Smoking is Cool

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THE CIGARETTES WERE CALLED Velvets, and my job was to smoke them. was given a purple velvet suit and a cheat sheet listing the names of bars was permitted to smoke in and drinks was allowed to order, and was assigned a partner, a fashion design school dropout who wore a red velvet dress and whose name was Karen. My suit coat had wide, baggy inside pockets which kept stuffed with the cigarettes would distribute free to the bars' other patrons. Karen was issued a clasp handbag for the same purpose. Don't let them know you're working for instructed our supervisor, Nadine, a stark-faced businesswoman with efficient, unadorned hands. This was at headquarters, a narrow downtown storefront with blacked-out windows that in recent years had been home to several fly-by-night religious groups and a Reform Party campaign office. It was our first night, our pockets full of mad money. Offer them the product as if ifs from the bottom of your heart, she said. Like this. She proffered a Velvet Long to Karen, who accepted it between her index and middle fingers. Obliged, Karen said, and swept her hair over her shoulder with an ironic flourish. She turned to me and batted her eyelashes. Cigarette? Good, said Nadine. Except that Richard is a man. Men don't smoke Velvet Longs. Women smoke Velvet Longs. Men smoke Velvets. thought we were clear on that. I was just practicing, Karen said. hadn't taken the cigarette, and she popped it into her mouth. She didn't light it. Nadine gave her a long look, then sighed. Okay, then. Off you go. Happy hour is nigh. She moved between us to the door, opened it with her key and held it as she ushered us out with a flapping hand. We stepped into the cold and early dark. If you're going to seduce somebody, she called after us, do it on your own time!