The Smoking Man

[Storm.3.1.14]

  

   He steps out onto the sidewalk, into the morning sunrise, and lights yet another cigarette. The cloud around his head stinks of butane and ash and burning paper, as do his clothes and hair and beard. He walks along the block towards the rising sun and passes me, smells soap and shaving gel, dryer sheets and spray starch. He catches a whiff of Lacroix Noir cologne and extra dark, French-pressed coffee. 

   And he wants what I have.

  

   On a humid and breezeless summer afternoon, he sits alone at a café table that is baking in the sunlight. His shirt is gummy and damp against his sweaty torso, and the nape of his neck is stinging in the heat. But, smoking is not allowed inside the café. And, as another bead of perspiration drips off the tip of his nose, and the waitress frowns at the ashes on his ketchup-smeared plate, he spots me inside the café: cool and at peace, dry and fresh, enjoying lunch.

   And he wants what I have.

  

   As evening comes to the streets of town, he steps out of the hipster coffeehouse. Smoking is not allowed inside, so he must have his cigarette outdoors, a few steps around the corner and into the alleyway, near the dumpster, beside a rusty coffee can filled with sand and crumpled butts. He’s dressed in mod fashions - black turtleneck under a consignment blazer, knock-off Euro sunglasses - but the faces on the other side of the windows only see the ugliness and embarrassment of huddling in a trashy alley. He sees me sitting at a table, playing backgammon with friends, sipping chai, laughing. Connecting. Participating. Being present.

   And he wants what I have.

  

   It’s another morning at home, alone, and he lights the 8th menthol from the new pack. He inhales, and is worried. The cough was a bit worse after breakfast, and the little stabbing chest pain under his left shoulder blade was there all night. His feet never seem to get warm lately, and the cigarette feels weird in his fingers because the tips don’t “feel right”. They feel numb. His eyes are heavy, brows furrowed with concern. The tip of his tongue pokes at the yellowed and loose tooth in the back of his mouth, and he begins to wonder if maybe - just maybe - something is finally going wrong inside him.

   And he wants what I have.

   Were you not there? At some time in the past, were you not ashamed of smelling of smoke? Of lighting up in public? Of freezing or sweating outside? Of being frowned upon? Of standing in an alley to get your fix? Of worrying, in those quiet moments, alone, inside yourself, that maybe it was too late?

   But, are you not here now? Finally? At last?

   Thousands of smokers want what you have. And, not long ago, you wanted it, too…and you got it. (Even you wanted to be the you you are right now!) So, hold your ground. Stay strong. Protect what you already have. Because this is where you wanted to be, back in the days when you wanted to be someplace better.

   STORM: 3,000 cigarettes not smoked over 137 days