Cowboy Killers

Last night, I had the pleasure of attempting to sell to the Marlboro Man himself.

You may be reading this, thinking the Marlboro Man is dead. Sure, if you want to weigh yourself down with actual facts you have the upper hand in this debate. Darrell Winfield is dead and has been since 2015.

However, for those of us versed in the immortal words of Babe Ruth in The Sandlot, we know that “legends never die.”

So, when I walked into Darrell’s modular home in rural North Carolina last night, I knew I was sitting next to the Marlboro Man himself.

The immediate embrace of cigarette smoke lingering throughout the house gave it the cozy feel of an overflowing ashtray.

I sat down on his soft, fabric couch enriched by the perfume of years of indoor smoking pleasure and felt my poisonous laundry detergent immediately surrender to the power of those classic Marlboro Reds.

Darrell reached for his pack of Reds from his one-pocket t-shirt and fired-up.

One-pocket t-shirts.

I didn’t realize these were still in circulation. I wondered if Darrell had them special ordered.

Maybe, Marlboro sold their sales data to struggling clothing manufacturers of these forgotten cotton gems who then targeted smokers. The sale was inevitable. Where else could you keep a constant supply of cigarettes readily accessible? It’s just not acceptable to roll them in your sleeve like a greaser anymore.

“I don’t know if you smoke,” said Darrell, “but if you do, I say smoke ’em if you got ‘em.”

A classic line for a classic man. You really are the Marlboro Man, Darrell.

We then spoke at length.

Actually, Darrell spoke. When in the presence of a legend, you want to soak in his cigarette smoke and his worldly knowledge equally.

Shockingly, the Marlboro man lived alone. The bachelor clearly craved some leisurely conversation with someone other than his dog after working all day. And, since it was equally clear to me I was lucky enough to be in the presence of a legend, who would in no way be making a purchase tonight (or ever), I eagerly listened to all his meandering thoughts, not at all worried about the 75-minute drive back to my resting place for the night.

How could I even think of being impatient as, cigarette after chain-smoking cigarette, we covered essential topics:

• Building remote control cars, planes, and helicopters
• The proper way to stream TV over the internet
• The lack of a need for 100MPS internet speed when 35MPS would suffice
• The excellence of Play-station’s Call of Duty due to the sounds of shooting someone in the head
• Jennifer Aniston’s stripper scenes in We’re The Millers
• How to properly execute your duty as a dirt inspector for the DOT (with visual aids)
• A dog show exhibiting all of the tricks his well-trained dog could perform
• The taste-testing of authentic German chocolate given to him by his neighbor
• Being the captain of the first-place billiards team in the Wednesday night league

There were more topics. I am sure of it, but the magical ambience of a smoke-filled room shared with a legend was more than my tiny brain could handle. It was impossible to retain all of this knowledge. Only the finest of information would last.

As Darrell took a break from smoking and talking to engage in his nightly dose of Blue Bunny Cookies N’ Cream ice cream, we wrapped-up the finer details of the job never to be sold.

I pet his dog Lady once more before tearing myself away from this mystical evening and drove away in a state of wonder:  Can dogs get lung cancer?