THE SIXTEENTH PAGE

My book family demanded more space, and I, being the obliging parent, had to economize and save money for a larger apartment. I could not economize more with food because I ate little; my preparations were cheap and infrequent. I should stop smoking.

There had been many signals I should have observed as I became a daily three-and-a-half packer: an eagerness to run to the shop’s basement to fetch a book for a customer and grab a smoke, returning to the shop floor without the book, but with the stench of tobacco. The hurried race to the subway exit with a burning stick in my mouth, resulting in a fine for smoking underground. The choice to be made from among the umbrella, the attaché case and the cigarette, resulting in a redundant umbrella.

The book addiction was beginning to fight the cigarette needs. When cigarettes went up to forty-five cents a pack and I was spending five hundred seventy-three dollars and five cents a year, I knew the smoking days were over. That money could buy more books or book space. The pain was enormous, but the deed was done in a weekend. I’ve still got the empty last pack. Pall Mall. Filter Kings. Menthol. Yummy.