A Goddess Slips
Away
by Don Drewniak
Cigarette
smoking, in many respects, was an epidemic in the
1920s, 30s, 40s and 50s. Unfortunately, few in
the general population were aware of its dangers.
In the 1950s,
the problem of smoking was exacerbated as
television rapidly made its way into homes in the
United States. Those approaching their teenage
years and teenagers were particularly susceptible
to cigarette ads.
Fortunately, I
had double immunity to television ads promoting
smoking, and to friends who attempted to get me
to try smoking.When I was about six, my best
friend was a kid, Norman, who lived next door. We
lived in a neighborhood in the south end of Fall
River, Massachusetts that had a substantial
number of houses with three and six tenements.
From my birth
until the January that I was in first grade, I
lived with my father and mother on the second
floor of a house at 114 Tuttle Street. It had
three floors, each with two side-by-side
tenements.
During the
warmer months and in the absence of rain, it was
not unusual to see cigarette butts littering
street gutters. Norman had a habit of picking
them up and eating them.
Two years
later, I accompanied my parents on a visit to
friends of theirs. The couple had a daughter,
Loretta, who was a year younger than me. At some
point in the evening, Loretta and I were in the
kitchen while our parents were in the living room.
There was an
ashtray filled with cigarette ashes on a side
table in the kitchen. Loretta proceeded to grab a
handful of the ashes and ate them. She was left
with a ring of ashes on her lips and on the
entire lower portion of her face. Over a decade
passed before I saw her again.
The images of
Norman and Loretta have given me lifelong
immunity to smoking.
Approximately
a week before I was scheduled to start my
sophomore year in college, my mother said, “Donald,
Loretta Arruda will be going to your college.”
Ugh!
I was sitting
in the student union with three other guys during
the second week back at the college when an
apparition second only to Sophia Loren approached.
She was olive-skinned, jet black hair, black eyes
anf full lips. The goddess was about five feet,
six inches in height and sleek.
She stopped
about four feet from us and asked, “Is one
of you Donald?”
“That’s
me,” I replied as the other guys drooled.
She was easily the best-looking girl on campus.
“I’m
Loretta, Loretta Arruda.”
Her face
appeared to change as I continued to look at her.
All that I could see was a face the lower portion
of which was smeared by black cigarette ashes.
According to
those who were with me, I said, “I’m
busy.” She turned around and headed for the
exit.
Comments from
the guys:
“What's
wrong with you?
“Are you
crazy or something?”
And there is
one that I can't put into print.
One of the
guys jumped up and headed for the same exit used
by Loretta. He returned a few minutes later. Of
course, he was asked what happened.
“I caught
up with her and tried to start up a conversation.
She told me to go to hell and gave me a message
for you, Don Juan.”
“What is
it?”
“Drop
dead.”
I never saw
her again. A month or so later on a visit home,
my mother informed me that Loretta had dropped
out of college and was trying to become a model.
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