Keith

"Marlboro Rewards"
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The year was 1992 and I had just turned eighteen. It was early April, and frequent showers coated the lawns and flowerbeds of Parksville, preparing for the sun that May promised to bring. I became an adult on the first, an appropriate birthday for a fool like myself. I could finally vote, buy lottery tickets, apply to be in the army, and legally have sex with my girlfriend Diane (well, I could have sex legally, she still couldn’t for another two months). But most importantly, I could now buy cigarettes.
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Neither of my parents smoked, but my Uncle Gary was a chimney when it came to cancer sticks. He was one hell of a rugged man, with his favorite hobbies including fishing, cars, and chopping wood. I remember on Sunday evenings he would sit on his back porch and drink ice tea that Aunt Helen brewed earlier in the day. As somewhat of a role model for my childish self, I looked to Uncle Gary for the brand of cigarettes I should indulge my virgin lungs in. And Uncle Gary, through and through, was a Marlboro man.
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I remember buying my first pack just after midnight. I walked into the 7-11 with my shoulders drawn back and my chest forward; I was damn proud to be buying my first pack of cigarettes. The lady behind the counter was somewhere between the ages of 55 and 75; I was a terrible judge of age back then, before I had any real understanding of what it meant to grow old. I grabbed an ice tea from the back color, and then marched up to the front counter, and slammed my bottle down.
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“I’ll be taking this ice tea, and a pack of Marlboro Reds, ma’am,” I said, trying to sound polite and mature, but also with an air of worthiness, as if I had struggled for 18 years and now was finally getting what was rightfully mine.
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“ID?” she asked, barely giving me a glance.
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“Of course, of course,” I said, and withdrew my crisp license from my jeans pocket. “Here you go.” She took the card and again barely glanced at it. It was if all this women could do was barely glance at things.
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“I see you just turned eighteen a whole eighteen minutes ago. First pack?” she asked.
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“Why yes ma’am, it is.”
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“Well here, take one of these.” She handed me a small catalogue that read Marlboro Rewards on the cover. “Save your packs, and you can redeem them for stuff.”
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“Oh, well thank you ma’am. I just might do that.”
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“$5.27 please.” I paid her and left the store, feeling as though I had finally entered the realm of adulthood. I was mature, experienced, wise, and now a smoker. As soon as I left, I ripped open the pack, withdrew a cigarette, lit it, and after inhaling one puff, coughed like I had the plague. Yeah, I was a man now.
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I spent the rest of the night flipping through the catalog, looking through the coffee mugs, t shirts and novelty dinnerware. And then on page seven I saw it, the perfect thing to give my Uncle Gary; a gallon thermos with the Marlboro logo smacked right on the front. It would be perfect for his Sunday evenings on the back porch.
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I looked under the description and it said that I needed 32 packs of cigarettes to get the thermos. And so, for the next two months, me and my pals Eddie and Jon-Patrick smoked Marlboro Reds until we couldn’t breathe; before school, at lunch, after school, before dinner, after dinner, and before we called it a night. We were following in Uncle Gary’s footsteps, become little chimneys of our own.
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When June came I finally had collected enough packs and sent them to Marlboro’s gift redeeming center in Virginia. I sent it out on a Monday, and it wasn’t until the following Monday when my brand new Marlboro thermos came in the mail. I took the cooler out of the box and examined it thoroughly, while reflecting on all the puffs it had taken me to get there. I then raced next door over to my Uncle Gary’s house and rang the doorbell three successive times in my excitement. About a minute later the door opened.
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“Oh, kid, it’s you. What do you need?” he said, in his rough and jagged voice.
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“Uncle Gary, I got you something and it just came in the mail yesterday.”
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“Oh yeah, boy? And what is that?” I took from behind my back the Marlboro thermos and presented it to him with excessive pride.
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“I had to smoke 32 packs to get this bad boy, but I knew you had to have it.” Uncle Gary looked at the thermos for a second, and then burst into a fit of laughter, filling the surrounding air with the roar of his chuckles.
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“Come here boy, I got something to show you,” he said, and motioned for me to come inside. I followed him into the hallway and he opened the coat closet. “Have a look inside,” he said, giving another chuckle. I peered in and saw that the closet was stuffed with all kinds of Marlboro memorabilia, from everything to umbrellas and hats, to ashtrays and lawn chairs. I spotted three of the thermoses. “You see Jared, I have every gift Marlboro has come up with. But thanks for thinking of me, sport. Now, come on, let’s have a glass of Helen’s ice tea.” He closed the closet door and walked into the kitchen. I looked down at the thermos and back at the closet. Boy, I thought, I’m gonna have to start smoking a hell of a lot more.