Jerusalem Syndrome - Marc Maron [26]
I started to realize that my relationship with God was tenuous at best, but my relationship with the Philip Morris company and Marlboro cigarettes was very deep, had been for years. I started to believe that was really the core of my spirituality, American spirituality, brand loyalty. It requires an almost religious faith. You don’t realize how strong that faith is or how deep it runs until it is tested.
My faith was tested in a convoluted way. I woke up one morning, coughed my guts out, and screamed, “What am I, an idiot?” and decided that I had to quit smoking. I believed that the only way I could quit smoking would be to go to the Philip Morris plant in Richmond, Virginia, where I would stand before the corporate machinery that went into giving me cancer. I would be moved to horror and shout in a powerful, condemning way, “This is evil! This is bad! I’m done with it.” There was even the outside chance, given my power at that time, that I would actually stop the machinery with my will and lead the workers out of the factory.
I called my friend Jim, who I hadn’t spoken to since the Washington episode the year before and said, “Jimmy, it’s Marc. I need to quit smoking. We need to go to Virginia now.”
Jim said, “Alright, man, swing by.” He was in Boston at that time.
We got on the road and drove nine hours, straight from Boston to Richmond. We pulled into the parking lot of the Philip Morris plant and I have to be honest with you, it’s a beautiful building. I mean really nice.
We walked into 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