and candy company was giving away something with their product, and we had to give men a reward for smoking our brand. We had to do it before other brands came up with the idea. But what? An ashtray? I knew everybody else on the team would suggest it. You smoke cigarettes; you need an ashtray, right? Their ideas were always the easy ones. Easy and dumb.###

So I’m finishing my coffee and getting up to for another cupful when the guys start talking about “premium” objects that have been used by other companies. I hear them saying “toaster” and “jelly jar” and “ice cream scoop.” I hear mention of bubble gum and comic books. But we should be talking about cigarettes, one of them says, and then they start coming up with cigarette related items: a lighter, a box of matches, an ashtray. Just like I predicted. ###

I’d rather see a jelly jar or an ice cream scoop than any of those lame-brained things, I tell them. I must have gotten a little angry, cause they were all giving me this hangdog look. When I get angry, my blood pressure rises. I was sipping at my coffee and the pressure was making my head scream. It was screaming, I don’t need coffee, you fool, I need a hair of the dog that bit me. ###

That was when Marlboro’s new premium appeared like a vision to me. I needed spiked coffee. You can’t have spiked coffee from the company urn, but you could have it if you brought it in to work yourself, in a thermos. I pictured this thermos in red and white plastic, with the Marlboro name on it. I picture pouring its hot (spiked) coffee into my cup and my headache eased immediately, both in my fantasy and in reality. It was a great idea whose time had come.

B.

Sitting across from a Black girl wearing jeans, green shiny tennis shoes, a green fatigue jacket with girlie shoulders. On the B train, 3pm. She has lush lips and sad determined eyes. Straight black hair. Carries a light green wallet and a black plastic bag. Smart phone in one hand.###
At Atlantic Station two boys stand by the door, look at her and say something inaudible to me. She smiles. They laugh. Leaving the train while glancing back and taking a swig from a red Marlboro thermos.

Michael

A tiny red dot on the horizon, coming in and out of sight with the gentle rise of the ocean swells--that's how I first saw it. I sat up from the deck, stretching my salty, brown shoulders and continued to watch curiously from the dappled shade of the patched main sail. Flotsam wasn't out of the ordinary, of course. Every once and a while I would find something useful, an object that might ensure some measure of temporary safety and survival while foraging the mainland. I think it was the bright red color that held my attention, the way it stood out from my monotonous gray surroundings.###I fished the container out of the water with a pole before it floated past. It could at least hold rainwater. I rotated the red and white thing in my hands and my eyes came to rest on a pale, discolored, peeling label. 'Marlboro' it said, in thick, reassuring letters. How many years had it been since I had read something? I was just a kid back then. Back when the world wasn't broken. "Marlboro," I said out loud. I liked the way the word sounded: bold, strong, optimistic. I looked up from the container back out into the endless waves. Faint gray plumes in the distance assured me that land would soon be in sight. Maybe this time there would be others, I thought. Civilized people. Maybe we could work together to build a new land. Perhaps I'd call it Marlboro. I let the word echo in my mind. Marlboro. Marlboro. Yes. I think I'll call it Marlboro.

David

#1 in Michigan

Fifty-two years ago in August 1987, I was sixteen and was on my first ever “road-trip” with my best friend Randy. Randy was two years older, and we both had a few days off from our summer jobs, so we decided to get out of town in Randy’s beat-up Camaro. We traveled from Cleveland, to the Marlboro 500 race in Michigan. I was a huge race fan and Randy agreed to go. He wasn’t much of a race fan, but I agreed to stop at some amusement park during the trip, as Randy was a freak for roller coasters.
###
Swear to God half of the Camaro’s trunk was filled with booze and beer, which we obtained with the help from an older friend before we left. One of the coolers we brought was a small Marlboro thermos that I received from my Uncle Joe when I was five. Uncle Joe smoked and was known to give gifts consisting of items he received from the cigarette company. In the 70s Uncle Joe smoked Marlboro, and cooler boldly displayed the brand’s name. I kept the cooler ever since because I liked the size, which made it easy to carry.
###
Randy pulled his Camaro into the track’s parking lot, and we got out to stretch our legs. “I feel like gin,” Randy said. He opened the trunk, “Which is why I picked up more ice and tonic before we left. This will be perfect to mix the cocktails,” Randy said as he picked up my Marlboro cooler.
###
“Sure,” I said. I knew from prior races that the people at the gate didn’t check coolers and didn’t really care what was brought in. “I’ll carry this one and you carry the beer cooler,” I said. Randy didn’t object as we walked toward the ticket window. Randy lit a cigarette and then managed to carry the cooler the thousand feet distance.
###
We arrived before the race with enough time to buy a pit-pass and meet the drivers. Michael Andretti was driving and idolized him – probably due to the legacy of his family in racing. I couldn’t convince Randy to pay extra for the pit-pass, so it was me alone behind the scenes before the race began. At the pit entrance, we agreed where to meet before the start of the race.
###
As I walked through and saw the cars and crews making final preparations, I was enthralled. I saw a few drivers and was lucky to pick up various flyers suitable for autographs along the way. After about a half hour, I saw Andretti’s car. My eyes scanned the pit area, but there was no sign of the driver. I looked back toward the inner part of the field and smiled. Andretti walked toward his pit area. I let him get a little closer and approached. “Mr. Andretti, could I get your autograph?”
###
“Of course. But wait I have some photos over, closer to the car,” Andretti, said.
###
I was beaming. I was going to get a signed photo of Michael Andretti. We walked about fifty feet over to pit area under an awning. Surprisingly, there wasn’t a crowd – probably because he just arrived. He noticed my Marlboro cooler, and I was worried the that he could smell the booze inside.
###
“You smoke?” he asked.
###
“Ah, not really.”
###
“Not really? Yes you do or no you don’t.” he asked matter of factly.
###
“I . . . I’ve tried a few,” I said.

###
The driver reached for a photo and a sharpie. “What’s your name?” I told him my name and he wrote a note “#1 in Michigan” on the photo and said, “The reason I asked if you smoke I could see the brand on your cooler. And I can tell you it’s really stupid to start. If I can offer you any advice – don’t.” He handed me the signed photo, “You’ll be really happy if you take this advice. Trust me.”
###
I assured my idol that I would and thanked him for the autographed photo. I began to walk away and turned back, “And Mr. Andretti thank you for the advice too.” He smiled, which made my day. After this encounter, I had my fill of pit-row and hurried back to the gate to locate Randy and find seats to watch the race. As I waited for Randy, I looked again at the photo “#1 in Michigan.” The race this year was called the Marlboro 500. In the previous years it was called the Michigan 500. I thought about Andretti’s advice, what he wrote, and laughed to myself.
###
A few minutes later Randy approached. He put down the beer cooler. I showed him my signed photo of Andretti. “Great,” he said. “Let’s get some seats. I need a drink.” He grabbed and shook the Marlboro cooler, “How’s the ice? Sounds good. And look I found some cups,” Randy smiled, pulled out and light a cigarette.
###
We walked toward the stands. “Randy how long have you been smoking?” He didn’t answer and I didn’t push the subject. It turns out that Michael Andretti won the Michigan, I mean, Marlboro 500. After the race, I looked at the photo, what he wrote and smiled.
###
Now fifty plus years later I’m 69 and Randy is in his early 70s. But for a few cigars over the years I never took up smoking, likely due to the advice from my idol after he saw my cooler – buttressed by the fact that he signed “#1 in Michigan” and then proceeded to win that race. My friend Randy on the other hand is still alive, but he’s said that he doesn’t want to be. He needs to speak through a hole in his throat and his tongue and esophagus are gone – eaten away by cancer or disease caused by his habit. I’ve never asked Randy whether he heard my question as we walked to the raceway stands in August 1987.

Heather

“My wife’s sister Pauline gave her this thermos,” he said, as he rubbed his fingers across the letters. “She got it from sending in cigarette box lids or something. She was a pack a day smoker, Pauline was. My wife Alma always told her she was going to smoke her way into the grave but Pauline would just laugh and say smoking was part of her back-up career plan. ‘It’s about time there ought to be a Marlboro woman,’ she used to say. ‘And I think I’m the one to give that cowboy a run for his money.’ Anyway, you used to be able to collect the boxes and save up the points to get gifts and she clipped them as reverently as some people highlight Bible verses. Then she and my Alma would pour over that catalog like gamblers examining a race book as if the decision of how to use those box points was going to make or break their fortune. Scarf or hat? Cigarette lighter or ashtray? Mug or Thermos? They wrestled over that last one for weeks. Alma said, ‘No use in getting a mug, a mug without a thermos is like a bowl without soup.’ Didn’t really make sense to me, seems like a thermos and a mug are both like the bowl but Alma could argue Jesus off the cross and into a bar if she set her mind to it so Pauline gave in, so thermos it was. Then wouldn’t you know it when that thermos came in the post they had accidentally sent two. You would have thought that Jesus dropped the extra thermos in the mail himself the way they went on about it. ‘Divine intervention,’ they said, and they filled them with coffee or lemonade, dragging them to work or picnics as if they were Gucci pocketbooks. Don’t even know why Alma wanted that. She hated cigarettes. She only smoked one cigarette her whole life. Then she was the one to get the cancer. She said that one cigarette must have been the one that got her. Pauline said it should have been her, said God must have gotten confused and picked the wrong twin seeing as they looked alike until the day Alma got sick. I don’t know, I always thought maybe she picked something up from looking through all those catalogs, or from drinking from that Thermos or something. I know it doesn’t make sense but I guess you just want something to blame and I guess this Thermos is as good as anything. I can’t drink from it but I can’t throw it out either. So I guess it’s just going to sit here. I heard a fellow on the radio say that plastic can outlive a person and that just doesn’t feel right to me, seems like we’d be better off with people than plastic. I mean what good is a bowl without soup?

Cat

Can you have a love-hate relationship with a thermos? ###
That’s a rhetorical question. Of course you can. ###
The inside smells like lemonade. No, like the endless, mythical sunshine that blesses every childhood memory I have of our summers at the lake, the breeze-tickled water glittering with sparkling clichés. Even the rainy days were sunny, illuminated by our joy in each other, in family love and warmth and understanding.###
Yeah, right. Maybe it’s just that it smells like the best times we ever had. ###
During the school year, those long, morbid months of brick walls and concrete floors, asphalt and broken glass-littered vacant lots, I’d dream of the lake. Dream of days where Mom would lie in a hammock and read six months worth of The New Yorker while Dad thumbed through recipes ripped from in-flight magazines, looking for something he could make with ingredients available at the one-room market that catered to vacationers. ###
Most of our dinners in the wood-shake cottage involved fish, caught by me and Grandpop during hours of floating together from one shady hollow to another. We’d only use the dinghy’s motor if lightening threatened – summers were slowtime, the antidote to the rush of normal life. ###
“Did you ever think,” he’d ask, “it just doesn’t get any better than this?” He’d lean back in the stern, dig another Marlboro out of the carton in the drywell. “Anymore of that lemonade?” ###
I’d hoist the thermos up from the lake’s cool depths, the lanyard dripping rainbows. “Can you get me one of these?” I asked him once. ###
“Sure, munchkin. Just a ‘nother couple cartons. If Grandmomma was still here, we’d have it for you already.” ###
Grandmomma had loved getting something for nothing – she’d drive out of her way to get gas at the station giving away shot glasses, buy 10 cans of creamed corn just to get one free. That thermos was not just proof of her brand loyalty – it was proof of her thriftiness, and of her sway over her husband. He’d been a Camel man until he met her. ###
That thermos was the last freebie Grandmomma scored before she died. In fact, it showed up at the house along with a delivery of sympathy lilies. Grandpop briefly considered using it to hold Grandmomma’s ashes, but in the end, he went with the tasteful cloisonné urn that almost matched her favorite lamp. ###
For two more years, the thermos held the taste of golden days, warm nights and fireflies, floating weightless above the chill water. Then Grandpop’s cough got worse, just like Grandmomma’s had before the end, and the chill moved right off the water and into the cottage. That last summer, the thermos stayed indoors, right by the side of the hospital bed installed in the front room, where Grandpop could look out the big window at the sunshine kicking sparks off the lake.###
Mom and Dad didn’t want the thermos after Grandpop was gone. Mom gave up smoking right away; Dad took another couple years, but eventually, he threw out the last of the cartons of Marlboro’s he’d hauled out of his father’s house, along with a 1937 edition of the Encyclopedia Brittanica in which World War II was still just a looming threat. He kept the encyclopedia, despite its weighty uselessness.###
I kept the thermos. It sits in that blank space at the top of my kitchen cabinets, waiting for the day that I’ll have time again for lakes and fish and family. Sometimes I take it down and breathe in that ghostly lemonade smell. I imagine I can smell Grandpop’s tobacco on the handle, stained a faint yellow that could be nicotine, or just age. ###
Maybe someday I’ll throw it away. But probably not. I’m still hoping those weren’t the best times I’ll ever, ever have.

Laurie McKnight

Linda hates camping. Her husband Maurice loves camping. Linda agrees that yes, camping can be made more palatable, more pleasant, if one has all the bells and whistles, all the fanciest and, to Linda, necessary accoutrements: a spacious, warm, dry tent – easy to erect and stationary – not moving, even in high winds and rain storms. A reliable and functional water purifier. A good camp stove – easy to light and to keep lit. Small enough to travel well and yet big enough to cook something substantial. And food, yummy food. Not just trail mix or beef jerky or whatever one can collect or gather. Yummy, sumptuous food worth cooking. Food which takes away the ache of hunger. Food which tastes so much better when eaten in the out-of-doors, al fresco. Something unexpected.
###
Linda is tolerant of camping with Maurice, especially if he does all the planning and implementation, and works especially hard to make the experience more enjoyable for her – more “normal” for her – so that Linda can for a moment forget that she is camping at all. Linda thinks she is a good sport even to go with Maurice on these trips – even to try. Linda is as busy patting her own back, telling herself kudos, as she is vigilant about criticizing and judging Maurice. For whatever reason, these camping excursions continue. They seem to work on some level. They are but one facet of their complicated relationship.
###
Maurice likes hiking. Linda can take it or leave it. Once, Maurice is off on an ambitious hike; Linda is strolling along listlessly behind. They know they will catch up to one another eventually. Since the advent of cell phones, there is no danger that they will actually lose each other. Maurice hikes always with a destination, a view in mind. A look-out or a waterfall or some other body of water or landmark. Maurice marches – almost – with head held high. Linda walks with head down, watching for stones, watching for trip hazards, watching for holes or burrows, watching for snakes.
###
There, peaking out from under some leaves and branches, is a flash of red. It catches Linda’s eye. It is obviously a man-made red – it is not a natural color lying there. Linda guesses and is right: as she draws near, she can tell that the red is plastic. She takes a risk and clears the debris on the forest floor away; it is a thermos, lying embedded in the mud. Casually or intentionally discarded? Dropped, mislaid, or thrown? Broken?
###
Linda unearths the thermos from its muddy grave and decides she will keep it. Everyone can use a thermos. Maybe Maurice can even use another thermos. Maurice has one he likes, of course, state-of-the-art, naturally; but Linda likes the quirky “Marlboro” logo on her find. Why advertise a cigarette brand on something for beverages? Something that carries liquids? Why not? Advertising goes everywhere, Linda reminds herself. She decides she will wash this thermos, will make sure it works and doesn’t leak, and will give it a try with both hot and cold beverages. (The thought that she might advertise the thermos at the park ranger’s “lost and found” doesn’t cross her mind.)
###
Maurice sees the thermos in the truck on the ride home, and makes no comment. Maurice sees the thermos in the sink at the kitchen at home, and makes no comment. Maurice sees the thermos come out of the dishwasher – looking cleaner and newer – almost like something he’d want – and makes no comment. Linda isn’t trying to hide the found thermos from him… eventually Linda gives the thermos to Maurice – because everyone can always use a thermos or two – for something – and Maurice thinks it is a thoughtful gift. It is certainly a useful gift. Maurice wonders about the Marlboro logo; but still he thinks, “She finally gets me.” And the camping trips continue.

jeff

Mom was cleaning the garage, something that dad had been putting off for too many years. Dad was watching instead of helping, afraid she would try to throw out something that he valued. When she found the unused Marlboro thurmos on a shelf, she threw it in the trashcan without a thought, dad flipped out. " Do you know how many cigarettes I had to smoke to get that thurmos? " My mom rolled her eyes and said " you've got to be kidding me " and pulled it out of the trash and threw it at his head.

Jean Strong

Skeeter had been saving Marlboro coupons for three months. It was the longest project he ever stuck with long enough to finish. His mother called him a no-good but he had plans. Big plans that would take him far away from the Chesapeake Bay and his dad's oyster boat.
###
Smoking up a storm, picking through empty cigarette packs in the trash at Pig Outs restaurant and haranguing his friends and family to keep the little slips of red paper so he could mail them in for a special extra points smoke reward, he was determined.
###
He needed 200 coupons to get the Marlboro party Thermos to bring to the Fourth of July picnic. It was so cool. He would offer Sherry a cold drink and a place to lie out in the sun next to him on his giant American flag blanket.
###
Sherry had long hair that flipped by like Farrah Fawcett and the same big toothy grin. Skeeter knew Sherry would think that the tall red and white cylinder with the Marlboro logo was cool, too. He knew what caught her eye. It was too hard to approach her at school where she was always surrounded by her friends, always laughing and looking around for their next target. But she would be with her family at the Bluegrass Bicentennial picnic and fireworks, the perfect time to make his move.
###
Skeeter had a Ford Mustang that sat on cinderblocks in the backyard and had never run. He had been working on it for two years. It was a constant reminder that he was stuck where he was. But if somehow he had that Thermos next to him as he worked under the car he could make her run somehow. He just needed that special kick.
###
That September, Skeeter, then a senior, drove that Ford Mustang to school every day, picking up Sherry on the way. The Marlboro Thermos was already forgotten, sitting in his basement in a box of junk marked to be sold at the school’s Autumn Bazaar.

Mark

I never forget momma's words when it came in the mail. "Shit we ain't never won nothin'!" It made me happy. Happier than the time I won the second grade spelling bee. Won it by spellin' the word phenomenon. Don't even know what it means. Saw it on Jeopardy once. Don't know how they used it. Don't care. Alls I know is that momma put her name in the drawing at the Chug n Go and we done won us something. I think I'm gonna like it. That is if I get to use it. Momma likes her smokes and even though it was a raffle to win the thermos I think she would have won by osmosis just by smoking so much. Osmosis....ain't seen that on Jeopardy. Well it's here. Hope I get to play with it with my sis when we go to the park. Damn...momma left her smokes on the coffee table. Maybe I should try one. Says send in proofs for prizes. It's just smokes. What do I have to lose?

Brandon

The Marlboro Man was always the picture of cool and tough, just like my father. Maybe that's why he smoked the damn things every chance he could. After all, he was a child in the '50s, when men were men, a time when very few feelings couldn't be resolved with a walk outside and a long draw off a cigarette. And I can't say my father ever really strayed from those ways, for better or for worse. In fact, I only remember him being excited once in my life, the time he earned enough of those Marlboro points to get a very nice thermos. ###
I remember the day it arrived on our front porch. This huge box was there, and all I could think about was tearing into it. Wisely (protecting my very life) my mother kept me from opening my father's prized possession. When he did arrive home from work at the ship yard, he took his razor sharp whittling knife and sliced the packing tape with laser-like precision. With every cut I anticipated what this glorious gift from the Marlboro gods would look like. Soon I was rewarded. It was bright red, with a luminous white top that also served as a cup for soup, coffee, and what I believed to be the nectar of the gods. My father was overjoyed, as was I.###
That thermos went everywhere with us, all over our small little world. From Finnigan's Lake to the rock quarry, wherever we had an adventure, the Marlboro thermos was there. It even went with Dad and me to The Grand Canyon on our special "boys only" three-day camping trip. As funny as it sounds, my father and I grew close to that thermos; it held a ton of special memories for the both of us. As Dad and I both grew as men, we always remembered those good times and that Marlboro thermos. To this day, I keep that thermos in my own home, and I remember my father. It's funny just how much a giveaway thermos can hold.

Deb

My father was a collector – and everything in his collection had a story.
###
There was Uncle Joe’s coffee mug he got on his honeymoon; Great Aunt Mary’s creepy doll she clung to on the boat to America; Cousin Jerry’s wooden thing he built when he was ten. I would hang on his every word when he’d tell his stories but my favorite was always Grandpa Mike’s thermos.
###
Grandpa Mike was a simple man. He came to America with eighteen dollars and twenty three cents in his pocket. He lied about his age to join the Army to fight for his new country. He worked all his life in the factory building the cars he could never afford. He packed his own lunch every day and every day was the same thing: sandwich, a piece of fruit, and of course, his thermos of Grandma Louise’s iced tea. His only pleasures in life were his family, his worn out recliner, and his smokes.
###
He died of lung cancer when I was only three years old so I got to know him through my dad’s stories and his stuff my dad saved in his collection.
###
When my dad died last year, I was going through the collection with my mom. We laughed and cried as we recounted each story that was attached to each item in the collection. Finally, my mother broke down in tears. She told me dad’s dirty little secret.
###
My father was a collector, all right – of other people’s stuff.
###
Nothing in his collection was what he said it was. Nothing had ever belonged to my varied ancestors. Nothing had the heartfelt meaning he attached through his stories. I was angry – I felt betrayed. I felt stupid for falling for his stupid stories.
###
As I expressed my anger at the news, my mother seemed unmoved by my emotions. She continued to tell me the story of my dad’s collection.
###
He would go to yard sales, junk shops, flea markets, even pick through people’s trash if he saw something salvageable towards the top. He had a hard and fast rule – he would never pay more than two dollars for any item.
###
My mom hesitated for a minute, then told me the story of “Grandpa Mike’s thermos.” She was with him that day when they stopped at a yard sale. For some reason, dad gravitated toward the thermos. It was marked $7. My dad was a good negotiator but he couldn’t get the guy down below $4. He searched the tables and boxes that were strewn across the driveway, systematically examining each item and the marked price. He approached the proprietor with five items (including the thermos). He asked the man if he would take nine dollars for the lot to which the man agreed. My dad had managed to get the thermos for under two dollars – if only through averaging.
###
While the things weren’t real, the stories were. He carefully chose other people’s stuff that related to his memories of the people who meant so much to him.
###
My father was a collector – of stories – and I’m glad he passed them down to me.

Holden

Did we ever go deep into Marlboro Country, you and I! But only one of us made it back. The bridges I burnt to get to where I am are still smoking, ha ha. Are you? Probably not. Your health and all. ### The branded Coleman Thermos you were closing in on every day with each walk to campus, each run to 7-11. “I’ll buy, you fly,” you used to say. And how I flew. I never knew the value of money in those days: it came from my father and went up in smoke. But Big Gulps and Combos- that was real currency. And when Lisa Bonet from the Cosby Show got her own spinoff? With the dorm room full pizza boxes and Evian bottles? That’s supposed to be college?” we’d say. “Where are the slices and the Big Gulps?” ### I never understood why you always had a job. Your folks gave you as much as mine did every month, why did you need to work? I think I understand now. But you were always so smart. I guess I was too in my own way, but you had what they call a good head on your shoulders. Me, I always felt like I was missing the instruction manual for my life but you were born to make sound decisions, to accomplish. No less a Wildman than you were an executive, but you always knew when the party was over. Who got higher and sloppier than you? But then, for you, the fun would be had and there was work to do. Work to do! How familiar you were with the concept. I figured as long as I waited for something to happen, then everything else would take care of itself. ### We christened the Thermos twice, to make up for you and I both never having been. Remember our joke: it’s really more of a circumcision, two guys, foreskins. Speaking of ‘Skins- it was at RFK stadium, former and home of the storied and beloved Beltway gridders. Grateful Dead, Summer tour, electric Kool Aid the exact same color of that red plastic, the same taste too. Then, the same potion a couple nights later at JFK Stadium, historic host of the Army Navy game, in Philly, our hometown. Or my hometown: you came from the suburbs and to there you have returned. ### The old stadiums now gone the way of the Kennedys, of Jerry Garcia, of Homecoming. What happened to the Redskins and why do they keep moving the Army-Navy Game? Do people with lawns and dependents and retirement portfolios ever wonder about these things? Were those splendid freak-outs, under the JumboTronic dancing bears and the jellybean ice cream moons, was that the time you mapped out the course, step by sound decision, of the progress of your successful future? Because that’s when I had a vision of my future self: twirling in the misty redwood sun, beaded bands in my shaggy hair, a batik skirt wrapped around my skinnier, ecstatic loins, hungry and lost. And a year later, that’s where I was. Maybe I should have chosen a different major. ### Why did I take it? Could I have wanted to ensure that would be the last time I ever saw you, because I didn’t like what I realized about myself when I looked at you? Maybe because I got a sense accomplishment when I helped you search for it after it came up missing, a feeling I had seldom known, a feeling of victory: you will have everything one day and be the worthy steward of your full and rewarding life but I win this moment. I stole your five hundred Marlboro Mile, three hundred and fifty dollar thermos, my brother, and now I’m helping you search for it, my friend, sucker. I guess you could say that the two of us have measured out our lives with different spoons. The silver one I was born with, I sold for scrap. You were always so good with money: you earned and spent it with such grace and confidence, the ease of somebody who just knew they’d always have plenty. One hundred packs of cigarettes it cost you and I only needed ten bucks but Flacco up the way would only give me five. So I had to do whatever. Get creative; I was a Liberal Art’s major for God’s sake.

Christine

A thin thread of air exhaled from her mouth. The mouth that once uttered harsh words of distain to us for our inability to be thin like her. She is still quite a force and yet her skin is so thin that it's difficult to believe such a threadbare coat can sustain her body. We know she’ll awake soon and need to pee and have the two of us help her to the bedside commode. Marla and I remained distracted with Facebook posts and emails from friends sending us their well wishes for a peaceful passing. She awakes with an urgency to void. We cannot get her up fast enough. We manage to get her to stand at the side of the bed. I pull her underwear down they slide past her boney hips. She yelps, “Don’t use my hips as a washboard!” “I’m sorry mom, I didn’t mean to pull them down so hard.” “Quick, quick, quick, now, I am peeing, grab the thermos!” Marla seizes the thermos with the faded Marlboro logo on it from the under the hospital bed and holds it between her open legs. A warm pale yellow trickle of urine releases from her bladder. Hardly enough to fill a coffee cup.