From The Archives: Smoke If You Got 'Em

NOTE: This entry was first posted on my old blog, Upstream of Consciousness, on February 24, 2011.

My dad was a smoker. He wasn't one of those smokers that would just light one cigarette after another, a chain smoker. But he definitely had a habit. As soon as he would get home from work he would haggardly walk to the refrigerator and fetch an ice cold beer. He would sit so slowly into his recliner that I couldn't tell if he was relishing the experience of finally sitting or moving as fast as he could after a day of being a mechanic. His clothes were soiled with grease, oil, and the black residue from tires. He smelled of an engine. Every time I am in a car repair shop I think of my dad. Every time I see a red pack of Winstons I think of my dad.    

Dad smoked Winston's almost exclusively. They rested during the day on the lamp table next to his recliner. Whenever I was home alone, I would sit in that recliner. I would put on one his baseball caps that bore the logo of the tire shop where he worked. I would lean the brown, worn chair back and put my hands behind my head and watch television.     

This is what the world looks like from Dad's perspective, I would say to myself. Yes, even at age 11, I would use the word "perspective" in conversations with myself and the invisible entities in the room willing to listen. I liked looking down at that table and examining what was there: fingernail clippers, a large round amber-colored ashtray, and those Winstons. On the floor was a small waste basket where Dad dumped the ashes and fingernail clippings.      

One day, I was walking around the house alone. I had pretty much done all there was on my to-do list. I had watched "The Price Is Right" and played and enacted the physical comedy of Warner Brothers cartoons with my stuffed animals. I had seen the list of two chores my mom wanted me to accomplish and put it off until later. I had a baseball game later that night but it was still before noon so there was no need to put my uniform on.  Usually for 7:00 games I didn't put the unform on until 2:00. But I did have my cap on. I played for a team sponsored by a place called The Sports Shack, a sporting goods store. It was a powder blue farmer's cap with a white front. A bright read "SS" was emblazoned across the white front. I had just come inside from the retrieving the mail. It was so humid outside so I haggardly walked to the refrigerator and retrieved an ice cold bottle of Pepsi. I walked back into the living room and relished sitting into Dad's recliner. I reclined back and put my hands behind my head.      

I glanced to the lamp table on my left and made eye contact with the pack of Winstons. There was a black butane lighter lying next to it. For many minutes neither me, the cigarettes, or the lighter moved. I reached down and pulled one of the cigarettes out and smelled it.     

Blech.     

I put the filter up to my lips and pretended to puff. It tasted like burnt Styrofoam.      

What is the appeal of this? This is relaxing? This feels good?     

I wondered if perhaps the key to the whole smoking experience lay in actually lighting of it. I looked around to make sure no one was looking. In retrospect this makes no sense because I was home alone, but I mentioned the invisible entities earlier and sometimes they couldn't be trusted. I picked up the lighter and took it and the cigarette to the screened-in back porch. With my hands shaking, I put the cigarette in my mouth and lit the tip. I puffed on it in such a way that I rather imagine it looked as if I were kissing it.      

God, this stinks. 

I worried my hair would catch on fire. I feared I had just instantly contracted lung cancer. I then decided I was the coolest cat ever. I began smirking as I puffed lightly on the Winston, and pointing at the invisible entities as if I had just run into them at a party for cool people who wore tuxedoes all the time. It was like I was Sammy Davis, Jr., only 11 years old and white.     

What's happenin'? How are YOU? Lookin' good, babe. Could I get you some green Kool-Aid? It tastes like scotch.    

Then it happened. I accidently took a huge, long drag off the cigarette and felt the smoke go down my throat and fill my lungs. My esophagus burned with the white hot intensity of a thousand exploding suns. My lungs cried with the anguish one might hear at global catastrophes. My eyes filled with tears and I could barely see. I became dizzy and disoriented. And I could swear there were butterflies speaking to me in Spanish.  

I am going to die.

And then I coughed. It was an all-consuming, full-body cough that started somewhere just below my testicles and rushed forward through my abdomen and out my throat.  Our two cats ran and hid. Our dog started barking. The butterflies switched to Dutch. My mouth filled with more saliva than I thought existed in one human body. After several minutes of hacking, I hoped that perhaps the attack was subsiding. I was wrong. My stomach began to wobble and twist. The saliva returned in gallons and I could feel what used to be breakfast making an unwelcome return. I rushed to the back screen door and sprinted clumsily out to the yard. We had a very small creek running through our back yard. I managed to make it to the bank before depositing breakfast into the creek. 

Never again, God.  Never again.  Save me.  Save me, pluh...sfsmaccccccckkkkkkkkk!     

I lay in the fetal position for a few minutes, panting. Sweat covered my body and the acidic residue of tossed cookies and tar filled my mouth.     

Again I ask, THIS IS RELAXING????     

I weakly crawled the 20 yards between the creek and the house and back into the living room where I lay on the couch quivering. As I felt myself sliding off into the semi-consciousness of a nap I had one last thought.     

Smoking suuuuuuuuuuuuuucks.     

I woke up about an hour later. I was weak but coherent. My mouth felt like garbage smells when you burn it. My head throbbed.  After brushing my teeth, I made my haggardly way to the refrigerator for another ice cold Pepsi. As I reached in to grab the bottle, I made eye contact with the case of Coors beer. Neither of us moved.      

I wonder...     

I thought better of it. If smoking caused me to convulse like something from Invasion of the Body Snatchers, I could only imagine what drinking a beer would do to me. I grabbed the Pepsi, shut the refrigerator door, and turned to go back to the living room. At the doorway, I stopped and turned slowly back to the refrigerator.     

Maybe tomorrow.