Free The Jerusalem Syndrome by Marc Maron Page B

this plush lobby and welcoming area. There was art hanging on the walls. It was very tasteful. There was some modern art, some folk art, and some classic American paintings. There was a little something for everyone. There’s room for everyone under the meaty leaves of the tobacco plant. A pleasant-looking woman wearing a smart dress and glasses sat at a desk. There was a sign on that desk that I saw the minute I walked in that said PLEASE FEEL FREE TO SMOKE .
    Warmth filled me. I was excited to be there. I was home.
    There was a museum connected to the lobby, featuring an exhibit that charted the history of tobacco. There were dioramas showing how the settlers learned how to cultivate tobacco from the Indians and then how the settlers cultivated their own fields and then how the settlers brutally massacred the Indians, apparently as thanks for helping them.
    Then there was a tour of the actual factory. I couldn’t have been more thrilled. Everyone got in golf carts, three to a cart. Each cart had a brand label on the side. There was a Marlboro cart. There was a Benson & Hedges cart. I was on the Merit cart. Who the hell smokes Merits? Why didn’t it just say PUSSY on the side?
    So, there I was in the pussy cart, three cars back from the front, feeling like a neutered little girl. I watched angrily as the pioneering Marlboro cowboys got to view the machinery of cancerous mass production first, but I settled in and began to enjoy the tour.
    We all had to wear headsets because the machinery was so loud. The woman who was giving the tour had to speak into a microphone and the only reason she would stop was to say “This machine to the right makes over a million cigarettes—
hack
,
hack
,
hack
.” It was an awful, rattling cough. To hear that sound amplified in your head if you’re a smoker is oddly bonding.
It’s okay, honey. We understand. Pull over and spit if you need to
.
    The most amazing thing about the tour was that workers were smoking as they operated the machinery. It was beautiful. It looked like Utopia. It’s what socialism was supposed to look like. What’s the boss going to do? Tell them they can’t smoke?
    There’s a doctor’s office right on the premises. That’s health coverage. You have to figure it’s necessary. Some guy’s working the machine and he screams, “Oh, the pain shooting down my arm!” He’s taken to the doctor’s office.
    The doctor says, “You know, this is the third time this month with the angina, Bob. You gotta quit smoking.”
    “What are you kidding? Look where I work.”
    The doctor takes a long drag off his butt and responds,
    “You don’t gotta tell me, Tiger. I’ve been here for seventeen years. I’m just a little luckier than you.”
    After the tour we are led into what I like to call “the temple room” of the Philip Morris plant. It was a small theater where I had the corporate revelation. They had borrowed the illusion-making magic from the Jews in Hollywood to create a film presentation illuminating the mythic power of Philip Morris.
    At that point in my life I understood abstract conspiracy theory and the evil momentum. I had no real concept of how corporations worked. I didn’t know that corporations could own other corporations. That they all linked together to create the malignant mesh of commerce that now envelops the planet. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t strong enough to fight anymore.
    The lights go down and the film begins. An authoritative but friendly voice blasts itself into our heads. It has a celebratory tone to it, like marching music should be playing.
    “Philip Morris makes Marlboro cigarettes and many other brands enjoyed around the world . . .”
    Then there’s a montage of people smoking, all with different haircuts, different skin colors, different clothing—lederhosen, dark glasses; in France, Japan, the Arctic Circle; dancing, hooray, smoking around the globe . . . 
    “Philip Morris also owns Kraft Foods . . .”
    Huh?