The children in Wicker Park called her Cigarette Mary. In the mornings on their way to school, they would giggle as they watched this little woman walk the streets in a ragged trench coat and old tennis shoes. Cigarette Mary had a round face with cheeks that sagged below her jaw line and her shaggy grey hair fell to her shoulders. Her brown eyes would bug out as if ready to pop from their sockets and she would nervously twitch her toothless mouth from side to side. There was always a bathless odor about her.<\/p>\n
On some mornings, she would stop in her tracks when she heard the children laughing and curse them in Polish, spitting a bullet of saliva in their direction. The kids would run in terror for a short distance until they felt safe from her reach. Cigarette Mary would never stop long enough to watch them run. She had more important matters on her mind.<\/p>\n
During the morning rush hour, she would walk with a slight bounce at the balls of her feet to the corner of Division and Damen and stand at the bus stop, begging for cigarettes and spare change. She would ask politely, her voice meek as a child asking for candy.<\/p>\n
\u201cExcuse me mister,\u201d she would say, her hands wringing together with girlish charm, \u201cbut do you happen to have a spare cigarette, a papierosy?\u201d<\/p>\n
If a man would nod yes and reach into his pocket for the pack, then Cigarette Mary would rock from the balls to the heels of her feet. Her fingertips would tap together in the delight of receiving a gift.<\/p>\n
\u201cDziekuje mister!\u201d she would thank the man and then quickly add, \u201cDo you have 35 cents?\u201d<\/p>\n
The man would pull back his head in disbelief that his kindness was being taken advantage of and let a grunt to show his disdain. She would quickly turn her back on him, wasting no time in search of another prospect. She would never smoke a cigarette until she had begged for at least an hour.<\/p>\n
Even the blast of the sub-zero winds didn\u2019t stop her from coming out in the mornings. In front of the Damen Avenue bus stop, she would stand with her shoulders hunched so that her thin collar would protect her neck. She would dig her hands into her coat pockets and press the tattered garment close to her as the wind lifted the coat from under her. If there weren\u2019t any people standing around, she would pass the time by looking through the window of Las Vilas bakery and stare at the display of wedding cakes. Her head would tilt to one side and her breath would steam the window as she watched a squat Mexican woman work behind the counter. On some mornings, the Mexican woman would come outside and press a warm muffin wrapped in wax paper in Cigarette Mary\u2019s hand. She would bow her head and give thanks while the Mexican woman would shoo her away from the window.
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\nCigarette Mary would stuff the muffin into her coat pocket and walk into the middle of the street during a red light and beg to the drivers as they waited for the light to turn green. With her bare palm she would pound on the window on the driver\u2019s side, her ragged coat sleeves hanging past her wrists, and call out for cigarettes and spare change.<\/p>\n
A driver with a heavy coat over his suit ignored her plea, never hearing her words from behind the closed window, her words choked by the blast of the cold wind. He didn\u2019t dare open his window and let cold air snatch warmth from his car. He looked straight ahead while nervously tapping his hands against the steering wheel, waiting for the light to turn green, waiting for her to go away.<\/p>\n
When the light would turn green, the blaring of horns would scold her to get off the street. Cars would pass dangerously close to her as she crossed the busy intersection to the Division Street bus stop and approach a fresh group of commuters that had gathered waiting for the bus. Her hands wrung rapidly in front of a burly, factory worker wearing a red lumber jacket. He sipped his coffee from a Styrofoam cup as she implored for a cigarette, thirty-five cents. But he walked away from her to stand by the curb, his red face grimacing against the wind as he searched for a bus in the distance.<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease misses, a cigarette, a papierosy please,\u201d she pleaded to a tall middle-aged woman.<\/p>\n
The woman pursed her red lips together in thoughtful hesitation, but reached into her leather bag for her cigarettes.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is the last time I\u2019m giving you a cigarette,\u201d snapped the woman as she pointed a long white filtered cigarette at her.<\/p>\n
Cigarette Mary let the cigarette drop into her palm and bent her head with humility. \u201cI\u2019m sorry misses, I\u2019m so sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n
The woman shook her head while she watched Cigarette Mary walk away. She then pulled a cigarette from the pack that she was still holding and tried to get it lit, but the wind kept snuffing the flame from her lighter. She turned to the man in the red lumber jacket and said, \u201cI hope I don\u2019t become like her when I\u2019m old.\u201d The man squinted his eyes at her as he gave her a quizzical look. The woman studied the lipstick stain on the white filter of her unlit cigarette and mumbled to the sidewalk, \u201cGod, I hope I don\u2019t become like her when I\u2019m old.\u201d<\/p>\n
After an hour of begging for smokes, Cigarette Mary would sit on the cement steps of an apartment building on Damen Avenue. She would seat herself in front of the glass framed door and count the cigarettes that she had collected. It was never more than five. She would lay them on her fleshy palm and lift one of the cigarettes that she wanted to smoke, She would sit with her legs spread apart and smoke that one cigarette with long and vigorous drags. Smoke would stream through her nose and she would take another long drag so that none of the precious tobacco would be wasted. The orange ember would race to the filter, the long ash would curl downward and tumble on her overcoat. The filter would be squeezed tightly between her fingers, and her eyes would be half closed as if in some drugged state. After smoking the cigarette, she would rest her back against the glass framed door and close her eyes.
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\nOn Sunday mornings, Cigarette Mary would go to St. Helen\u2019s church. Her tennis shoes would squeak along the tile floor as she made her way to the front pew. She would wear a babushka of blue and red roses and rosary would dangle from her hand. She would never ask for cigarettes on Sundays, it was her day of rest. When kneeling, her gaze would rest upon the 20-foot Jesus nailed to the cross. Her eyes would outline his outstretched arms and then down to his nailed feet. During the sermon she would glide her raw fingers against the polished wood of the pew while her chin rested upon her chest.<\/p>\n
On one Sunday, a mother and her teenage daughter who sat behind Cigarette, playfully held their noses and smiled at each other because of her odor.<\/p>\n
\u201cHer mother used to take care of her,\u201d whispered the lady to her daughter, \u201cShe used to wash and feed her too. Since her mother died, she smells awful, doesn\u2019t she?\u201d<\/p>\n
The daughter giggled with agreement into her folded hands.<\/p>\n
When the service would finish, Cigarette Mary would stay behind while the others made a quick exit. She would snuggle herself into the corner of the pew and watch the flickering flame of the vigil candle at the altar. In the empty church, she would clasp her hands in prayer. In the empty church, she would yawn a quiet sigh.<\/p>\n
Besides cigarettes and spare change, what does a Cigarette Mary pray for?<\/p>\n
\u00a9 Copyright Wawzenek 2013<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The children in Wicker Park called her Cigarette Mary. In the mornings on their way to school, they would giggle as they watched this little woman walk the streets in a ragged trench coat and old tennis shoes. Cigarette Mary had a round face with cheeks that sagged below her jaw line and her shaggy grey hair fell to her shoulders.<\/p>\n …<\/span><\/p>\n