There were times when she looked in my direction and really wondered what had happened to me. Still, it was her idea, after all. She had proffered, in an almost beige-like, chameleon, sort of way, the outrageous idea of the two of us quitting. I agreed at once, however. And so it seemed incongruent to me that she would be sitting there the next day, puffing away on her cigarette.
“I thought we had a deal,” I said.
“Well...”
“You said, ‘If you quit, I’ll quit, too.’ Didn’t you say that to me?”
“Well...”
“We had a deal here. What are you doing smoking a cigarette now?”
“You aren’t kidding me,” she said, suddenly looking very angry. “You’re still smoking.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Are you going to stand there and tell me you haven’t had a cigarette since yesterday afternoon?”
“Yup.”
“Yeah, right. Who do you think you’re kidding?”
She had seriously miscalculated my obstinacy - yet again. I have always considered myself to be a firm person. At times I have imagined myself as steely and resolute, you might even say, principled. She, however, saw me only as a pigheaded dolt, a rough plank propped up in the corner of a parlor full of fine furniture. But we had agreed, after all. When she suggested that we quit smoking, I reached for my pack of cigarettes immediately and threw it into the wastepaper basket. “You got it,” I said.
She smiled and took a long drag on her cigarette, blowing a ring of smoke in my direction. “Real cute,” she said.
The days and weeks went by. And she used to lie on the sofa, light a cigarette and listen to her “Stop Smoking” audio tape. “I don’t think any of this is sinking into you, is it?” I said to her, pointing at the tape player.
“But the tape is so relaxing.”
There was some truth in what she said. The tape had quiet and soothing music, and it featured a narrator who spoke softly like a mother lulling her child to sleep. “Am I missing something here?” I said. “Isn’t that tape supposed to help you quit smoking?”
There was some truth in what she said. The tape had quiet and soothing music, and it featured a narrator who spoke softly like a mother lulling her child to sleep. “Am I missing something here?” I said. “Isn’t that tape supposed to help you quit smoking?”
“Well...”
“What’s the name of that tape, Non Sequiturs in Smoke? You play the tape and light up a cigarette. Good heavens! What’s up with that?”
The weeks and months went by, slowly tarnishing into years. She continued to play her tape and to smoke. And I kept reminding her of our “deal.” She could not believe that anyone could just throw a pack of cigarettes into the trash and never smoke again. That wasn’t normal. “It’s hard to quit smoking,” she said, pleading for sympathy, as if I would understand. But, it wasn’t hard for me. Nothing is hard for a pigheaded man.
Then, too, throughout those years, Elmer kept puffing cigar smoke into my face at work. He offered me cigar after cigar. Of course, I always turned him down. And then one day Izzy came around handing out cigars when his baby was born. I shook his hand, but I declined his cigar. “My old lady had the kid,” he said. “You’re gonna take the cigar.” I shrugged my shoulders, took his cigar and threw it up on my tool box. I forgot about it.
“What’s the name of that tape, Non Sequiturs in Smoke? You play the tape and light up a cigarette. Good heavens! What’s up with that?”
The weeks and months went by, slowly tarnishing into years. She continued to play her tape and to smoke. And I kept reminding her of our “deal.” She could not believe that anyone could just throw a pack of cigarettes into the trash and never smoke again. That wasn’t normal. “It’s hard to quit smoking,” she said, pleading for sympathy, as if I would understand. But, it wasn’t hard for me. Nothing is hard for a pigheaded man.
Then, too, throughout those years, Elmer kept puffing cigar smoke into my face at work. He offered me cigar after cigar. Of course, I always turned him down. And then one day Izzy came around handing out cigars when his baby was born. I shook his hand, but I declined his cigar. “My old lady had the kid,” he said. “You’re gonna take the cigar.” I shrugged my shoulders, took his cigar and threw it up on my tool box. I forgot about it.
Elmer asked me almost every day when I was going to smoke Izzy’s cigar. “I don’t smoke,” I told him. But after about six months, he unwrapped the tinder-dry cigar, dipped it in a cup of water, and laid it on the workbench. He waited about ten minutes and then lit the cigar with his Zippo lighter. He handed it to me. “It’s lit,” he said. “Smoke the damned thing.”
Well, I figured I’d never shut him up. So I smoked Izzy’s cigar. And let me tell you now, there was never anything as glorious as that cheap cigar! I couldn’t believe how marvelous it tasted. I stopped on my way home from work and bought a 5-pack of cigars. The next day I smoked all five of those cigars at work. Elmer nodded with approval. That afternoon I bought two 5-packs, and smoked all ten cigars the next day at work. Elmer looked at me with wonder. And then that same day, I bought a whole box of cigars and started down that box-a-week cigar road for the next five years. Elmer glared at me with astonishment. He had never met a pigheaded man before.
Then one day she said to me, “If you quit, I’ll quit too.” I reached for the cluster of cigars in my pocket and threw it into the trash. “You got it,” I said. She lit a cigarette and smiled. “Real cute,” she said, as the wisp of smoke curled into her squinting eye.
Well, I figured I’d never shut him up. So I smoked Izzy’s cigar. And let me tell you now, there was never anything as glorious as that cheap cigar! I couldn’t believe how marvelous it tasted. I stopped on my way home from work and bought a 5-pack of cigars. The next day I smoked all five of those cigars at work. Elmer nodded with approval. That afternoon I bought two 5-packs, and smoked all ten cigars the next day at work. Elmer looked at me with wonder. And then that same day, I bought a whole box of cigars and started down that box-a-week cigar road for the next five years. Elmer glared at me with astonishment. He had never met a pigheaded man before.
Then one day she said to me, “If you quit, I’ll quit too.” I reached for the cluster of cigars in my pocket and threw it into the trash. “You got it,” I said. She lit a cigarette and smiled. “Real cute,” she said, as the wisp of smoke curled into her squinting eye.
Ah, but then she had forgotten once again that I was a pigheaded man.
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