Johnny Tobacco (seed)

My good buddy Holt had to give up his second greatest pleasure in life or he might kick the bucket. Luckily, it wasn't his first: whiling away long hours sitting on his wireless enabled toilet with its heated seat and reading a single page of a signed hardback edition of Sartre's Being and Nothingness at random and then tearing out that page to wipe after concluding a royal constitution. In this unique literary and scatological manner, Holt was acquiring a knowledge of existentialism. Then again, perhaps he was not because he never understood a single sentence of Being and Nothingness; he just liked wiping with a classic text of philosophy. In truth, it was actually a bold act of Dadaism that unfolded every morning in his bathroom. He would announce to his wife and dog, “It's time to take a Sartre!” and he never failed to crack up over his own joke.

Yes, Holt didn't have to give that routine up. What had to go was pipe smoking. His ticker couldn't take it anymore. His goose was cooked if he took another puff. His Sherlock Holmes days were over so much like sane Republicans in Congress. He would retain his vast collection of treasured pipes, but the vast collection of tobacco was doomed to the ash bin of history and a real garbage can. Hundreds upon hundreds of tin, pouches and mason jars of the most aromatic pipe tobacco known and worth thousands upon thousands of dollars. The highest quality blends from all over the world. Brands like Frog Morton, Sea Dog, Balkan Blue, Drew Estate, Lane Limited, The Bankers, Dunhill, Squadron Leader Orlick, Leo, and my personal favorite, the Maltese Falcon.

I was helping Holt box up all the tobacco when an idea crashed into my consciousness like a Keith Moon drum fill! I would dole out the tobacco to various members of the homeless in my neighborhood! They all smoked terrible expensive cigarettes produced by evil corporate empires. Why not procure some rolling papers and start smoking with a little class? I couldn't very well throw away the tobacco. There was no place to donate it. It didn't seem appropriate to distribute via street libraries.

Was it a great idea to contribute to their vice? I didn't care. These men and women were living on the streets and in the willows, hanging by less than threads. If they wanted to smoke, let them smoke! If the idea of smoking fine pipe tobacco delivered a simple sinful pleasure and smiles, why not? My gift would constitute an act of kindness and we need a lot more of those these days.

So I admit the doling out of the tobacco might qualify as a strange act of philanthropy, but I had an ulterior motive, a secret literary agenda in doing so: handing out free tobacco was a perfect ploy to meet homeless men and women and strike up conversations.

It wasn't a gimmick, okay it was a gimmick. I just wanted to meet more homeless people in their element, learn their stories, and not come across as some journalist or general interloper.

This was the theory, but now I had to test it.

Back home, I unloaded the boxes in the garage, shoved two tins in the back pocket of my corduroys and headed out. It was absurd, of course, but sometimes absurd is good.

Five minutes later I encountered Mark of the Old Crow Book Club sitting on his usual sidewalk, reading a crime novel and smoking a cigarette.

I told him the tobacco story. Would he like some? Hell yes! Mark took the tin. A Dunhill, I think. He sniffed it like a fine cigar. He then said something with an English accent. We both laughed. The fun had already started!

Surely Mark and the homeless men and women of one neighborhood in Portland, Oregon would soon be smoking the finest tobacco of all the tobacco currently being smoked by homeless men and women across America. Imagine that! Knowing Holt and I had made this preposterous fact a reality brought me a unique joy.

And so the saga of Johnny Tobacco (seed) has begun.