The Truth At Last

Michael Sklarski smoked in fifth grade. I mean, by then he was a smoker, or so he insisted. I suppose it must have been true.

Michael consistently carried his pencil like a cigarette, and, unless Miss Meister was watching, frequently put the eraser end to his lips for an imaginary drag, then inhaled with a hiss and blew out the pretend smoke. Frequently.

He did these things so comfortable, so knowingly. And somebody said he had been seen somewhere away from school actually smoking.

Fifth grade is inhabited by 10-years-olds, as you know. I suspect that Michael, if he continued to smoke and is living, has lung or heart disease.

My diseases have not come from smoking. Or, I'll put it this way. My "diseases" did not come from smoking, although I did try it at around age 10. Maybe Michael's influence. Maybe not.

In the vacant lot across the street from our house, concealed by bushes, I smoked a Lucky Strike, or some of it. I know. It's shocking. But to continue the story . . .

Children are innocent, in my case ignorant, of many things, and I gathered a startling bit of knowledge from those few moments I spent in the hands of the L.S.M.F.T. people.

The smoke was hot in my mouth. I never expected that.

P.S. I have no idea how I came to possess a cigarette.