Mind If I Smoke?

Hair cut, interviewed a job candidate, held a meeting in café and now I’m walking in the opposite direction to the one I’d decided on earlier.  This is the right direction to head in order to get a cab.  That way, would have led me down some snow-covered ally that I might have shot wintery photographs within.  But I’d overlooked yet another call.  Two people have texted me.  “Are you going to join?” 

I spy a cab pulled over.  Someone is paying the fare and I walk over and stand by the door.  The driver could tell me to piss-off but unless he’s getting off work, he’ll probably be happy with the hundred-renminbi fare I’m about to suggest.  He is and we’re off, driving past the snow covered embassies.  I make small talk with my driver as I fiddle with my phone, trying to join the conference call bridge.  He’s keen to keep talking but I beg his forgiveness and dive into this conference call. 

The traffic on the airport express way is slow, on account of the snow.  An older man, alas, probably a peer of mine, it seems to dawn on him quietly, gradually, that it will be a long time before we reach our destination.   “Hey," he asks, "would you mind if I smoke?  I’m really sorry but . . .” He gestures to the traffic.  Were I with my wife and kids, were I with half a dozen former smokers I know, I would certainly have had to say “no.”  But as it was only my lungs at stake, I told him to go ahead on.  He was obsequiously grateful.  “Thank you.  Thank you!  That’s great.  Thank you.”

I’ve never been a smoker.  And in small atmospheric doses the smell acts, in a perverted Proustian way, like a portal to another time.  I remember the smell from when I was a child, driving with my parents.  More importantly I think, I was faced with the choice of accepting a slight atmospheric downgrade and making this gentleman very happy that he could scratch his nic-fit, or telling him “no” and spending the subsequent thirty minutes annoyed at one another.

My call was over before we’re off the highway.  I asked him where he’s from in Beijing.  Beijing cab drivers are necessarily from Beijing.  “Pinggu.  Up to the northeast.”  This means he is not “lao Beijing” from inside the old city walls, but rather a country fella.  He wants me to know that the peaches they have in Pinggu are remarkable.  “If I could I’d bring you a bushel.  They’re not like anything you can buy in a store.”  I imagine the taste of fresh peach.  So many fruits and vegetables we buy, grown no doubt in a hot house, all taste like plastic.  “When is the harvest season?”  “August!  You must come out in August.”  I consider this.  I consider my shirt which smells now of tobacco and how our conversation might have gone differently. 

Tuesday, 2/21/17