Close, but Crummy Cigar

When John Steinbeck was crisscrossing the United states doing research for a travelogue, he brought along his dog Charly, figuring that the scruffy little canine would give him something to talk about with strangers he met on the road. Last Saturday night, I took the #1 bus from Harvard Square--already overrun with braided leather belts and the L.L. Bean shoes that Andover kids call "mocs"--to Central square. Because I don't have a dog and because it would have been too embarassing to bring my bowl of goldfish onto the bus, I decided that I would pick up some sort of conversation piece once I reached my destination.

Central Square is one section of Cambridge which, despite its proximity to the Yard, is rarely frequented by Harvard students. The neighborhood is somewhat dangerous, especially at night. Drugs are peddled up and down Western Avenue, and the wail of police sirens is commonplace. But Central Square isn't nearly as dangerous as many other Boston-area neighborhoods. There's lots to see and many interesting people to talk to--particularly if you have a decent conversation piece.

Like all self-respecting history majors, I am obsessed with beginning at the beginning. So after I got off the #1 bus, I headed directly for the address One Central Square. One Central Square is home to a smoke shop which, last Saturday evening, was crowded with men leafing through pornographic magazines and customers waiting to purchase lottery tickets. According to Tim, the man behind the counter, the most commonly selected lottery numbers are those which begin with "9-0-2-1-0." According to Tim, ticket buyers are convinced that if they select "9-0-2-1-0," they'll end up with that zip code.

Setting on my conversation piece, a "Bering" brand cigar, so short and stumpy that in my mouth it appeared self-referential, I asked Tim how much the stogie would cost. When he told me "only 75 cents," I was shocked. A Bering for three measley quarters? How could it be? If Leavitt and Peirce were this cheap I would develop lip cancer before graduation. But as he handed me my change, Tim lowered his voice and leaned across the counter. "Between me and you, chief, those aren't Berings." As the night wore on and canker-sores began to sprout in my mouth it became more and more obvious to me that Tim had been right, that for seventy five cents I had gotten not a Bering, but a falsely-labelled fifty cent cigar of Phillie Blunt quality or lower. But while I didn't come away from the smoke shop with a decent cigar, I did have my conversation piece.

At Maxi's 99 Cent Store, they loved my stogie. The woman behind the counter told me, with only a hint of sarcasm, that it smelled good, and the security guard asked if it was filled with marijuana. No, sir.

Maxi's can boast that every item in the store costs 99 cents--$1.04 with tax. At $1.04, the detergent labelled $2.79 seemed like a bargain, while the little green lollipop did not. There are bins of 99-cent socks which smell as if they've already been worn, and crates of women's underwear, through which a middle-aged man was all too eagerly rifling as he eyed my cigar.

I left, and headed for Skippy White's.

White's is somewhat of an institution in Central Square. The store is chock-full of rare albums by classic but obscure soul and R and B acts such as Tyrone Davis, The Stylistics, and Confunkshun. The salespeople at White's are vinyl purists who believe that compact discs and tapes undermine civilization in much the same way that old Harvey Mansfield thinks homosexuals do.

From White's, I headed to the Harvest Co-operative supermarket, which has a profit-sharing system which works like the Coop's is supposed to. There are more types of Basmati rice and oat-based grains on sale at Harvest than I ever knew existed. The supermarket also boasts a message board on which locals advertise for roommates ("Two Lesley Grad Students in expressive therapies and one creativity workshop facilitator seek non-smoker to share Central Square apartment with").

Needles to say, before entering Harvest I was asked to put out my cigar. Earlier in the evening, being asked to dispense with my stogie might have had me down. By now, however, I didn't mind, because I was almost ready to take the bus back to Harvard Square. Even if it was packed with high-schoolers looking for a party, or at least some beer.