1964 Compartment - Cigarettes and Space Travel

Excerpt from 

"Compartments of Latter Day Adventures" 

(by Dennis Dineen)

 "You know what you do? You don't."

That was Mitch Aitken's advice to us ten-year-old boys 

regarding cigarette smoking. 

We pondered his words for a second or two, 

but our curiosity got the better of us. 

Mitch was typically our group's voice of reason, 

something we attributed to him 

being raised by a household of women. 

His dad died years ago on the living room couch 

after falling into a drunken stupor and hitting his head on the floor. 

Since then, Mitch's home life was a matriarchal combination 

of mother, sisters, aunts, and grandmothers 

and they all seemed to promote clean living habits 

of temperance, hygiene, and caution. 

We had gathered in our tree fort 

located in the center of a row of large oak trees 

behind the old demolished BP gas station site, 

on our lunch hour break from school.

Mac Steinberg had the remains 

of a package of filtered Export A cigarettes 

that he had swiped out of the glove compartment of his uncle's car. 

None of us had smoked a cigarette before, 

so there was an air of silent apprehension. 

Mitch wanted no part of our plan, but he was content to observe us 

like he was studying the behavior of monkeys in a cage. 

I was willing to try smoking a cigarette and so was Dudley Wagner. 

Dudley was usually willing to go with the flow 

of whatever new idea was floating around in our group. 

He was a heavy kid for his age 

and he had a good-looking blonde mother 

that often told him not to "pull any boners," 

every time he left his house. 

We always got a laugh out of that 

and repeated her words to Dudley whenever we got the notion. 

"Don't pull any boners, Dudley."

We all thought his mother was hot, 

but we never mentioned it to him.

Most boys our age wanted to escape something. 

It seemed like a natural rite of passage 

for every Grade 4 boy to dream about some form of escape.

Our plan was simply to build some kind of reliable rocket ship, 

fly up into the stars, and escape this life we were living on Earth. 

The possibility of space travel was a big thing to us kids. 

The media bombarded us with TV shows and movies 

about space travel adventures and creatures from other galaxies. 

Our local library had plenty of science fiction books 

and the small Variety stores and Smoke shops had racks 

of science fiction magazines & comic books for sale. 

Buck Rogers & Flash Gordon were our heroes. 

 

We began drafting designs for our spaceship 

as though we were highly qualified NASA engineers. 

We were discussing the size of the fuel tank we would need 

when a couple of grade 3 boys wandered absent-mindedly 

under our tree fort. 

They both had round brush-cut heads. 

One of the boys was Skip Connor, 

whose big burly father sang hymns like an opera tenor 

at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow Catholic church every Sunday. 

Mac saw the top of Skip Connor's head as a perfect target 

from our vantage point, so he undid his zipper, 

pulled out his penis, and urinated out the side of the tree fort. 

The thin yellow streak came down on Skip Connor's head 

like an eavestrough overflowing rain down on a slab of concrete. 

It took Skip a few nanoseconds to realize something wasn't right, 

when he suddenly moved out of the way, looked up, 

and wiped his head in disgust. 

He and his friend ran away, 

as Skip looked over his shoulder at us and yelled, 

"I'm telling on you guys. You guys are in for big trouble." 

Our tree fort filled with laughter.

Mac had a mean streak in him a mile wide. 

He was always the first one in our group 

to instigate a practical joke on someone.

We figured his disposition was likely influenced

by the regular beatings his father gave him. 

His father's name was Siegfried, 

and he was a man we all feared, especially when he got angry. 

He had a stocky frame with broad shoulders like a football player 

and thick hairy muscular arms. 

One Saturday afternoon we were all huddled in the living room 

at the Steinberg house when Siegfried entered 

with the massive Toronto telephone book in his hand. 

He had a calm, mischievous expression on his face 

as he gazed at us boys sitting on the long couch,  

and with a soft confident voice, he said, 

"Watch this."

He then proceeded to clutch the telephone book 

with both of his hands 

and in a matter of seconds, he tore the book in half. 

"Wow!"

We were all in quiet awe.

Siegfried had our undivided attention.  

Even Mac was silent with no comment, which was unusual. 

Siegfried smiled with an air of triumph then quietly left the room. 

We looked at one another and though the words were never spoken, 

we silently agreed that Siegfried 

was not a man we wanted to, "piss off."

Mac handed out cigarettes to me and Dudley. 

We both studied the thin cylinder sticks carefully. 

I was impressed with the texture of the filter 

and the scent of the tobacco. 

Mac pulled an Ebby matchbox out of his pocket 

and gave us an evil-eyed expression 

as the match-stick scratched the sandpaper strip 

and sparked into a flame. 

We would soon become familiar with Mac and his matchboxes 

when we got into our gunpowder-making adventures 

the following year, 

but that is another story. 

We lit our cigarettes off the same flame

and then smoked like we knew what we were doing. 

"Did you inhale all the way?" was the big question. 

Mac looked at me and said, 

"Art, you chicken-shit. You're not inhaling."

"Neither is Mitch," I replied. 

"Just give me a sec' ... I'm working on it." 

I didn't mind the visual part of smoking.

I thought the smoke looked cool coming out of my mouth.

But I did not like the taste of it 

and the first time I tried inhaling the smoke, 

it got partway down my throat when I began to hack violently. 

Dudley wasn't doing much better, 

he was barking like a dog and going pale. 

Mac seemed to handle the smoking etiquette, 

and he was getting a kick out of watching us suffer. 

Mac's only problem was his long, thick, crooked nose 

that smoke found its way into, like a vacuum, 

bringing tears to his eyes.  

I inhaled once and that was enough. 

I started feeling strange, and light-headed, 

like I was turning green. 

About a third of the cigarette was all I could handle. 

Dudley quit smoking his cigarette before I did. 

Mac boldly hung in there, but it was mainly for show. 

He didn't get much more than half his cigarette smoked 

when he gently butted the end of it out on the floor 

and put it back into the now sinister-looking Export A package. 

I was feeling sick like I was going to throw up. 

It seemed to take forever for the white fog 

of cigarette smoke in the tree fort to dissipate.

We sat quietly for a while welcoming the fresh air 

to eventually repair us. 

"Art, you looked as white as a ghost. So did you, Dudley. 

Do you guys want to try this again after school? 

They say the more you do it, the easier it gets." 

Dudley did not comment.

"I've had enough of cigarette smoking for a while," 

I replied with a rasp.

 

It turned out I didn't try cigarettes for another seven years, 

until my third year of high school, 

and then the motivation was to meet girls, 

not to enjoy the benefits of smoking tobacco. 

I guess the same went for beer.

My dad let me have a taste of Molson Export ale 

out of a dark brown stubby bottle 

while we were watching a Leaf's hockey game. 

I was about ten years old, and I hated the taste of it. 

I couldn't understand why my dad drank beer so much. 

What was so appealing about it? 

It took a few years, but I eventually learned the answer, 

in more ways than one. 

After the color had returned to our faces 

we got back to discussing the fuel tank 

for the rocket ship we were designing. 

It was our number one priority.

Dudley suggested that we should start hunting around for parts 

before we went back to school. 

We climbed down out of our tree fort 

and searched the area around us. 

In those days it was a vast wasteland 

with piles of dirt and rocks everywhere 

located on the north-west corner 

of Markham Road and Kingston Road, 

long before a plaza had been built 

and long before the church parking lot had been paved with asphalt. 

Soon Mitch yelled out to us, 

"Here's something we could probably use."

What a coincidence! 

He found an old gasoline tank 

behind the BP gas station demolition site. 

It was partly submerged in dirt.

We managed to dig it out and move it to a better location 

near the tree fort, where we would have easy access to it 

for adding to the components of our future spaceship. 

It was a filthy, cumbersome job that involved all four of us 

gripping the tank wherever we could get a hold of it. 

It was an odd-shaped object with various size holes 

and not easily balanced while moving.

Time was marching on when Mitch said, 

"It's getting late, we'd better head back to school." 

We knew we were running late 

when we heard the one o'clock outdoor bell ringing. 

The grade four classes were divided into two portables

at the west end of the schoolyard. 

Our class was the back portable closest to the baseball diamond. 

We entered our portable quietly, hung our coats on wall hooks 

at the back of the classroom, and then sat down at our desks. 

Our teacher was a short, plump, brunette lady 

named Miss Bernard and she was not a shy woman. 

She had a loud booming voice. 

I often wondered if it was her natural voice 

or an acquired voice she inherited from teaching.  

A few minutes into our phonics lesson had passed 

when she suddenly frowned at the class and inquired, 

"What is that smell?"

All the students looked about in confusion 

wondering what the lingering odor was. 

"What is that smell?" she repeated loudly.

Finally, Miss Bernard answered her own question 

as she charged toward the back of the classroom.

"It's gasoline!" 

She could smell it coming off our coats. 

"What were you boys doing?"

First, she looked hard with burning eyes at Dudley, 

but he was noncommittal 

and acted as surprised as everyone else.

Then she stared Mitch down and asked again, 

"What were you boys doing?"

All Mitch could do was shrug his shoulders sheepishly 

and look at me. 

Miss Bernard directed her inquiry at me, 

"Art ... what have you boys been up to?"

"We had to move a gas tank," I replied quickly 

with no conviction whatsoever. 

"A gas tank?" 

"What on earth for?"

She didn't wait for the answer I was struggling to find 

as she swung the back exit door open for some fresh air. 

With raging determination, she tracked down the evidence 

and piled our coats on the floor at the back of the classroom.

After a few uncomfortable moments, things simmered down 

and Miss Bernard went back to the task of teaching us 

the afternoon lessons on the curriculum.  

The four of us want-to-be space travelers 

kept a quiet and subdued profile for the rest of the afternoon, 

which I thought was especially remarkable 

coming from a guy like Mac, 

who usually got "ants in his pants" as the school day dragged on. 

There was a certain irony in the nonchalant stares we were getting 

from our classmates, along with Miss Bernard's 

puzzled lingering glances directed at each of us, 

as though we might very well have been rocket ship space travelers 

who had just returned to Earth 

after years of exploring faraway galaxies. 

We might as well have been aliens!

2023 Pics and Poetry Administration Fun

 

Charms so bright 

take thy veil 

stretch forth

in which I was 

Can ye put thy heart in ... 

thy heart in 

Everyone's a critic 

held in ye clinic

tea leaves in heaven 

don't reply

soapy injunction 

repeat that lie

inherit enemies 

by association

Abandon not thy sanity

marvelous sites

strange urban landscape

scents and sounds 

commerce and crime

better ye pretend

Jest and good will for thy merry mood

to practice restraint in a city of haste

glazers and electricians of common kidney

behold the window-garden damsel

they can split thy head with excessive chat 

prolong not thy rhetoric

Jest and good will for thy merry mood

practice restraint in a city of haste

To adapt yet to change not 

to absorb advice from our lady of good council 

no jackass tail tongue 

no impatient words 

prolong not thy rhetoric

Jest and good will for thy merry mood

practice restraint in a city of haste

To a miser and his money comes a meddling neighbor 

the scavenger beckons to the angels at dusk  

Jest and good will for thy merry mood

practice restraint in a city of haste

Good tidings 

and all manner of good cheer 

joy and health to thee

Fate joined us in the valley

make merry with thy friends 

be glad the day has no angle 

Careful lest ye fall in hard places 

hark the cursed loon on sacred water 

hypnotic passers-by comply with fate 

Ill-omened hag plundering life away 

marinated wood grouse in pistachio stew 

pranks to entertain ye guest 

Boisterous baritone blooms thy bush 

Fate joined us in the valley

make merry with thy friends 

Good tidings and all manner of good cheer 

joy and health to thee

Thy goest a-pleasuring in ruins of thy wealth 

burning bridges, cutting ties with depopulator ease

come forward with waves crashing 

ye passion unbound

driven by guilt, worthy of praise

tis time to bester thyself for wandering 

let fair winds betide thee on thy journey 

abide by the terms of the guest-rite

prolong not thy stay 

beware the gamble of change in air and water 

resort to leach-craft for thy ailments 

escaping the vile world in solitude 

woe to thee shall pass with blooms of joy

toiling for daily bread at any price 

let fair winds betide thee on thy journey 

Glorious state, noble born 

let not time shatter thy vigor 

woes untold love-pangs relinquish 

ye framework leans, 

who knoweth the future 

wrath & fear biting thy ear 

no king no queen who dieth not 

with kingdoms grand time forgot 

friends of yore speak no more 

disperse the crowd, sing out loud

joy reigns over all 

The ebb tide wanes, sorrow drains 

thy spirit wails, hooked on gold 

her purse closed tight, dog's delight 

virtue shone like the moon at night 

friends of yore speak no more 

disperse the crowd, sing out loud

joy reigns over all 

Bestow ye wealth 

on thy faithful friend 

be humble, bare no servant 

ye banquet of generosity 

looms over thy abode 

a thousand gifts of thanks 

lie sprawling in thy wake 

gallows-bird leavith the air 

to perch upon 

thy fence of gold 

Ye wayward ways 

court majestic taverns 

hold thy peace 

as thy pennies depart 

gallows-bird leavith the air 

to perch upon

thy fence of gold 

Good fellowship hitherto restored 

hunting through thy pavilion

under wing of night 

with jolly song 

bare the weight of fate 

in times of yore 

when speak was sweet 

no person of consequence, said she 

aye, bestow thee extension ladder 

climb ye yonder 

into heaven's delight

gaze down upon us mere mortals 

with one sweet kiss thy wound be healed 

coyness will manifest thee 

bitter-sweet love will attest thee 

hunt thee fair through wonderous wood 

ye civilization with scant plan 

lies in the brink within a wink 

ye nostrils flare fire of anger 

The old man died in a mudslide

left a debris out on the island highway

someone forgot their vapor 

on the early morning paper

sadness and gloom

lingered in the room

without hesitation 

she departed the station

no need to pretend 

never seen again

sometimes I feel 

this can't be real

eat more, 

quote the crow 

Be of good cheer 

as the sword of fate pierces thee 

the harp and lute swayeth thee 

with bliss of a thousand dreams 

true bliss adieu 

to woe around thee 

what solace can there be 

for the homeless 

better absence 

than feuding with scorn 

through a hubbub of hearsay 

the pride of possessions are lost 

to the weary traveler 

let justice and equality 

gather thy material goods

nay violence and pride  

to ram thy abode 

with spare words 

avoid what concerneth thee not 

wayfarers of the highway 

heed the approaching storm 

in one body

the notables 

sang of good cheer 

that honorable place 

in ye heart 

when sleep fails 

and wakefulness assails 

to mourn thy bitter liberty 

with false despair 

ye broken heart of glass 

will never heal 

some thirst for oppression 

while other seek justice 

justice for all people 

on the same plateau 

Whether you own or rent 

abandonment will linger in your bones 

abandonment, abandonment 

haunts what you called home 

all the homeless people 

all the homeless people 

The time you spent 

abandonment 

the memories linger on 

abandonment, abandonment 

you no longer belong

all the homeless people 

all the homeless people

Thy riches are but loans 

as ye temporary throne 

death intervenes 

between thee and thy plans 

spinning thread throughout the night 

cloak the morn with yonder sight 

attribute no praise my way 

abhor tyrants vain lust 

dissociate from that treachery 

the tongue evades the long tale of bitter love 

a trick to baffle those in doubt 

croaked the crow of downfall 

courting the mistress of sorcery 

here appear red meat, red wine 

to be the bearer of good tidings 

one must salvage good news from mayhem 

rejoice ye of good cheer 

for the suspicious eye of prudence pays well 

the livelong night with moon so bright 

a moment silence out of respect 

for the dead martyrs before us 

With eyes of compassion hold ye hand out 

for the homeless soul 

ye champion of good council 

bows down to thee 

flock forth to the birds of spring 

set free the tomb captive as the stars align

let the splendor of thy light 

embrace the shadows of rain 

this vain world attempts to cheat ye 

while the west opens arms of welcome 

to the eastern sunrise 

lift the veil of gloom from thy clay hand 

wander out among us with good tidings 

one of fine symmetry yet obnoxious to many 

with slayeth frown that is ravishing to behold 

reared in the lap of good fortune 

evading ill-omened fate 

thy quick wits will protect thee 

out of touch with hints and tokens from afar 

the mammon lover lacks the patience of time 

Critics at best 

are of minimal use. 

Sorry to slam, 

but from my take, 

they are useless. 

Art is creation, 

not stagnation.

Good or bad art 

is in the eyes of the beholder 

A bucket of paint thrown against the wall ...  

many would call a mess,

some would call art.

Therein lies the truth.

Art is valued only 

through the eyes of the beholder 

So of what use is a critic?

I create, I don't rate!

Jujube sherbet shall delight thee 

in this thy perishable world 

whoso easeth the burden of the poor 

shall rest on cushions of silk 

under alabaster 

loads of longing, weights of desire 

make weary thy limbs 

no haggle require 

fuel no care for bygone risk 

with steady modulation 

recite thy poem

from days of old 

ye rivet those whom hear tales unfold 

where the raven croaks 

thy incense burns 

cease growing dull of wit 

as a puddle never stirs 

when thy journey of life be told

let hard circumstance and mischance be few 

goodly gifts thy charms shall be 

as chamomiles in gentle breeze

heigh-ho, heigh-ho, 

it's back to earth we go 

The green years 

leave a mark 

on the grey years

Sweet-scented hashish 

plumes of fantasy 

lying wakeful for the morn 

under palms of sultry bay 

in time of yore when none were safe 

from mischief of troubled spirits 

a grand welcome for thy lost cave companion 

vultures and kites hover over thee  

compass thy journey with precaution 

procure thy liberation and roam free 

be always weary of calamity 

thy health agree 

heal thyself into a land of make-believe 

fall not into the trap 

heedless of consequence 

the contentment of solitude 

lies in thy wake

Lost track of how long I've been gone 

like a dream interrupted at dawn 

conversation 'bout the good old days 

hard to change when you're set in your ways 

Locked doors on the houses 

where street lights flicker 

extreme headlines they roar 

don't know if it's safe anymore 

get behind locked doors

So many chores to ignore in this place 

hoarding junk you can never replace 

I said I'm sorry but I didn't know why 

she claimed I stacked the dishes too high 

Late news adds salt to your grief 

with open arms you welcome relief 

a shorter window on this life span 

take the trip while you still can 

Get back on the straight and narrow 

on the plank with a full wheel-barrel 

keep your balance, don't get unhinged 

misinformation gonna make you cringe

King Martin's mind went back in time 

when his subjects were well fed

King Martin's mind froze in time 

when his subjects were content 

Fountains spray red wine 

Niagara Falls into category 

sometimes it's love by any other name 

bingo game down skid row lane 

lavish in fashion and despair 

two months today, a motel in North Bay 

an acorn in the kitchen for young lovers 

bruised knee on the open sea 

escape past the freighters lane 

lighters glowing 

your health dictates all 

lighters glowing, silos overflowing 

beware the seaside port with no name 

mundane insane out of reach 

like Gibraltar a firefighter's will 

tenement overture, stoned out mamma, 

handcuffed to a post 

on a holy mission with no transmission 

you're bound and collared to the tourist dollar 

your urban plan, we don't understand on caribou land 

a confidence builder for the stamp collector

every day there goes Rene, pedal to the mat 

screaming like a banshee, sly as an alley cat 

Eloped in anger with the terror of the house 

we planned a secret ceremony out on the quay 

fate reared it's nasty side 

the salt air filled her lungs 

fog crept in with the night 

a gothic haze and she was gone 

Other times mystified 

wondering what to do 

no matter how many years you've had 

you still don't get the answers 

throw a coin into the fountain 

donation for charity 

remind yourself now and then 

things could be worse 

They found her purse on the breakers 

where the sea lions rest all day 

makeup kit and playing cards with identification 

they filed it away after the search was called off 

now I'm alone at the railroad station 

bowed head with a one-way ticket 

cried until the train rolled in 

Open the door, the blue room beckons 

mystery separation, your sister reckons 

escape from the ruins of a life with you 

go through the motions with a seismic crew 

off limits, young generation education 

runaway teen on the busy runway 

Raquel use to plaster the walls 

from shipping desks to convention halls 

the weekend daughter sells mangos like forbidden fruit 

for precious metals, she combs the beaches on tourist routes 

flipping burgers at Norm's Kitchen greasy spoon 

Tin pan style nothing makes sense 

but that was all past tense 

right now nothing makes sense 

Intangible corridors of your memory 

written down and safely tucked away 

unknown combination to the letterbox 

Over and under the days repeat 

you get complacent moving to the beat 

Southbound in a hazy gloom 

plan to stop somewhere near noon 

escaping from wildfire smoke 

trees burning around us folks 

Canadian success defined by the house & car you buy 

Great when the media and polls and critics get it wrong 

On hold for the end 

while you lose your friends 

resting on a sand dune 

in your own living room 

northern comfort heals some wounds 

a planet in denial 

just our inbred style 

no place you can call home 

it often feels like a train wreck coming 

rolling down the side of the hill 

into the valley below 

where we live on the grid 

Red Deer came from Medicine Hat 

Canmore be done for the Salmon Arm 

North Bay to Thunder Bay 

all trees in between 

paddle from English River in the Swift Current 

There was a wave 

I do declare 

a moonlit night 

of broken glass 

abstract art 

abandoned buildings 

ghastly stares 

portraits of concern 

waterfowl soar 

through morning fog 

a cry for balance 

warnings ignored 

intense cause 

shadows linger 

waves roll in 

relentlessly 

technician crew 

Lawrence Avenue 

pause for the Queen 

and crippled King 

foamy beds 

swollen heads 

I said hello 

to no one there 

frogmen leap 

where tourists meet 

beyond control 

forfeit your soul 

it's pocket change 

gets you deranged 

four walls believing 

the level ceiling 

fire outside 

fire within 

What was once amazing 

Bar bands that don't read the room proper

Once again on cat burglar duty 

Sign off and become the boss 

Your dog looks like a mop 

your wife acts like a cop 

your sanity shines 

as your anatomy declines 

Everyone over sixty on a one way trip to Mars 

tourists overjoyed with their journey to the stars 

Unlike mainstream 

Here comes the kingfisher 

Your dreamscape and wine won't protect you 

Don't let your guard down 

We're forced to sell 

this dirty hotel 

Resist the vampire 

The bitter man was on display 

his head stuck in a pot of clay 

the path through the woods at night 

is an eerie, misty delight 

the air is crisp, mysterious and clean 

the wind tells a tale of what has been 

She lives forever beautiful on the big screen 

she was a queen of the static 

through the attic we crawled 

searching for something left behind 

sometimes there's no one to guide you 

to hide you from things that come back to haunt you 

On behalf of the baby boomer generation 

I'm really sorry for how badly we fucked this planet up 

Texaco station at the corner of Markham & Kingston road 

dirt bomb fights, empty gasoline tank, 

head caught in a vice under the school portable 

Ice cream on my head, Mr. Motto said 

speak softly abroad, navigate through the fog 

we never got the chance to apologize 

people laid to rest, t'was an enchanting quest 

wish on a star, strumming a guitar 

the world will collide with God on your side 

back when the Telegram circulated across the land 

Where human life is cheap 

like litter on the street 

where tourists come to play 

enjoy your stay 

They talk about this 

and they talk about that 

don't know where they're going 

don't know where they're at 

sound off 

sound off 

The walls are bleeding 

along iceberg alley 

the investment is sound 

but you've got to get around 

the mound of bacon on your plate 

Red wine stains and barbecued brains 

return ticket out of the rumble 

one armed bandits vacation in the jungle 

Park your van outside 

wait for the next high tide 

The fish missing a fin over the fireplace

sounds of Dudley whining echoed down the hallway 

he was taunted with bad luck since the baby's diapers disappeared 

there was work to be done in the medicine cabinet 

her face smiled back from the broken mirror 

as she lifted her veil over an intense game of chess 

the sun broke through the clouds as though 

it had been mislaid in the grave 

mingle with delight at the royal fanfare 

I left you on the wagon 

my self worth lagging 

with one-note-Ned in the shed 

the combination was wrong 

remember words to the song

modify our strange ways 

reckless pride on a connection 

rhythm of the bottom end 

tenacious as a morgue 

dead notes hold the dream 

lurking in their den 

avoiding invasive friends 

letting time slip away 

on a cold winter day  

Can't get it off my chest

this blank page unrest 

long sleeves, tea leaves 

stale air of the shelter 

blank stares in the shelter