Strange Places: Tobacco International

An account of my time working at T.I.

Words: 1063

Two years ago, when I first moved into my tiny studio apartment less than a block away from The Ohio State student union, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I had spent five years away from education and my memories of how crazy college campuses could be felt distant and foreign, buried under countless weekends time spent with Marines in the heart of Texas. My first week in Columbus, my windows were assaulted by the thrumming bass of the house parties that surrounded my block and the screams and cackles of drunk sorority girls that migrated between them. When I walked to the end of 13th avenue, it was like I had entered a Mecca of intoxicated debauchery.

            The sidewalks were packed with college kids. Besides a few exceptions, they all looked like slightly different iterations of the same person, who shopped at the same stores, and went to the same places to get their hair cut. Chads, Brads, Tanners, and Ryans. Katies, Sarahs, Jessicas, and Emmas. It was a tsunami of culture shock compared to the highly structured life I had lived in Texas just a couple of months earlier. The sameness of everybody was strangely alienating, but I realized that the band of misfits found in the enlisted ranks of the Marine Corps would probably look like an army of clone soldiers to an outsider as well.

            Seeking solace from this foreign Gomorrah, I walked into cramped aisles of Tobacco International. I immediately knew that I would be a regular customer. A name like “Tobacco International” might give you the impression that it was serious establishment that dealt fine cigars to wealthy businessmen in expensive suits. That impression would be wrong. In reality, the store was one of the most casual places I had ever seen. On the weekends, the long line to the cash register would become an extension of the bars that surrounded it. People would chat and laugh with friends and strangers. Kids with crappy fake ID's would be mocked if they were caught by the cashier.

            Every customer carried their items through the line like totems of their personality. Natty Light, White Claws, JUUL Pods, Swisher Sweets, and Barefoot Pink Moscato (in the big bottle). Being the connoisseur I am, I quickly identified the best IPAs they had in stock. Rhinegeist Truth, Elvis Juice, and Zombie Dust. I drank big boy drinks because I'm a grown up. Playing over the stereo was the comforting sound of stoner rock (The Sword). I struck up a conversation with the cashier about his favorite rock bands and I knew I had made a friend.

            Within a couple of weeks, I had started working at my favorite store as a delivery driver. The crash-course training lasted less than an hour. The job was simple. Stock the shelves, answer the phone, and deliver the beer. The best piece of advice I was given was “you'll eventually learn the alleyways”. Boy did I ever. After few days of working, I had learned the streets of my neighborhood better than I ever thought I would. I began to memorize every one-way street and stoplight in the labyrinthine delivery area. The alleyways became shortcuts and detours when the streets were too narrow to stop on. I began to rely less and less on my GPS. I became like Ryan Gosling in Drive as I swiftly delivered all the JUUL pods and White Claw that sorority girls requested.

            Then, football season came. The Ohio State Buckeyes brought crowds to my neighborhood like I had never seen. Like a force of nature, the streets and sidewalks flooded with people and cars. Delivering on a game day felt like driving in the chaotic streets of Bangladesh. Using the alleyways became crucial, one wrong turn and you could be stuck forever behind a column of glacially moving traffic. To add to the chaos, the size of some orders was unbelievable. Several times a night, my tiny Ford Fiesta would be loaded full of beer like a frat guy doing a keg stand. I figured out that I could load up 64 cases of Nasty Light without having my tires scrape the wheel well. Over 1280lbs of beer, loaded 20lbs at a time into every nook and cranny of my car that could fit it. Wheeling out stacks of beer ten cases at a time on a dolly, I would hear the same jokes every night: “Can I have one of those!?”, “That's a LOT of beer!”, and “I wanna go where he's going!” . . .  I never laughed at them once.

            Every delivery was a quest. Often, strange characters would call the store and I would tell the cashier about it. More times than not, they could recognize the person just by my description. “Oh ya, that's just Bob. Whatever you do, don't go inside his house.” - Okay! Each one of these characters lived up to their strange reputation they had gained as Tobacco International regulars. Old misfits who remained near campus, decades since their last day in a class. I soon learned Bob was blind. This became a strange piece of knowledge when on one delivery, he asked me if his house looked like it needed to be painted. His house looked like a wreck, but I told him the paint was holding together just fine. Bob was happy to hear he wouldn’t have to pay a painter this year.

            Like any job, delivering beer can start to feel old. I hope there is a special place in hell for people who don't tip delivery drivers, especially in a pandemic. There are times when drunk kids can get out of control and we kick them out of the store. My sympathy for the homeless who squat outside the store can start to wane. The level of stupidity and naivety of some customers can be astonishing. Driving in a neighborhood of cramped, icy, one-way streets can be stressful. Nevertheless, there is always a laugh to be had not too far away.

            Whether it's Brad ordering 80 cases of Natty Light for his frat party or Becky ordering a big bottle of Pink Moscato and a Puff Bar, I always remember that Tobacco International is unlike any other place in the world.