Which type of cigarette do you prefer sir?

*This is my entry for the cigarette exercise. Are any of you familiar?* Christopher Lambert is a French actor and magician. He’s best-known for his role as Connor McLeod in *Highlander*. In the early nineties, he learned that you could get a cigarette to flame up like a flare by placing a drop of phosphorus somewhere on it. He was at a restaurant when the waiter asked him the question that’s the title for this. He was curious about the phosphorus and asked Lambert to show him. So Lambert lit a cigarette for the waiter… … And the flame engulfed the man’s face and body, hair flaming wildly as he stumbled from the restaurant. … But that’s not what’s important. What’s important right now is that… “Which type of cigarette do you prefer sir?” … Are the last words that man will hear. *** Summer 1968. Which type of cigarette do you prefer sir? I’m standing in the lobby of a Parisian apartment building, rubbing the hair out of my eyes. There’s a man in front of me, standing behind the front desk. He’s smoking a cigarette. I glance at the pack on the desk. Sobranie Black Russian. The pack is red, the filter is black, the tips are gold. It’s all very elegant, very… “Ah,” the concierge exclaims. “You prefer the Black Russian, yes?” I glance up at him. He’s smiling wide and holding a lit Sobranie Black Russian between his teeth. He’s holding out the pack to me. “Which type of cigarette do you prefer, sir?” I don’t know if it’s the jetlag or the fact that I’m on my honeymoon, but… “I prefer the Black Russian,” I say. I take a cigarette, he hands me a gold-tipped lighter. The flame is huge and when he lights his cigarette, it flares up like a flare, like a tiny sun. I look at my cigarette, I look at my lighter. Bingo. I’m gonna die here. Me. My wife. Our unborn child. We don’t know about the child yet, but… We’re gonna die here. I just need to light this cigarette to do it. “I need to step inside,” I said. “You need to get your wife,” he said. I backed away and ran through the front door. Our rental car was stopped in the middle of the street, hazard lights flashing. I hopped in and honked the horn. My wife ran out of the building and into our car. As we drove away, I caught a glimpse of the concierge standing in the doorway, a look of confusion on his face. “I can’t believe it took me so long to remember,” I said, once we were a few blocks away. “What are you talking about?” “Which type of cigarette do you prefer sir?” She looked at me strangely. We pulled over to park. It was 1968, I could do that. I killed the engine and turned to her. “Which type of cigarette do you prefer sir,” I said again. I think she thought I was insane. “No, no,” I said. “It’s from that Christopher Lambert story.” “Connor McLeod.” “Yes! He went on *The Tonight Show* and-” “Oh, right. Yeah, I saw that one. But you think he’s trying to kill you?” “I’m positive.” She looked at the building. A couple was walking out of the front door. “Don’t you dare.” They walked down the sidewalk, out of sight. I watched the entrance, my heart in my mouth. “That was silly,” Michelle said. “You scared the shit out of me.” I stared at the entrance, waiting to see the flaming figure of a Parisian concierge stumble from the front doors. Christopher Lambert had told that joke on *The Tonight Show*. It was the first thing I thought of when that concierge asked me that question. And the first thing I thought of was the flare of fire that engulfed the man’s face. *** We’re on our third hotel now. Every concierge has asked that one question. None of them are the right answer. I’ve spent all of our money on hotels. I stopped counting after the tenth. Michelle is furious. She says I’m being paranoid, that I’m ruining our honeymoon. I think she might leave me. I think I might actually be going insane. *** I’ve been on the streets for days. I’ve lost count. We ran out of money and I just couldn’t… I haven’t seen my wife in a very, very long time. I don’t think I want to. Things are becoming less and less clear. I don’t know what’s real, I don’t know what’s not. I’m sitting in a park. I don’t know what city. I don’t know what country. There’s a man sitting next to me. Christopher Lambert. Only he’s not an actor, he’s the concierge from my first hotel. Which… “Ah,” he said. “You prefer the Black Russian, yes?” I looked at him. Christopher Lambert. Connor McLeod. The most interesting man in the world. He was smoking a cigarette. He held the pack out to me. I looked at the pack. I looked at the cigarette. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. Destiny. My destiny, laid out in front of me. “Which type of cigarette do you prefer sir?” *** T***his was my entry for the cigarette exercise. Are any of you familiar?***

Which type of cigarette do you prefer sir?

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