It is early morning in the smoke pit and we are all there for the regularly scheduled tagup. We try to meet just before 0800 so we can kinda get a feel for the day, you know ... how it's gonna go, whether the portents are good, bad, or indifferent. This morning, however, prior to the 0800 tagup, I had already decided it would be a good day because of the Wall Street Journals.

Every morning on my way in I stop in the lobby and pick up John's and Jerry's copies of the WSJ. There are anywhere from 4 to 6 WSJs delivered on any given morning, and the guards stash them on the middle shelf of the video kiosk. I can't see the address labels on the papers without actually reaching in there and retrieving them. Since I usually have only one free hand at that point, the other being laden with purse, umbrella, and whatever, I pull 'em out one at a time and check the label. Sometimes mine turn out to be #1 and #3; sometimes #2 and #3, sometimes #3 and #5, sometimes #4 and #6. Today I picked 'em right off the bat: wham bam, thank you ma'am, #1 and #2. A good day.

The mornings are still a tad cool but as I stand there smoking I feel the incessant, ever-present moisture from the Gulf, that clammy feeling in the air that announces the arrival of spring and summer. Ye olde familiar humidity monster. No, wait. This is more than humidity. I feel very pronounced droplets of water blowing against my skin.

"Kinda wet out here, ain't it?", Scott observes, reading my mind.

"I'll say," I pipe. "The wind is blowing the mist right on us."

"You are such a wuss," Holly says, giving me her 'I can't believe you' look.

I laugh. "Yes, and don't forget I am a WET wuss."

"We oughta go over there and stand between the doors," Scott says, "but folks are arriving at work now and they'd have to walk by us."

"Lawzie, yes," I say, "I ain't ready for that. Folks hacking and coughing as they go by, fanning themselves, giving us 'the look'."

"Yeah," Holly and Scott chime together. Ty nods in silent agreement, taking a drag off his cigarette.

It's not that we lack understanding about where non-smokers are coming from. We can dig it. Shoot, if we were non-smokers we would feel exactly the same way. We try to stay completely out of their way whenever we can. But every now and then the smoke pit provides no protection whatever from the elements so we are driven back up by the doors where a large portico extends about 15 feet out and joins the covered walk. The pit has a cover, of course, but Texas has a way of producing horizontal winds. Ergo, horizontal rain. Ergo, smoke pits without walls ain't happenin'.

We take a lot of shit for being smokers, I'm gonna tell you right now. It ain't a habit for the meek or malleable of spirit, nor those unwilling to swim against the current. This appeals to me in a most basic sense, I suppose, for I have been swimming upstream my entire life. I was born against the law. I know no other way to tackle anything except head-on or bassackwards.

"Man, I get so tired of people jacking with me about smoking," Scott says. "So what if I don't live to be 100? Hell, I don't WANT to live that long."

"I can't afford to live that long," I say.

"Whaddayamean you can't AFFORD to?", Holly asks.

"Because I only joined a retirement plan twelve years ago. I'm 50 now, which doesn't leave me much time to contribute to the dang thing. Even if I work until I'm 65, my retirement benefit will probably be some paltry amount that will barely cover the cost of cat food."

"Well, you've worked all your life, how come you've only been paying into retirement for twelve years?"

"Oh, hell, I was out there adventurin', child! I couldn't be bothered working for some big corporation that would help me plan for my old age. Old age? What's that? Shit, I had to get into law and politics and work for guys who had no retirement plans, no group insurance, no nothing. Mavericks, every one of 'em. Then I spent the next ten years working contract, being my own boss. I was barely existing but I was havin' fun. It was only by accident or the hand of the gods that I stumbled upon Muthah. And it's only since I've been with her that I've had a retirement plan available."

"You're gettin' a late start, alright."

"Look at Martha. She made a completely different choice. Went to work for Muthah as a young thang, paid into the retirement plan all those years, bought stock, invested her money, planned for her future and worked toward her objectives steadily and methodically. Now she's out of here at 55 and having a ball. Her home is paid for, her car is paid for, she's set for life."

"Yeah ... I see what you mean."

"Me? I've never given it a thought until the last few years. I'll probably be working until I die. If I get too old to work, what happens to me then? I have no family. There is no one to take care of me in my dotage. I could easily wind up a bag lady, all my worldly belongings contained in a shopping cart, living in a custom cardbox box under the Pierce Elevated. A dumpster diver sleeping in doorways and alleys. A hobo, maybe, riding the trains searching for cigar-smoking storytellers. So I have to die before I get that old."

"Bullshit," Scott says. "You ain't gotta dive into no dumpsters or live under some freeway. You can live in my garage! Hell, I'll even move one of the cars out and give you one whole half of it."

"Yeah?!? You'd do that for me? Seriously?"

"Seriously," he says.

"Be sure you get the half with the water heater," Ty interjects, "so you can stay warm in the winter."

This is a brilliant idea. I turn to Scott.

"Can I have the water heater?"

"Sure! I'll even put a couple of those big Igloo coolers out there. You can use 'em kinda like couches. Maybe a fan or two for the summertime."

"Wow. Oh, wow. Is there room for my stereo?"

"You betcha!"

"And two cat boxes?"

"Two cat boxes, too."

"Oh, gawd," Holly says, rolling her eyes. "She will spend the rest of this day figuring out how she's gonna fit her furniture into her half of your garage. She'll be up there making layouts and measuring and moving little models around."

"But of course," I say. "One must plan for one's retirement. Scott, you are such a sweetie."

"Shucks, YB, it'll be a pleasure to have ya. We'll have lots of fun! And I'm younger than you so I can take care of you for at least, oh, 15 years or something."

"Well, I want to tell you, darlin', that you have just lifted a major burden off my shoulders. You will never know how much better I feel not having to worry about that any more! Atlas has shrugged at long last."

Scott beams and giggles. I crush my cigarette in the ashtray.

"Yessirree, my future is secure. I am one fortunate woman."

I tweak his arm affectionately, give him a big smile and a wink, and walk back inside to greet this day. This very good day.