Thank You for Smoking

makeup chairs.

They were taken onstage to be miked. Nick found himself being ushered to a chair next to another guest, a bald teenage kid. Who, Nick wondered, was he?

'Hello,' Nick said.

'Hello,' said the kid, friendly enough.

Now why would a bald teenage kid — bald, with no eyebrows — be on this particular panel? A technician wearing large earphones called out, 'One minute!' Nick waved over a supervising producer, who rushed over to inform him that it was too late to go to the bathroom. A lot of first-timers were stricken with nervous bladders at the last minute and ended up sitting through the entire hour in damp underwear.

'I, uh,' Nick said. 'I'm fine.' He whispered, 'Who's the kid?'

'Robin Williger,' the producer whispered back.

'Why is he on?'

'He's got cancer.'

'Tell Oprah I need to speak to her right now.'

'Too late.'

Nick pinched the little alligator clip on his lapel mike and undamped it from his Hermes necktie, the orange one with the giraffe motif. 'Then she's doing this show without me.'

The producer bolted. Oprah came hurrying, her admirable bosom jiggling under blue silk.

'What's the problem?'

Nick said, 'I don't like surprises.'

'He was a last-minute substitution.'

'For who? Anne Frank? Well, he can substitute for me.'

'Nick,' she hissed, 'you know we can't do the show without you!'

'Yes, I do.'

'Fifteen seconds!' a technician shouted.

'What do you want me to do? Kick him off the set?'

'Not my problem.'

But she did nothing. Nick's instinct told him to get out of there. Quick! But there she was, this black woman, commanding him to sit there and finish his supper and he couldn't move.

She wheeled around with her wireless hand mike and bared her gleaming pearlies at the camera with the little red light.

Get up! Flee!

Too late! They were live! Maybe he could just slip quietly away.

Headline: cigarette flack flees cancer kid.

To complete the humiliation, he would trip on an electrical cable and bring a klieg light crashing down. The audience would laugh as he lay there, dazed on the studio floor. They would laugh across America, all the housewives hooting, pointing at him. BR would not laugh.

Cancer Kid would not laugh. No, only the merest, thinnest smile of triumph would play over his lips, tinged with sadness at the tragedy that was so personally his. Nick felt the hot trickle of sweat above his hairline, little beads of molten lava, nothing between them and his eyebrows but smooth, tanning-saloned forehead. And didn't that always look good on TV, having to mop your forehead while you sat next to some dying National Merit Scholar — surely he was one, oh yes, surely he was the president of the student council and debating society and ran the soup kitchen in his spare time when he wasn't tutoring young inner-city kids. His only imperfection had been to smoke that one cigarette — yes, just one, that was all, one; proof that nicotine can be fatal in even minute doses — and it had been forced on him, against his better instincts, by the tobacco companies, and by those… fucking… saxophone-playing camels with the phallic noses; and by him, by Nick Naylor, senior vice president for communications, Academy of Tobacco Studies, Merchant of Death.

And he could not move. She had epoxied him to his seat. The perfidious bitch had outmaneuvered him!

In such moments — not that he had experienced this extreme before — he imagined himself at the controls of a plane. Pilots always managed to remain so calm, even when all their engines were on fire and the landing gear was stuck and the Arabic-looking passenger in 17B had just pulled the pin on his grenade.

He sucked in a lungful of air and let it out slowly, slowly, slowly. That's it. Breathing exercise. He remembered it from Lamaze classes. Still, his heart was going kaboom-kaboom ka-boom in his chest. Would the necktie microphone pick that up? How suave that would be, having his thumping heartbeat broadcast into everyone's living room.

Maybe he should offer some small sign of comradeship to Cancer Kid. He needed an opening line. So, how long do they give you? Oprah was doing her introduction.

'Last year, RJR Nabisco, the company that makes Camel cigarettes, launched a new seventy-five-million- dollar ad campaign. The star of the campaign is Old Joe, a camel. But this is no ordinary ruminant quadruped.' Shots of Old Joe were shown: playing the sax, playing bass, hanging out at the beach, checking out the chicks, being cool, the old coffin nail hanging jauntily from his mouth, or foreskin, depending on your phallic suggestibility. 'He's become very popular, especially among children. According to a recent poll, over ninety percent of six-year olds… six-year-olds, not only recognized Old Joe, but knew what he stood for. He is almost as well-known as Mickey Mouse.

'Before Old Joe began showing up on billboards and magazine pages everywhere, Camel's share of the illegal children's cigarette market was less than one percent. It is now… thirty-two percent— thirty-two point eight percent, to be precise. That amounts to four hundred seventy-six million dollars a year in revenues.

'The surgeon general of the United States has called on RJR to withdraw this ad campaign. Even Advertising Age, the top advertising industry trade magazine, has come out against the Old Joe campaign. But the company refuses to withdraw them.

'Then last Friday she called for a total ban on advertising for cigarettes. Magazines, billboards, everything. This is bound to be controversial. A lot of money is at stake.

'I want you to meet Sue Maclean, head of the National Organization of Mothers Against Smoking. Sue began organizing NOMAS after her daughter fell asleep in bed while smoking and burned down her dormitory at college. Fortunately, no one was hurt. Sue tells me that her daughter quit smoking right after that.'

Laughter in the studio. Heartwarming.

'Her daughter is now a mother herself, and a very active member of NOMAS.'

The audience cooed.

Nick, synapses overheating, tried to coordinate his facial features into an appropriate expression, something between waiting for a bus that was very late and being lowered headfirst into a tank full of electric eels.

'Frances Gyverson is executive director of the National Teachers' Association in Washington. She is in charge of the NTA's health issues program, which instructs teachers in how to relay the dangers of smoking to their students.

'Ron Goode is deputy director of the Office of Substance Abuse Prevention at the Department of Health and Human Services in Washington, D.C. OSAP is the command center in the nation's war against cigarettes, so that would make you, what, Ron, a colonel?'

'Just a foot-soldier, Oprah.'

Where, Nick wondered, was this gorgeous self-effacement coming from? Goode was one of the more pompous, self-important assholes in the entire federal government.

Oprah smiled. A warm and fuzzy murmur went through the studio audience. He has so much power, and yet look at him, he's so humble!

She turned toward Cancer Kid.

'Robin Williger is a high school senior from Racine, Wisconsin. He likes studying history and he is on the swimming team.' Momentarily, Nick's heart leapt. Perhaps it had all been a dream. Perhaps he didn't have cancer. Weren't swimmers always shaving their heads for speed? And didn't the weird ones also shave their eyebrows?

'He was looking forward to continuing his education at college. But then something happened. Recently, Robin was diagnosed with cancer, a very tough kind of cancer. He is currently undergoing chemotherapy treatment. We wish him all the luck in the world.' The audience and other guests burst into applause. Nick joined in,