Christopher Buckley - Thank You for Smoking

Nick knew all about Death cigarettes. Everyone at the Academy kept a pack, with its distinctive skull and bones logo, despite the fact that the industry's official attitude toward Deaths was not exactly collegial. It was the perfect cigarette for the cynical age. It said — shouted —Our product will kill you! What product advertised itself more honestly than that? The surgeon general's warning on the side was positively ludicrous. And they were flying off the shelves, though their appeal tended to concentrate on young urbans for whom coughing up blood was still a sign of manhood.

It was late in Minneapolis, but for a thirty-million-dollar-a-year account, your creative ad director should take your call even if it is late in Minneapolis. Nick explained his idea to a groggy Sven, who said he'd get his Skunk Works right on it and would fly to Washington on Friday.

Early the next morning, Nick found himself sitting next to Kevin Costner outside Jeff Megall's office. He barely had time to tell him how much he liked Dances With Wolves before he was ushered in by the efficient older lady.

They were all sitting around the malachite conference table.

"Nick," Jeff said warmly. Jack Bein made a sign to Nick that he should be impressed by the warmth of Jeffs greeting. "Nick, this is Jerry Gomick and Voltan Zeig, whom you know of. And this is Harve Gruson. Harve has been involved with the final polishes on Sector Six. Since the arrangements worked out by everyone's legal people are so specific as to the content of the extra scenes, it makes sense for all of us to get together. Harve, bring us up to speed."

"Okay," said Harve, a mostly bald, overweight, and exhausted-looking man in his early thirties. "We've got ten scenes where there's ambient smoking. They're doing whatever they're doing — navigating, eating, getting dressed, whatever — only they're also smoking. Then we've added scenes. So far, we've got two postcoital scenes, at almost a minute per."

"Is that where he does the thing with the smoke rings?" Jeff asked.

"No. She does the thing with the smoke rings. She teaches him how to blow smoke rings. It's hot. My computer screen went into meltdown."

"May I?" Nick held out his hand for the script.

POV over Slade's shoulder. SLADE

Bull's-eye. Where did you learn to do that? ZEENA

My programmer was into horseshoes.

"You mean," Nick said, "that she's blowing smoke rings at his…" "Told you. Hot."

"Too bad we can't put it in the U.S. version," said Jeff. "That's a great scene."

"We need the PG-13," Voltan shrugged. "Fiona plays a robot?" Nick said.

"Not a robot. A Format Seven Gynorg. The brain of Einstein and the body of Jamie Lee Curtis." "Dream date," Jerry said.

"Not my dream date." Voltan laughed crudely. Jeff said to Harve, "What else do you have for us?" "We've changed the scene where Mace escapes from the prison onAlar. In the U.S. version, he puts out the guard's eye with the icicle.

In this version, he'll put it out with a cigarette. Alarians only have one eye, so it's no more sightseeing for him."

"I don't think putting out eyeballs with our product. I'm pretty sure that's not what we're looking for."

Harve turned to the producers. "I was told cigarettes had to be integral. How much more integral can you get? Mace gains his freedom with a cigarette. It's a very powerful message."

"I think," Jeff said, "that Nick is uncomfortable with it."

"Okay," Voltan said, "lose the eye."

Harve shrugged.

"By the way," Nick asked, "how are we explaining why the oxygen inside their spaceship doesn't blow up every time they light up?"

"It's the twenty-fifth century," Voltan said. "By then they'll have it figured out."

"We could drop in a line that they mix Freon in with the air supply," Harve said.

"That's good," said Jack. "Would that make them talk funny?"

"Like fags," Voltan said.

"Nah," Jerry said. "That's helium."

The Captain reached Nick in the great white whale on his way to the airport. He didn't sound very good, and there was a lot of static on the line. "I'm in my bass boat," he coughed, "up at the lake in Roaring Gap for a few days. Thought I'd get some fresh air and prove to those idiot doctors down there there's nothing wrong with me that some competent medical advice couldn't solve. I'm beginning to suspect they all got their medical degrees in Grenada. They're saying they want to open me up and stick another pig heart in me. Only good thing about it is you don't have to wait to find a donor. They just go out back with an axe. Oop, hooked one. Call you back."

The phone rang a few minutes later, just as Mahmoud was turning off at Century Boulevard toward LAX. "Sumbitch wrapped me around a log. Felt like a six-pounder, too. Now son, uh, BR tells me the FBI is poking around, asking questions. Can you shed a little light on it for me?"

The Captain's tone took Nick by surprise. He told him everything, except about the hash brownies.

"Huh," the Captain said. "Well, they're probably on a fishing expedition, just like me. But I don't like it. With this Finisterre thing, the last thing we need right now is something like this." There was a pause. "There isn't anything going on I oughta know about, is there?"

"What do you mean?" Nick said.

"Nothing. BR's a little squirrelly."

"What," Nick said, "did BR tell you, exactly?"

"He seems to think we ought to hire you a lawyer. Jewish name. One who got that fellah off was making his clients glow in the dark. Carlinsky."

"I'm not quite clear why you should be hiring me a criminal lawyer."

"Now don't get yourself all in a sweat. Stress is a killer. You fish?" "A little."

"If you want to take a vacation right now, you go ahead." "A vacation? With everything that's going on?" "You know what Winston Churchill said. He said there's never a convenient time for taking a vacation, so go ahead and take it."

Nick sat in First Class grinding the enamel off his teeth and feeling the bands in his neck muscles hypercontracting. He called Jeannette. There was something in her voice, too. She sounded like the old Jeannette, the one who'd shown no interest at all in staying up all night to make him moan.

"My flight gets into Dulles at six," Nick said. "Can you meet it? I need to talk to you."

"I'm really busy," she said. "What do you need to talk to me about?"

"BR talked to the Captain about the situation, you know, about the two people who came to see me—" "The FBI?"

Terrific. Half the ham radio operators in America were listening in. "All I know is BR called the Captain about my situation and the Captain just called me to suggest I take a vacation."

"I wish the Captain would call me and tell me to go on a vacation."

"That's not really the point. Do you have any idea what it is BR told him?"

"No."

"Do you want to get together later?"

"No." The next sound Nick heard was a recorded voice telling him that if he wanted to make another expensive call from thirty-five thousand feet up, all he had to do was press 2.

He called BR. He was put on hold for eight minutes.

"Yes, Nick?" Again the tone of voice. Had everyone at the Academy been breathing Freon?

"I was wondering what you told the Captain that made him suggest I hire a lawyer and go fishing."

BR cleared his throat. "I thought I owed it to him to bring him up to speed vis a vis this FBI thing."

"I see. Did you tell him anything else?"

"Only what I know."

"Well, what do you know?"

"That the FBI has been taking a very active interest in you. I've gone ahead and retained Steve Carlinsky for you—" "Oh."

"Look, Nick, the FBI was in here today, again. People are talking. I think at this point we all need some counsel." "What did the FBI want this time?"