Sunday, May 28, 2006
I'm the counter.
I work for Marlboro as a counter. My job is counting the cigaretter butts across the country. All the major cities. My most recent count was 1.1 to1. That's to Camel. Or Newport. Or course, I've never counted any cigarette butts. And Marlboro never asks for numbers. I never had any.
The Marlboro building is filled with cigarette smoke. You open the door and the smoke covers you like cellophane. All they do there is smoke. I mean everybody. But it's these new cigarettes that don't cause cancer. It's apparently flavored cardboard that's been shaved down. It's ingenious really. All that cardboard put to use. And not what you'd expect either. Something so resourceful from a major tobacco company.
They don't want people to know that. And I don't want Marlboro to know that I hate their secret cigarettes. They tase like shit. The banana one is the worst. God awful.
It's funny to me that they think I go around the countrty counting cigarette butts. It's really funny. Even funnier that they think I'm smoking their secret cigarettes. William J. Marlboro passes me in the hall, smiling and waving. I blow that cigarette smoke right in his stupid fat face.
"How are the numbers?" William J asks as he passes me.
"Good," I say, "Really good. Promising."
"Keep it up," he laughs. "Keep it up!"
He's down the hall at this point, already talking to someone else, a rainbow of smoke surrounding their heads.
Did I mention the smoke is multihued?
Let me tell you more. The floors are covered in secret cigarette butts. I mean covered. At five o'clock they are pushed by this wall about a foot high and the width of the entire hallway down to the other end. The door opens to welcome the butts. They collect on each stairwell, all 10 floors. Then theses trap doors open and they fall like snow to the lower level. Now it doesn't seem safe to me either, or ingenious in the slightest, but that's how things are run at Marlboro.
You obviously do not want to be in the hallway or stairwell at five o'clock. I leave early. Not because of that, but because I can. I'm the counter. The counter always gets to leave early. ¶ 12:15 PM
The Marlboro building is filled with cigarette smoke. You open the door and the smoke covers you like cellophane. All they do there is smoke. I mean everybody. But it's these new cigarettes that don't cause cancer. It's apparently flavored cardboard that's been shaved down. It's ingenious really. All that cardboard put to use. And not what you'd expect either. Something so resourceful from a major tobacco company.
They don't want people to know that. And I don't want Marlboro to know that I hate their secret cigarettes. They tase like shit. The banana one is the worst. God awful.
It's funny to me that they think I go around the countrty counting cigarette butts. It's really funny. Even funnier that they think I'm smoking their secret cigarettes. William J. Marlboro passes me in the hall, smiling and waving. I blow that cigarette smoke right in his stupid fat face.
"How are the numbers?" William J asks as he passes me.
"Good," I say, "Really good. Promising."
"Keep it up," he laughs. "Keep it up!"
He's down the hall at this point, already talking to someone else, a rainbow of smoke surrounding their heads.
Did I mention the smoke is multihued?
Let me tell you more. The floors are covered in secret cigarette butts. I mean covered. At five o'clock they are pushed by this wall about a foot high and the width of the entire hallway down to the other end. The door opens to welcome the butts. They collect on each stairwell, all 10 floors. Then theses trap doors open and they fall like snow to the lower level. Now it doesn't seem safe to me either, or ingenious in the slightest, but that's how things are run at Marlboro.
You obviously do not want to be in the hallway or stairwell at five o'clock. I leave early. Not because of that, but because I can. I'm the counter. The counter always gets to leave early. ¶ 12:15 PM
