After two days of smoking retreads and 36 hours of smoking nothing at all, I was finally able to get myself 50g of Amber Leaf. The tight little vacuum-packed pouch rested snugly in my hand, promising days of glorious normality. I splashed out on a coffee and took myself across the road to the small public garden behind the Transport Museum, greedy to enjoy a snatch of luxury in the grey warmth of the afternoon.
The garden is a small oasis of calm: gaudy flowers, bushes, benches, a water feature… even the pointless, sci-fi walkway can’t ruin it, though it does its best, punching through the greenery like a cocksure teenager: “hello, I’m the future, now get out of the way, old man”. But this day I didn’t care; I was time-rich, tobacco-rich, coffee-rich. The future could look after itself.
So I took a sip, ripped off the cellophane from the tobacco pouch and set to work. In a few moments it was done. The hot smoke in my mouth and throat was like a qualified vindication: 3rd prize in the raffle. Sometimes that’s more than enough. Half way through the cigarette a skinny young waster swung into the garden and lurched towards me. Tracksuit top, dirty jeans, vulpine grin, he had a walk that would take a small book to describe properly: rangy, opportunist, full of fake swagger, brittle boldness and hurt pride. I put my head down and hoped he’d pass on by. He didn’t, of course.
“Hello mate, sorry to be a bit cheeky, like, but I couldn’t buy a ciggy off you, could I?”
Seventy-eight pence in his dirty, outstretched palm. Caught by surprise, and with the memory of my recent tobacco-drought still fresh in my blood, I turned defensive and grumpy:
“No mate. Sorry.”
“I’ll pay you.”
He pushed the coins under my nose. I appreciated the fact that he didn’t want to beg, but frankly he was putting me in a double-bind: I didn’t want to give him a cigarette, but I was even less inclined to take money for one. Money for a roll-up? That would be ripping him off. Selfishness on the one hand, a sense of fairness on the other. They combined to harden my resolve.
“No mate,” I said in a voice as dead as a hospital waiting room. The waster hesitated for a moment, choked back what might’ve been a curse and moved on. I looked down at my tobacco and felt ashamed. Giving him a roll-up would’ve cost me about as near to nothing as it was possible to get. And surely I, of all people, was in a position to understand his need? Why had I been such a bastard? I don’t have much of what you’d call “life advice” but I do know this: looking back, you never regret the times you were generous, but you always regret the times when you were given the opportunity and turned it down.
Fortunately, fate gave me a second chance. About 20 yards down the path there was a young lad eating his lunch. The waster had sat beside him and they’d struck up what seemed to be a fairly friendly conversation. I heaped a generous pinch of tobacco onto a paper and started rolling, hoping all the while that the waster wouldn’t leave before I was finished. He didn’t. In fact, it was the young lad who left first, offering a cheery wave as he went. The waster stayed put, hunched forward on the bench staring at his hands. He didn’t see me approach and looked a bit startled when he finally noticed I was in front of him. Then he saw the cigarette I was holding out and his rough face dissolved into a mawkish smile that was also part-grimace. I actually thought he might start crying. Instead, he held out his hand to reveal a few grams of dusty-looking tobacco.
“He didn’t have any papers,” he explained, meaning the young lad. I gave him the cigarette and a few extra papers. “Thanks, mate, thanks. I… I….” He struggled to find the words. “It reaffirms your faith in human nature, it really does.”
“You take care, mate,” I said and left him to it. I felt good for the rest of the day.
