“The fragrant narcotic blended so soothingly with the coffee.” This is a quote from “The Magic Mountain” referring to Hans Castorp’s love of his Maria Mancini cigars and his coffee, which he savors in tandem after nice meals, in full relaxation and in the complete absence of work-related obligations.
I write it down now because I am doing my best to enjoy almost precisely the same experience. I am sitting outside a cafe with a dark coffee and two men have just sat upwind of me, within five feet or so of my chair. They have lit up their cigarillos or whatever and are using “bitch” indiscriminately and commenting on passing Cadillacs and rims and talking about past altercations, and run-ins with police and “getting caught” doing this and that, and so on. Periodically I get whiffs of smoke when they pause to puff. The heady cloud of airborne nicotine and particulates comes during brief lulls in the conversation, which is in the cooler lower register of inner-city black vernacular. Both are in white tee-shirts, one with a newspaper boy cap (or beret). They talk of “seven thousand dollahs” and one says, “you can’t lose, shit,” and then they speak of working for the Obama campaign during the summer. This last part strikes me as odd.
I hate smoke and I avoid smokers as much as possible, when they are smoking at least. But right now I breathe it in and let the smoky flavor travel down my nasopharynx as the hot coffee coats my oropharynx. I try to enjoy it as Hans Castorp does in the book.
“She ’bout to have a baby next month on the eighteenth,” one of the men says. I hear one say the generic “…bust a cap in his ass…” and then continue talking. I didn’t think people actually said that, since it is so often used in satirical denigration of black cultural violence. For all their talk of violence and money and “bitches,” I still have the impression that these men have not stolen anything or maimed or robbed anyone. I could be mistaken. Even if I am right, they do themselves no good with such talk and with such careless smoking.
Now they have walked off, and I will enjoy my coffee by itself, without any “fragrant narcotic,” which I did not ask for in the first place. I simply tried to make the best of it, and I think I succeeded. I prefer to minimize my risk of cancer, even at the expense of indulging in a literature-inspired novelty. It’s just that “The Magic Mountain” is such a damn good book so far.
pseudoisaac 