Ultimate Puff

THE ULTIMATE PUFF ?

Julienne Turner looked seriously emaciated, thin and gaunt, and a good
twenty years older than his forty-five years as he lay propped up in
the hospital bed. Taped to his cheek and terminating under his nose was
an oxygen tube fed by a connection next to his bed. Reclining in his
sanatorium cot he was following his second favourite pursuit, that
being the solving of the Times Crossword. Using his own rendition of
the words Julienne sang quietly under his shallow breath. His chosen
lyric was Cupido's Aria, sung to the Countess. The aria was from the
Marriage of Figaro, which was his favourite opera. The fact that the
song was normally sang by a mezzo-soprano didn't bother Julienne
Turner. He rationalised that after all in the opera the part was taken
by a woman taking the part of a young man, so what the hell.
Ashtray A receptacle for tobacco ashes and cigarette butts. Turner read
this description in his dictionary, he had not been looking for the
classification of the word ashtray. What he had been seeking
information on was Ashton-under-Lyne. The American Heritage Dictionary
of the English Language, Third Edition, informed him that
Ashton-under-Lyne was: A borough of Northwest England, an industrial
suburb of Manchester. With a population of 218,800 and was pronounced
phonetically as ?sh?ten-?n-der-l?ne.
Those facts allowed him to answer the final clue in his crossword
puzzle. With the puzzle now finished and being at something of a loose
end he returned to the dictionary classification of an ashtray. "It
comes to a sorry pass when you start reading bloody dictionaries while
singing soprano" Julienne muttered to himself "Hells bells! I'm even
talking to myself now" he gasped aloud.
No one had heard any of his self critical observations. Half dozing,
the word ashtray and its relative subject matter came back into his
mind, after all ashtrays had figured largely in Julienne's life.
They were the first thing he looked for when entering a strange room,
an assignation, a pub, train, or bus. He'd always gauged the class of a
person, place, vehicle or establishment by the quality, quantity and
condition of their small, or in certain cases quite large tobacco
refuse receptacles. Large clean expensive looking ones gave their
locations an ambience of efficiency and opulence. Cheap overflowing
ones on the other hand demonstrated inferior people and or sloppy
establishments. Between these two examples there were many different
categories of both ashtrays and concerns. In nine cases out of ten the
former was indicative of the latter.
Some places like churches of course had no ashtray under any
circumstances, a most obvious sign of serious haughtiness. Not anywhere
did it say in any of the good books "Thou shalt not smoke?"
Over the years Turner had come to formulate this ashtray to status
theory, however his research was not purely for that reason. Primarily
it was to extinguish an already burning fag, or to deposit ash or a
match he had used to light up a fresh one. Being a chain smoker
Julienne had constant need for the use of an ashtray or fag dish as he
called them.
People often told Julienne Turner that he smelled like an old ashtray.
He didn't mind this analogy since he was certainly not disapproving of
an ashtray's aroma. The first time he had been notified of that simile
he had been upset. Not strictly by the analogy but more by the box
round the ears that had accompanied the metaphor. Both clout and remark
had been delivered to Master Turner by his Mother when he was twelve
years of age.
Although that punishment was handed out quite summarily it had been
warranted because Julienne had been secretly smoking his first
cigarette and his Mother had smelled its reek on his breath. Maybe the
evidence in this case had been circumstantial, please excuse the pun,
but so too is the evidence of a smoking gun.
That arbitrary reprimand by his Mother for his smoking did not deter
the ardent nicotine devotee. The only result it achieved was to
encourage Master Turner to suck strong mints before getting to windward
of his adoring but strict parents. Julienne's flirtation with the weed
grew into full courtship and in the fullness of time complete
commitment, in truth it took hold to such an extent that he could not
live without his beloved nicotine.
Over the years from that first suffering for true love Julienne came to
know and fill numerous ashtray. Both at home and in many different
parts of the world. Becoming intimate with many various brands from
smouldering romances to fiercely burning intrigues. The smoker's tastes
were capricious, His lips had caressed Black Russians, Philip Morris
and once in desperation even a Camel. Exotic foreign tobaccos may have
gratified him temporarily, domestic shags however remained his firm
favourites. After long trips abroad he had always looked forward to
coming home to his oh so charmingly Wild Woodbine?

"Mister Turner! Mister Turner! Wake up please, you've got to go to
Chemotherapy." Nurse Greener whispered as she gently shook Julienne's
arm.
"Where am I?" He gasped awakening from his contemplative reverie.
"You're in hospital of course Mr. Turner here's your dictionary you
nearly dropped it."
"Where do you say you're taking me?"
"To Chemo then on to Radiology we want to see how your lungs are
progressing."
"Progressing! They're not progressing they're regressing. It's cancer
love not bloody influenza."
"Come on now Julienne, chin up. Wonders of modern science and all
that..."
"Why don't you just give us an ashtray and a fag and leave me to die in
peace."
After that final session of Chemotherapy Julienne Turner went out like
a light. The dictionary opened at Ashton-under-Lyne slipping from his
hands and a clinical thermometer drooping from his sagging lips. There
appeared to be a contented smile on his latterly pained ash-like
countenance.
He had gone out in an ethereal puff of blue smoke with the feeling
that his lips were once more caressing the love he thought he had lost
forever. Old Julienne Turner did not in reality die, he just simply
progressed onward to that big overflowing ashtray in the
crematorium.

by Don Passmore ?