I stand here silent, looking out at the world, seeing everything but unseen by everyone. Except the man standing across the road, who looks at me with sadness in his eyes and I remember, it wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time I was really something to behold, considered an important provider, an essential service in a way. Now I stand, undistinguished, between a fast food restaurant and a betting shop, nothing different, nothing special. I look like any other, dressed in corporate green, unnoticeable, un-noticed. Except .. except … one small corner, one tiny element marking out what might have been, a small blue flash, a name signifying so much. “M Marx, Tobacconist – pipes, cigars & snuffs”. So, you ask, what has changed, you still sell cigarettes don’t you? Yes, OK but now people only really come in for a pack of fresh mints or an expensive pint of milk.
I remember a young man, fleeing from cossacks on horses, washed up in a city he did not know, speaking a language he did not understand. “Name!” The immigration man had brusquely asked at the docks. Maxwell Liechtenstein, a proud man, drew himself up to his full 5ft 7 height and declared clearly his name was Max. “Marx” the immigration man said writing it in his ledger. “Neyn” Max replied “Meyn nomen iz Max!” and the immigration man wrote Max in his ledger under first name “Next! “ he called to the man behind. By such quirks new identities are created and histories are changed. So Maxwell Liechtenstein, became Max Marx, and opened an emporium to the tobacco arts here, where I am, in Greek Street, a place where names and histories are always flexible enough to suit the circumstances. I remember in those days, Max and his son Abraham, (known as Alfred), supplying to “some of the vilest reptiles in London!” meant that I became sought after, a specialist. Romeo Y Julietta’s, and Bolivars from Cuba, snuffs from around the world, rolling shag from Virginia. In those days, proudly standing between a Nightclub for late night revellers and a more specialist club for those with more specific tastes, my customers ranged from the Jazz club frequenting young hipsters to middle aged men with furtive expressions and hesitant eyes. They all visited, all equal to me, all deserving of the drug of their choice, as long as they had the money of course. So, Max’s great-grandson, the man I now see standing opposite, never having to know the graft and pain of satisfying the needs of the vile reptiles, and only seeing the mediocrity to which I have descended, knowing nothing of the real history, shakes his head sadly at the unedifying corporate logo’s adorning his Great-Grandfathers shop, turns slowly and heads off towards Compton Street with a disdainful sigh.
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