Christopher Buckley - Thank You for Smoking

Nick took a deep breath and banged on the screen door. Today, he said to himself, you will earn your salary.

He felt a poke in his back, and heard a croaky voice say, "Don't move or I'll blow a hole the size of a grapefruit in you. Now raise your hands and keep 'em where I can see 'em."

Nick did as instructed.

"Now turn around. Slow."

Nick slowly rotated and found himself facing Lorne Lutch himself. He was still recognizable as the Tumbleweed Man, even fifty pounds lighter and with yellow skin. He was in a bathrobe and slippers and wouldn't have looked at all threatening without the shotgun that was aimed at Nick's stomach.

He peered at Nick. "You're Nick Naylor, aren't you?"

"Yes sir. I was just. " Passing through, carrying half a million dollars in cash. "Do you, could I, do you have a minute? If it's inconvenient, I could, uh, come back."

Lutch said suspiciously, "What do you want here?"

"Just… to talk."

"All right," he said, lowering the shotgun. He pushed open the screen door with the muzzle. They sat. "Didn't mean to startle you," he said. "But someone's been following me."

Gomez?

He croaked, "Roberta, company." It made him cough. And cough, and cough.

Mrs. Lutch entered, took one look at Nick, and went cold as a bucket of liquid nitrogen. Lutch continued to cough, leaving Nick to stand there waiting for it to subside so that he could be introduced. It was awkward, frankly. When Lorne's coughing showed no sign of subsiding, Nick mouthed a "Hello."

"What do you want?" she glowered with such intensity that Nick almost regretted leaving his Praetorians outside in the car. He hadn't counted on being shot by the wife.

"Now now, Roberta," Lutch wheezed, wiping his mouth, "let's not be rude to our guest. I don't suppose he's come all the way out here for no good reason. Remember he's the one talked the company out of suing me for breach of contract."

"I'd as soon feed him to the hogs as have him in my house." Fixing Nick with one last copper-jacketed shot of eyeball, she turned her back and started to leave. On her way out, she stopped and said, "You want some more morphine, hon?"

"No thanks," Lorne said, "I'm doing just fine. But maybe our guest would like something."

"Some morphine would be fine, thank you," Nick said. Mrs. Lutch disappeared, probably to mix Drano in with Nick's morphine.

"I'll tell you," Lorne said, settling back into a big, torn armchair, "about the only nice thing about dying of cancer is the dope. The dreams I've been having. and in technicolor."

"Must be amazing," Nick said.

"Do you know what the word 'heroin' comes from? It's German. It was the Krauts who first come up with it, back in the nineteenth century; nicest thing Germany's ever done for the world, let me tell you. Heroisches. That's what it made people feel like. Heroic. Do you know, when I first started in on the chemotherapy, people for miles around here started bringing me marijuana brownies. Keeps the nausea down. You can get it in pill form, but they make you jumpthrough flaming hoops for it and then they put it in sesame seed oil so you won't get high. Don't you love that? God forbid people dying in pain should have a little pleasure on the way out. Anyhow, I got about ten pounds of pot brownies in the freezer."

Nick thought: wouldn't Gomez love to know that, tumbleweed man arrested on drug charges.

"Reckon I must have enough to get me sent away for the rest of my life," Lutch said. "You want one?"

"No, thanks," Nick said. "Just the morphine. I better not mix."

Lutch laughed, which made him cough again. This one went on longer than the last. Mrs. Lutch came running out with a nebulizer.

"Excuse me," Lutch said, recovering finally. "Do you smoke?"

"No," Nick said. "Since the kidnapping, I haven't been able to."

"I read about that. Saw you on — weren't you on the Larry King show? Roberta said you were on same night as me. Funny we didn't run into each other in the studio."

"Yeah," Nick said.

"That must've been something. My doctor said you were one lucky son of a bitch." Lutch chuckled. "Said a few other things, too, I won't share with you. You know, doctors used to promote cigarettes."

"That's right," Nick said, "twenty thousand six hundred seventy-nine physicians say, 'Luckies are less irritating.' "

"I wonder how they're doing?" Lutch said caustically. "Strange business. In the early fifties, they had the first cancer scare, so they started making filter cigarettes. Then they got worried that men would think filter-tips were for pussies. That's where I came in."

"You were great," Nick said. "I used to want to be you. I mean, when I was growing up. We all wanted to grow up and be cowboys."

"Don't I know it. You know a song by George Jones, 'Hell Stays Open All Night Long'? I listen to it over and over."

"You're being kind of tough on yourself, aren't you?"

"Last year, after I got diagnosed, I flew East to attend the annual stockholders' meeting of Total Tobacco. And I stood up and told them that they at least ought to limit their advertising. And do you know what the president said to me?"

Nick did know, but he shook his head.

"He said, 'We're certainly sorry to hear about your medical problem. Without knowing your medical history, I don't think I can comment further.' Then they tried to pretend I never worked for them. I couldn't believe it. Even when I showed reporters my pay stubs, the company went on saying it wasn't me in those photographs. Then when I kept on making a fuss, they told me they were going to sue me — for breach of contract! I guess you were the one to put a halt to that."

"Yeah," Nick said. "I told them it was a pretty dumb idea. Well, they can be assholes, there's no doubt about that."

"Tell you something else. I never even smoked Tumbleweeds. I smoked Kools."

Nick laughed.

"You look like a nice enough fellah. What are you doing working for these assholes?"

Somehow the usual business about needing to pay the mortgage didn't seem appropriate here. Nick looked about at the things on Lorne's wall — rodeo trophies, stuffed trout, family photographs mounted on brightly lacquered wood — and said, "I'm good at it. I'm better at doing this than I ever was at doing anything else."

"Well hell, son, I was good at shooting Koreans, but I didn't make it a career."

Nick laughed. Lutch looked at him for what felt like a long time, and said, "I suppose we all got to pay the mortgage somehow." Nick could have kissed him.

"I was good at playing my role. People used to recognize me and ask me for my autograph. I don't know how much that's going to count for at the Pearly Gates, but I was just a dumb cowboy who wanted to be in pictures, whereas you," he smiled slyly, "look like about twenty thousand dollars' worth of college education." The smile was gone. "So why'd you come all the way out here for?"

"Good question," Nick said, staring balefully at the attache case.

"You here to talk me into shutting up? Is that what's in that case of yours?"

"Yes, basically," Nick said. "No, not basically. That's exactly it." Lutch gave him a steely stare. "Look here," he said, "my dignity ain't for sale."

"No," Nick said, "it's more complicated than that."

"How do you mean?"

"This is supposed to be an outright gift, no strings attached. The taxes have all been paid. You get to keep it no matter what you do. You're free to go bad-mouthing us. The idea is that you'll feel so guilty about trashing us that you might just say no the next time a producer for Oprah calls."

Lutch stared at Nick. "Were you supposed to tell me all this?"

"No. Just apologize, give you the money, and leave."