Salvo’s Story
He stood an object of adoration surrounded by a group of smoking admirers. Rain hissed around their heads but it made little different. I am their salvation, their place of retreat from a cruel accusing world, he smiled. Salvo( for that he had decided to call himself) preened as a beautiful young woman dressed in the latest fashion sashayed up to him and pushed the red glowing tip of her cigarette into his open mouth. She was one of his adoring fans. The one he waited for on lonely nights when the bar was quiet. She smoked hurriedly, anxiously.
He wished she’d spend more time with him. He knew she was keen to get back to his arch enemy – the bottle – Sometimes he was insanely jealous of her love affair with alcohol. Its beguiling ways kept her from coming back to him. He loved the sexy way she slipped her butt between his lips. He liked to savour the red tip of her cigarette before finally letting it slip down his narrow tube. He breathed deeply and accepted her love. She hadn’t thrown him a kiss but he knew she’d be back. It was only her first cigarette of the night. She’d be back. He shrugged. More than one fish in the pub he mused.
He knew he was being fickle. But he had to take his thrills where he got them. Another little addicted beauty would be along shortly to keep him company. The door from the crowded pub pushed open and a gaggle of bodies gathered around him. He rattled in anticipation and cleared his throat of the butt of the last admirer. This looked pretty promising, he mused. He liked a full can at the end of the night. The smell of sulphurs and the flash of flickering tips warmed his insides.
Deep sighs of satisfaction filled the small smoking area. Salvo waited for the secret telling. He was their confidante. He knew many things. Whose boyfriend was sleeping with their best friend; who had an overdraft and who had a row with his wife? He had them now. Inside was a “no go,” area for smokers like them. He was the object that allowed freedom of choice.
He frowned in consternation as a strange alien type of cigarette appeared. An electronic device smoked by a pretty blond! It’ll never catch on, he consoled himself. After all, he reasoned, inhaling the passive cigarette as it curled and swarmed around him and his admirers. It’s a free country. I am but providing a service. It’s not my fault if they wake in the morning with throats like razor blades or coughing up half their lungs. Me? I am but a humble servant providing a valued service.
He was overcome with a sudden surge of gratitude. As jobs went it had a lot of merit. It would be a while before he had to think about being just a redundant piece of tin. I’m never lonely. I always have somebody to keep me company he mused as a satisfied customer sucked deeply on the last dregs of his cigarette. And then there’s the local Council. In these times of recession I save them a lot of money. They don’t need as a many street cleaners. He gulped down the remaining butts; reluctant to think about hospital admissions or cancer scares. It’s not my fault. People make choice, he sighed as his lovely special love returned for a second smoke.
Gemma Hill Writeyou Writeme 