"Smokers" Submission #10

Mom had smoked pretty heavily for as long as I could remember. Three or four packs a day. She would buy cartons of cigarettes at a time. We had a kitchen drawer designated for her stash.

I can remember playing with all of those packs of cigarettes on our kitchen floor... building little structures with them and then bombing them from afar with the leftover packs. Or setting them up in bowling pin formation and then in shuffle-board fashion, hurling a pack to see how many I could knock over. Taught myself how to keep a bowling score this way.

Looking back... that sure was an odd plaything for a child. But then again... much of my childhood could be accurately labeled as "odd."

She smoked Winston 100's. Gold and red pack.

"Winston taste good like a cigarette should" the advertising jingle would joyfully proclaim. So, at the age of 11, I decided to see if they were right.

This decision to take my first puff was the culmination of years of curiosity about smoking. Many, if not most of the adults around me smoked. Mom and dad smoked. Most of their friends smoked. My two oldest brothers smoked. Society, in general, seemed to encourage the habit.

With a drawer full, surely mom wouldn't miss a single pack. So I tucked a pack into my pants pocket and headed out the back door.

Not wanting to experience this "coming of age" event alone, I tracked down the one friend I knew would partake in the great smoking experiment with me, Sam Smiley. We knew better than to ask his brother, Rod, the "good son."

Hidden safely in the recesses of our backyard shed, Sam and I puffed, sputtered and coughed our way through several cigarettes. We did our best to maintain our new found "coolness" but in reality, our first experience inhaling the tar and nicotine made us sick. But not sick enough to keep us from doing it again and again and again.

We smoked in my basement, under the railroad bridge, in cornfields, at the elementary school yard and anywhere else where we thought we could get away with it. If mom didn't miss that first pack I took from her cigarette drawer, she wouldn't miss a second and a third and a fourth pack.

One day, Sam and I were walking over the viaduct on Highway 17, above the railroad tracks that ran east and west through town, when we decided to duck under the bridge and have a smoke.

With style and grace, we took long hits and practiced blowing smoke rings. Sam, the kid with bizarre talents, quickly mastered the art of smoke rings and then graduated to blowing two rings at a time out of both sides of his mouth. No joke! He had the ability to seal his lips in the middle while holding small openings on either side of his mouth as he looked like he was grinning, awkwardly. He'd then tap quickly on both cheeks at the same time as small smoke rings shot out. I tried and tried to do it with no success. I was unable and envious.

We both sat on cement blocks as I had finished my cigarette and stomped it out in the dirt. Meanwhile, Sam was still in the process of sucking his last few lungs full of smoke.

With no time to react, we both froze as somebody strode quickly down the hill and interrupted our little party. It was a cop. One of Madrid's finest. He made up half of the mighty Madrid police force.

Luckily for me, my cigarette had been extinguished. But Sam... well, the best he could do was stick the cigarette under his right thigh as he innocently folded his hands in his lap. Yes... his cigarette was still lit.

The cop figured we were up to no good. No shock there.

In a monotone voice, not unlike Sergeant Joe Friday from the old "Dragnet" TV show, he questioned us brilliantly as he probed about our unseemly and likely, illegal activity. He skillfully inquired as to why we were there and what we were doing. We, with equal brilliance, responded with "I dunno" and "Nuthin'."

And... Sam's cigarette continued to smolder under his right thigh with his blue denim jeans serving as the only barrier protecting his tender skin.

Frustrated by the fact that he didn't actually catch us committing a crime and no doubt craving a malt from Farley's Dairy Sweet, the officer gave us a final stern look as he turned to go. Unfortunately, at that exact moment, Sam's pain tolerance exceeded it's maximum capacity as the cigarette's ember burned through the pants and began working on the bare skin of his leg.

"YEOW!!!" Sam screamed as he jumped up, slapping the back of his leg, while he awkwardly ran in place.

"Now.... we are busted for sure!" I thought. But much to my surprise, the bored cop told us to go home and tell our parents what we were caught doing. Yeah right!

After assuring him that we'd do just that, he left.... and we laughed.

This smoking thing turned out not to be just a brief phase nor did I limit my smoking to conventional tobacco. This had marked only the beginning and as the habit took hold, the more drastic measures I took to support my craving...