Bum a fag?

It's not something I brag about much up here in the back reaches of Bruce County, but I attended college once upon a time.

First day, a bunch of us were gathered in the smoking area, just outside the back door. Getting acquainted,  exchanging views on first impressions, and this voice booms out, "bum a fag?"

Alarmed glances all round. Bum a fag? Who is this guy?

This was back in the era of extreme political correctness. When I say extreme political correctness, I'm talking about the high water mark of militant feminism. We had a gal in our class who had some bad history in a previous relationship. Came to college and got hooked up with your professional man-hater crowd.

One night we're sitting in somebody's place, beer and pizza all round, a regular college good time, and one of the lads is talking about how he had a job as a prison guard and one night the prisoners had a riot and he got the crap beat out of him and was held hostage.

This was a college course for adults who were trying to improve themselves, so everybody already had a life story or two. Feminist gal had her shitty relationship. Buddy got held hostage. So after he tells that story, she says, "Serves you right. Women are held hostage and beaten up all the time. Now you know what it's like."

There followed a very long and very awkward silence. It went on forever. Averted gazes. No sound except a bit of discordant pizza chewing.

Then, "bum a fag?"

It was Professor Al. He'd been sitting quietly in the corner. Loved to hang with the students. Welshman. We figured out he was asking to borrow a cigarette.

That was Al.  Always borrowing and never giving back. Not the smokes anyway. Went way beyond in other ways. Found out later that he overruled the selection committee and got me into the place in spite of my sketchy resume.

Thanks for that, Al.

Can I borrow a cigarette?