I remember Lee Marvin in Point Blank, flicking open the cylinder of his .38 and letting six gorgeous brass shell casings slide into the ashtray. And Steve McQueen in The Getaway, holding a pump shotgun upside down and calmly reloading in the midst of a shooting spree. Man, I wanted to be Steve McQueen. He could drive, too. These men were trendsetters, the arbiters of fashion. They handled guns the way my pals and I handled cigarettes, aware that every movement had a meaning and the slightest slip-up could be deadly. I never had McQueen’s guts. My short career as a smoker ended in a crowded restroom at a high-school dance when my best friend suavely tapped out a cigarette and lit the wrong end. Jesus, they killed him. It was like watching the Marlboro Man pee his pants.