The Cigar
Mississippi Shantytown!
The Great Flood of ’51
For some odd reason Günter Gunderson’s mind started shifting into a different mode, he was at an old friend’s work place, at a party [dreaming]; he always liked a good cigar now and then, on special occasions that is, —and Molly, the secretary, asked him if he wanted one. He looked at her, said “Yes” in an inquisitive way, and to his misfortune, it was quite small. Bewildered he gave no response except, a shallow: “…thanks,” and went about and lit it. Then the old friend the one that mysteriously appeared, appeared one might say—out of nowhere, was sitting by him, he wanted to try the cigar, check it out, and smoke it a bit. But there wasn’t much, especially for both of them, and only nearly enough for him. Plus, there didn’t seem to be enough air in the room, and of course, you cannot share what you do not possess (he confessed to himself), and if there is a want or need, it is on the beholders side. Nonetheless, he hesitated, and looked stern into his face, his youthful face, a face that didn’t age like his, “I have an idea,” he comments to the old friend, “put the end of this cigar into your pipe, and then you’ll have enough to enjoy, and share.”
The mystic friend looked at him pleased, and just happened to have a pipe on hand, and pulled it out while Günter put the cigar—what was left of it anyways—into the barrel of the pipe, and gave it to his stranger-friend. As the friend smoked from the pipe he started to choke—Günter, started to choke, as if he was spitting up tobacco—yet it was his friend doing the smoking—and it was him spitting up the pieces of the cigar, or blood, something; his throat was choking on it anyhow, and it was burning—a raw like burning, a fatal burning sensation. His friend didn’t know what to do for him, so he told him, “...here, here take some water, swallow it quick, it’ll cool the throat, it’ll put out the flame,” and Günter did just that, and all was well for the moment—a very slight moment in fact.
Now, Günter walked away from the table, and its festivities, finding himself by the store next to the office party. He noticed cigars for sale, big cigars—, now he thinks: ‘Why didn’t Molly tell me they had big cigars here, instead of having me smoke this little one?’ thinking of course, it would have possibly solved the problem with him sharing his cigar and not causing the coughing. ‘Peculiar,’ he tells himself, ‘very odd indeed,’ yet it is left at that. Then the old man shook his head, told himself to stop daydreaming, rescue Jean-lee, his daughter. As he found himself opening up his eyelids, he was also spitting out water (he had already saved Jean-lee from her potential drowning, and had been drowning himself—matter-of-fact, he had been sinking deeper and deeper into the torrent waters of the Mississippi River, and had mentally let go for a moment, now with his head above water, his mind was reactivated to sensibility).
The Local Newspaper reads the follow day:
“Günter Gunderson, nearer to sixty now (born 1894); —a widower and friend to half the Irish, German and Italians in the city (WWII, Veteran), landowner with several rental properties in his name, along with some thirty-tenants, and father to only one daughter, Jean-lee Haigh, former—
has saved his daughter from the Levee flood of 1951, in the process he slipped on theroof of a shanty, and fell in himself, in the process, drowned.”
Notes: “The Cigar,” originally written 11-10-2003; revised, 8-6-2005, reedited 5/2007; reedited 10-2008: a chapter story from the writings: “Look at Me!” which was originally “Mississippi Shantytown” reedited 12-2009; reedited and revised, 7-14-2010.
The Great Flood of ’51
For some odd reason Günter Gunderson’s mind started shifting into a different mode, he was at an old friend’s work place, at a party [dreaming]; he always liked a good cigar now and then, on special occasions that is, —and Molly, the secretary, asked him if he wanted one. He looked at her, said “Yes” in an inquisitive way, and to his misfortune, it was quite small. Bewildered he gave no response except, a shallow: “…thanks,” and went about and lit it. Then the old friend the one that mysteriously appeared, appeared one might say—out of nowhere, was sitting by him, he wanted to try the cigar, check it out, and smoke it a bit. But there wasn’t much, especially for both of them, and only nearly enough for him. Plus, there didn’t seem to be enough air in the room, and of course, you cannot share what you do not possess (he confessed to himself), and if there is a want or need, it is on the beholders side. Nonetheless, he hesitated, and looked stern into his face, his youthful face, a face that didn’t age like his, “I have an idea,” he comments to the old friend, “put the end of this cigar into your pipe, and then you’ll have enough to enjoy, and share.”
The mystic friend looked at him pleased, and just happened to have a pipe on hand, and pulled it out while Günter put the cigar—what was left of it anyways—into the barrel of the pipe, and gave it to his stranger-friend. As the friend smoked from the pipe he started to choke—Günter, started to choke, as if he was spitting up tobacco—yet it was his friend doing the smoking—and it was him spitting up the pieces of the cigar, or blood, something; his throat was choking on it anyhow, and it was burning—a raw like burning, a fatal burning sensation. His friend didn’t know what to do for him, so he told him, “...here, here take some water, swallow it quick, it’ll cool the throat, it’ll put out the flame,” and Günter did just that, and all was well for the moment—a very slight moment in fact.
Now, Günter walked away from the table, and its festivities, finding himself by the store next to the office party. He noticed cigars for sale, big cigars—, now he thinks: ‘Why didn’t Molly tell me they had big cigars here, instead of having me smoke this little one?’ thinking of course, it would have possibly solved the problem with him sharing his cigar and not causing the coughing. ‘Peculiar,’ he tells himself, ‘very odd indeed,’ yet it is left at that. Then the old man shook his head, told himself to stop daydreaming, rescue Jean-lee, his daughter. As he found himself opening up his eyelids, he was also spitting out water (he had already saved Jean-lee from her potential drowning, and had been drowning himself—matter-of-fact, he had been sinking deeper and deeper into the torrent waters of the Mississippi River, and had mentally let go for a moment, now with his head above water, his mind was reactivated to sensibility).
The Local Newspaper reads the follow day:
“Günter Gunderson, nearer to sixty now (born 1894); —a widower and friend to half the Irish, German and Italians in the city (WWII, Veteran), landowner with several rental properties in his name, along with some thirty-tenants, and father to only one daughter, Jean-lee Haigh, former—
has saved his daughter from the Levee flood of 1951, in the process he slipped on theroof of a shanty, and fell in himself, in the process, drowned.”
Notes: “The Cigar,” originally written 11-10-2003; revised, 8-6-2005, reedited 5/2007; reedited 10-2008: a chapter story from the writings: “Look at Me!” which was originally “Mississippi Shantytown” reedited 12-2009; reedited and revised, 7-14-2010.
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