"Gee, isn't it great Arnie always has cigarettes," I used to think at Carleton University when I smoked -- when everyone smoked. It was 1966 and I was in second year. Arnie was the boyfriend of my gorgeous, late cousin, B.A. and he was completely and totally cool. Never mind that he only audited courses and was not registered for any degree, who cared? But guess what?.............
Arnie was a pusher. For Rothman's. Seriously.
At the time no one realized it, but one Sunday afternoon we all gathered at his apartment and what did we see? Cases of Rothman's cartons stacked in one corner of his living room. "Wow, do you work for Rothman's?" we asked. "Well, sort of, in my spare time," he vaguely replied. Looking back I now realize Arnie's job was to get us hooked on tobacco. Out of smokes? Arnie would toss you an entire pack. What a great guy! Even though back then a pack of smokes was .52 cents, it was still expensive for a struggling university student.
My mind wandered back to those "glory days" in the wake of the death of Cory-what's-his-name of a heroin/alcohol overdose. Somewhere back there, he became addicted. Of course, he must have had an addictive personality and genetic problem, but some pusher somewhere tapped into it.
Thankfully, I quit smoking when I was 24. Yes, it was difficult, but even back then I was scared to death of lung cancer, a disease that claimed my natural mother at the age of 49. She was a dedicated chain smoker. Dumb.
Wonder whatever happened to our local pusher, Arnie?
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