CHRIS COLE

CHRIS COLE

There was nothing unusual about Chris Cole. He was like every other fourth grader in suburbian Connecticut: a blonde, blue-eyed kid from an upper middle-class family. He played Santa in the annual Christmas pageant, and he had such an unSanta-like physique that his pants fell down in front of everybody. He was an early bloomer, sitting under the big maple tree during recess, holding hands with his girlfriend Joanne Nelson, or zoe as we called her.

The thing that horrified me about Chris Cole, in light of his typical upbringing and Aryan good looks, was when I saw him walk out of the 7-11 and light up a cigarette. How had he gotten it? It wasn't even legal for fourth graders to buy cigarettes. I thought about calling his mother and telling her. It would serve Chris right if he were grounded for life. I was looking out for his own best interests. But I remembered that when his mother had baked a cake for our class party, the whole thing smelled and tasted like cigarettes, so I knew she was a co-conspirator in this disgusting habit.

I followed the decline of Chris Cole through freshman year. That's when our lives took completely different paths. He was one of the Burnouts, spending every free study hall smoking (I can only hope it was just cigarettes) out in the Pines. And I was one of the Brains. Maybe that's when it occurred to me that my concern over a virtual stranger's smoking habits was bordering on obsessive.

I saw Chris at a Christmas party nearly 15 years later. If I pencilled in his hairline, I might have recognized him. He still lived in Cheshire, Connecticut, and was married to someone very much like Zoe Nelson. Their oldest child, one of two blonde, blue-eyed boys, had just played Santa in the annual fourth grade Christmas pageant. Chris was an insurance salesman: auto, home, life. He had quit smoking no fewer than 10 times. I asked.

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