MURIEL’S CIGAR by Carol Creswell

I thought it would be a good joke on Muriel.

My nursing school classmates, back in the ‘50s had been studying or on call all week and that Friday night we needed a good joke.

Confined to our rooms at 10 p.m. while silence reigned, we crept down the quiet polished halls of St. Joseph

nurses’ quarters in Detroit. Bathrobed, curlered, slippered and silently giggling,

 we spied our classmate Muriel’s room straight ahead.

“Have you got the Muriel cigars, Mary Lou?’ Jeanine whispered.  “All of ‘em right here in this pillowcase,” Mary Lou shot back.  

“You ready with the matches, Carol?” I nodded.

“Okay gang, let’s go. Caroline, you knock on the door.’

We stepped into the room, woke Muriel and locked the door.  “Don’t let old Gimpy the hall monitor hear us” whispered Mary Lou. We formed a rag-tag chorus line and lit our stogies.

 Puff puff. Our arms entwined, we we kicked in unison—slippers went flying—and sang the Muriel cigar radio ditty:

“We’re today’s new Muriel, the fine cigar,

“Our luxury lined wrapper is better by far.

“We’re today’s new Muriel, only a dime,

“Why don’tcha pick me up and smoke me sometime?’

Oh the laughter. Lots of inhaling and blowing smoke rings.
After all, they were little cigarillos and not much more than cigarettes and we were 17 and knew everything.

Then came the coughing.  Gasping.  Gagging.

A panicked run for the bathroom ensued.

 We didn’t know enough not to inhale.

Next day---

Muriel, freshly awakened from sleep, laughed herself silly.

She was the ONLY ONE who wasn’t sick on duty that day.