Max sat at his desk and steamed for the next 60 seconds while Janice investigated. A man of his status didn’t have time for foolishness such as this.

Janice came back on the intercom. “Mr. Arabia, the caller ID indicates your son made the call.”

Don was probably just calling to make sure that dear old dad had signed the new will. But what was wrong with the connection? Were the phone lines experiencing difficulties today?

“Mr. Arabia, is there anything else I can do for you?” Max grinned at the tone of voice she used, insinuating that she was ready to provide more pleasure if he so desired. Unfortunately, his 62 year old body wouldn’t be ready for another round of sex for a couple more days.

Instead he said, “Yes, Janice, contact my son and direct the call to my desk.”

Don’s office was located in Alabama, near the plantation where most of the tobacco crops were grown. He’d let the boy know that the papers had arrived. The documents would be completed and returned within the hour.

Janice came on the intercom again and said, “Mr. Arabia, Don’s office phone is busy. Should I contact his secretary instead?”

“No, Janice, but thanks anyway. Don will call back if it’s that important.”

The connection with Janice now terminated, Max sat at his desk with his train of thought derailed. What he needed right now, he knew, was a good smoke. Of course, he wasn’t foolish enough to light up one of his own company’s products. Instead, he kept a special box in his desk for his own personal use.

He opened the drawer but his cigar box was empty. That’s strange. He could’ve sworn that one was there yesterday. Well, great. Not only was his libido slowing down, but now his memory was slipping as well. It was the curse of old age he knew.

He looked back at his desktop in frustration. The brown box once again caught his attention so he reached for it. Hopefully it contained something to cheer him up. He opened the package with a pocket knife and tilted it at an angle.

The unmistakable shape of a cigar, wrapped in white paper, slid out of the box. He tossed the wrapping aside and uncovered a handmade cigar. Although there was no brand name sleeve, he realized this was a high-quality item. He knew craftsmanship when he saw it.

Without hesitation, he clipped one end and lit it. He inhaled deeply. The cigar had an unusual flavor, unlike anything he’d tasted before. After a few more puffs, he decided that it might not be the best stogie he’d ever smoked, but it would certainly make the top 5 list.

As he sat there enjoying his cigar, he blew out a smoke ring and looked again at the white paper wrapping. It wasn’t a typical covering, he realized. He picked it up and noticed it was actually a letter – a handwritten note in fact.

He sat the cigar down in his ash tray and flattened the note. This was probably a solicitation to join a cigar-of-the-month club. Or perhaps someone wanted his company to market a new brand of cigars.

He read the note:

Mr. Arabia,

Before he died it was my husband’s last wish that you have this cigar. It’s very special. I hope you’re puffing it as you read this letter.

You see, my husband began smoking your cigarettes shortly after we married. That was almost 30 years ago. I’m sorry to say that he passed away last year of lung cancer at the young age of 51.

I encouraged him to stop for the longest time. And believe me, he wanted to quit in the worst way. But he claimed that he was addicted to your company’s cigarettes. He especially favored your “Arabian Nights of Pleasure” brand. He smoked three packs a day for years.

My husband tried every method he could think of to kick the habit. Nothing seemed to work for him. He once went three days before he gave into temptation. He said that during those three days, he not only thought of smoking during the day but also dreamed about it at night.

Even when he was diagnosed with lung cancer, he couldn’t quit. He suffered horribly during the last 8 months of his life. His breathing became more and more difficult as time went by. Toward the end, he said his lungs were so constricted that it felt like a pair of invisible hands were wrapped around his neck, choking him slowly and mercilessly.

By now, you’re wondering why I’m telling you this. Maybe you’re curious how this pertains to you. Allow me to provide enlightenment.

Before my husband died last year, he had requested, among other things, cremation instead of burial. Earlier this spring, I planted a small garden behind our house and mixed his ashes in with the fertilizer – just as he requested.

At harvest time, I plucked the leafy plants from the garden and hung them out to dry. I carefully prepared them to his specifications. I followed his instructions to the letter.

You may be interested to know that I planted tobacco. I rolled two special cigars, one of which you are undoubtedly smoking right now. I mailed the other to your son in Mobile. Perhaps the two of you are puffing them and reading your letters simultaneously.

I hope you enjoy the smoke. My husband said it would be the last one you ever light. The justice he couldn’t obtain during life, he’ll now have in death. You can no longer hide behind a smoke-screen.

Goodbye Mr. Arabia

And good riddance…