Dotty’s butts…

This story begins around 1951.

I was four years old.

Dotty was out of butts.

Her need was strong and she did not have the quarter for a pack of Pall Malls, nor was there anyone handy to ‘run down the corna’ for her.

Just her, my baby sister, and Yours Truly.

There was completed ironing folded on the board, but the woman who owed her for it was not around.

The need got stronger.

I was used to it.

This had been a big part of my childhood since day one.

Ma needs smokes.

Everyone suffers until she gets them.

My sister was only a year old at the time, so Dotty needed to stay home all day.

She stayed home all day anyway, but having the baby hanging on her arm was cramping her style, cutting seriously into her smoking time.

She started.

To this day I have never seen a performance by any great actress portraying a psychotic housewife/mother that even comes close to what was building up.

Fortunately for me and anyone within earshot, Dotty spotted the ironing lady and waved her hand off to catch her eye.

Whewwww!

She got her change.

But, there still was nobody around to go get the Pall Malls.

Except me.

So began my quest for Dotty’s butts.

There was a corner store about 1/4 mile away on the same street.

We lived in a complex of WWII barracks that had been set up for GIs with kids to gather their funds before getting a real place.

It was a madhouse of barking dogs, screaming babies, filth and stench.

Dotty started priming me.

“Sweetheart.”, with a pleading tone of voice.

Hearing that was always bad news.

She held out the quarter and a nickel.

I was heading down to “Flukes Corner Market” for the first time.

At the age of four, in 1951.

The street was strewn with raving nut jobs, rabid dogs, and people who would take a quarter from a kid in a heartbeat.

Both Dotty and I knew this.

Off I went.

Eyes straight ahead, marching like a little soldier for Ma, I made it to the store.

The crew hanging on the corner and inside the store kept looking around for the adult.

We were part of the neighborhood.

They knew me.

“What is wrong with that woman? Is she crazy?”

These were tough, rude and crude people, from numerous ethnicities and cultures.

They were all astonished.

I got the smokes and a Devil Dog with my nickel.

The guys on the corner kept an eye out for me as I walked home.

Along with the Pall Malls and Devil Dog I had a note from the store owner telling Doris she couldn’t send me there anymore without a note saying that she was incapacitated in some way.

He hoped it would prevent her from doing it at all.

But nothing stopped the need.

Soon, I became the first kid in America to need a note from Mom to buy cigarettes.

Betcha anything.

In 1951 the corner store would have sold Heroin and Hand Guns to a 4 year old without question.

This was a move by the store owner to keep me from getting scooped up or eaten on the street.

But it did not stop Dotty.

I soon had notes.

“Can you let Stevie buy me some Pall Malls. I cannot get out and there is nobody else around. Thank You. Doris Smyth.”

After a while I just took the same note back home and reused it.

No point in stressing Dotty.

Too dangerous.

The ironic part is this.

Today, at age 67, I find myself tending to her at the age of 89.

The addiction has switched from Pall Malls to Marlboro Light 100s.

But, it is still as strong as ever, and the performances to get them have not diminished a bit.

Dotty is demented, but her needs remain.

She cannot believe that her butts now cost $10 per pack.

She sits there counting quarters for hours, thinking each one is pack of butts.

Then I tell her she needs $10 if she wants a pack.

She becomes instantly catatonic, holding her head and moaning, “I don’t have that kinda money.”

Still trying to give me quarters.

But that does not stop her from going through two or more packs per day.

In New Hampshire, the next state over, the same cigarettes are $6 per pack.

Recently I got her five cartons in New Hampshire, explained how much money she saved, and all was well, for a few hours.

She has lost and hidden every single pack of those five cartons and needs me to ‘run down the corna for a few things’.

“Get me a pack a cigarettes while you’re there, OK?”

She is sitting on her bed in tears because she needs butts.

She has quarters.

NO SHIT!