Memoirs of a Smoker

Memoirs of a Smoker

Nicotine is a funny thing. One often refuses to admit that she is addicted until that rainy day comes along and the pack stashed away in the drawer along with the now-out-of-fashion lack lipstick, and the blue hair dye, contains no more cigarettes.

It has been raining all day, long and hard so it may as well have been a monsoon out there. Following a night out with friends, where we shared a heated discussion about politics over a bottle of wine and several packs of cigarettes, a dry and persistent cough kept me up all night. Then came this morning's resolution. I quit smoking as of half an hour ago.

I am not addicted after all. Smoking has always been a "social thing" for me. Cigarettes are more fun to chew on when I type then pencils, nothing more. I always laugh at people when they talk about nicotine addiction. There is no such thing as nicotine addiction. It is all in the head.

Wind is whipping the tree branches against my window. Even the thought of getting out of my apartment sends little electric shocks down my spine. It would take a strong soul to get out there, fight the powers of nature, and for what? A pack of lousy cigarettes? Hey, I can do without them! After all, once when I visited my parents two years ago, I had managed not to smoke for two whole days. Well, the few puffs I shared with my cousins in the backyard don't count.

I am holding firm to my new resolution. I brewed a pot of coffee. That should get me through the day, just don't mention the deadlines that are piled up on my desk in shape of the tower of Piza. So far I cleaned my room while waiting for the coffee, cleared out the pile of clothing on the floor. That did it. It was sorting through that indecipherable pile of fabric, folding and putting them away now makes me feel I earned my one and only cigarette for the day. After all a healthy way to quit is to do it gradually.

Failure. Just a few minutes ago I was feeling so much closer to redemption. I went out of my room into the hallway, Followed the whiny Hendrix solo to Dan's room, knocked on his door, opened it, peeked inside, gathered all my wits around me, and:

"Hi, Dan. How is my partner-in-rent today?" O.K. now or never! "Can I bumm a smoke off you?"

There he is, sitting behind my bike that he has been meaning to fix for the past three months. Following the accident he had, my poor baby (the bike of course!) was left in such small pieces scattered across the road that I had to use tweezers to collect the pieces of plexi-glass from what used to be the headlight. I had told him several times that the wreckage was beyond repair, but today the last thing I want is to offend my one and only source of a snugly-wrapped, freshly-lit stick of dry tobacco between my lips.

He is telling me he quit a few days ago -- a moment of true and utter devastation. I can feel the hopes I have been building up inside me crumble into microscopic speckles of nothingness.

He has not only quit (the unsupportive little weasel) but on a whim of generosity, has donated his last pack to a friend.

So I bring down a merciless blow; the final swoosh of the sword on my victim's neck is the words I utter under my breath: "you know, you WILL never get that bike fixed. You should consider buying me a new one."

Ignore the hostile stare. Retun to the relative safety of your room. It can't rain ALL day!

The D.J. from the local radio station is mercilessly announcing emergency telephone numbers for the flood areas. While I sit here (me and a couple of hundred other fellow smokers from all neighbourhoods of Boston, who also must have run out of cigarettes by now and are probably clawing desperately at the wallpaper in wild eyed desperation) I can just see the storm not calming down for at least a few more days. Here we go again:

"We advise you not to leave your houses unless you absolutely HAVE TO. Stay tuned. We will make sure you have a good time."

Yeah, right. What are you going to do Mr. D.J., courier me some cigarettes?

All right. Compose yourself. Don't panic. It is only a flood warning after all. He DID say it would stop raining in a few days. Plus, you are strong. You can make it. What are cigarettes anyways?

I must say, positive thinking worked for a few minutes. But I also switched to another station. I even announced decisively to my iguana, "may be it is the perfect time to quit." Sleepily, without a trace of curiosity, he peeked at me from inside his glass cage, and sighed loudly. Unaffectionate creature.

I exhausted all the phone numbers in my blue phone book, cooked everything I had in the refrigerator while I listened to my favorite CD over and over (I had to justify my odd behaviour to a curious Dan, who came to investigate the source of all the ruckus going on in the kitchen), called that guy, a non-smoker, who blew me off a week ago (and hung up everytime his answering machine picked up. What a nerve! He had gone out in SUCH weather!) Finally, no longer able to avoid the looming deadlines, here I am, sitting in front of my bright, and threateningly blank computer screen, only to find that all I can write is this, and all I can think of is a solid, sleder stick of crushed tobacco leaves, burning under my nose as I type away the words which will start coming to me easily, just like magic.

I must have been sitting here, staring at the blinking screen for the last ten minutes.

All of a sudden desire takes over will. I don my long raincoat, pull on my boots, hurriedly stick in the loose ends of my pajama bottoms, and in a matter of minutes I am standing outside my building, ready to dare the unleashed forces of nature!

My last three dollars stuffed in my pocket, rain dripping down my nose, I stand in front of the Mom and Pop store, long enough to smile at my misery. I take my place in the line along with few other people who look as unwaterproofed as I do. I am already feeling better. I impatiently wait for my turn, and ask:

"Do you have the new Camels?"

The old man behind the counter reaches above and pulls down a pack. Blood is pulsing in my veins. My hand holding the soaked dollar bills is shaking as I try to concentrate on the red digital numbers of the cash register: 2.89.

I hand him the money, reach for the cardboard pack that holds the 20 neatly stacked, full-size cigarettes. It feels familiarly angular in my wet palm. For a minute, I look at its glossy exterior, cherishing its late but ready arrival. While I head for the door with confidence, the store owner's voice announcing my left over change sounds as if it belongs to another era, "eleven cents is your change ma'am. Ma'am?"

I don't look back. Once outside I tap the box, briefly, out of habit, against my wrist, then hastily break the cellophane wrapping, open the top and despite my wet fingers pull out one of the rolls. I light it up, inhale a long drag while resting my back on the store window. Now cars can splash me, wind and rain whip my hair around as hard as they can. I don't care.

I am back at the apartment, with dry clothes on and exactly 19 rolls of filtered tobacco rolls laying next to my keyboard. I am ready to face another day. But mind you, once this pack is finished, I am quitting!

back for more articles

Return to Homepage

THE VIRTUAL STORY