After twenty years, I quit smoking several years ago. I'd been working on it for several years before I actually stopped. I used nicotine gum for a year or two as my safety net, but I certainly wasn't above a couple of cigarettes on the weekend. It's been a long, long time since I had even a puff. It's one of those questions they ask every time I see an oncology doctor. "How many days has it been since you had one puff?" Of course, I see a lot of people rolling around in those motorized wheelchairs (probably because of their chemo or radiation related fatigue), heads wrapped in scarves or capped with a wig, smoking with a vengeance. Sigh.
Even after this long, I think about smoking pretty regularly. When I'm driving down the street and someone has their window open with a cigarette hanging out (to escape their own second hand smoke, I assume), I long to get close enough to inhale. I take note of everyone I pass anywhere who's smoking. I work with one woman who still smokes and there's a guy who chews tobacco (but who wants that?). I could go downstairs and ask the Foot Lady for one of hers. There might be a foot conversation I'd have to participate in, but I do that fairly regularly, anyway. I haven't asked for one.
That was a long introduction to what may be a less than entertaining anecdote. Many years ago, there was a hot dog vendor who used to hawk his wieners down on Sixth Street, our version of the French Quarter in New Orleans (we're not really in the same league at all). He had a great story to tell about being a mob snitch from New York who was in the Witness Protection Program and had had to assume a new identity to escape the retribution of The Family. In Texas, we're not too familiar with wise guys. We've got gangs, but I'd guess we have very few no La Cosa Nostra representatives living here.
The Wiener Man complained bitterly of being harassed by the police and, in fact, he may have been hassled by them. One year, he'd finally had enough. But it wasn't the cops that ultimately became unbearable. Austin was in the early stages of outlawing smoking in public places. You could still smoke in some segregated areas in restaurants and bars were pretty much excluded, but the places you could light up were severely limited. Wiener Man was outraged and decided to run for City Council.
It was a weird election year, no doubt about it. We had a couple of transgender folks running, one of whom (Leslie) lived in a little trailer that he had to move himself like a rickshaw. He became a kind of tourist attraction. He had a sizable number of financial supporters but, sadly, an equal number of people who hated him because of his penchant for hanging out on the streets of Austin in a speedo or a wedding gown (he loved heels and wore them with both outfits). The other transgender person was also homeless, but low key. I never knew where Jennifer Gale lived and she was always dressed appropriately, though clearly in need of some more hormonal intervention. Jennifer Gale (who still mounts a campaign at every opportunity) became the candidate of transgender acceptance.
Despite the entertainment value of Leslie in his speedo who had absolutely no platform whatsoever, it was the Wiener Man who stole the show. When it was his turn came to define his agenda, it took exactly two minutes. He paused dramatically and croaked,
"I'm a smokah." He reached into his sports shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of unfiltered Camels. He held them in front of the camera as proof, I suppose, that he wasn't just jacking us around. He was the real deal. As if the gravelly sound of his voice wouldn't have been proof enough.
"I wanna look out for the rights of my fellow smokahs. If you're a smokah and you're sick of bein' run outta the stores and restaurants, vote for me."
The smokah candidate did not win that year. Not too long after, he moved to sunnier digs in Florida. I don't know if he had to assume a new new identity, after having outed himself at least in this city. I think of him from time to time, when I long for a cigarette. I only wish he'd won. What fun that would have been.
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