Thursday, November 8, 2007

Something's on Fire! (Cigar Smoke 11-8-07)

I was in Dino Computer the other day and I’m standing there waiting for my Mac to be fixed and the tech guy behind the counter sniffs a couple of times and says to his cohort, “I think something is on fire.”

They both look around for awhile and then they start inching towards me and they get right next to me and one of the guys says to me, “It’s you.” I ask, “I’m on fire?” The guy nods. I say, “I know I’m hot, but probably not that hot.”

Yeah, you guessed it. They were smelling my smoky self. I don’t smoke that much, but when I do it’s often in my Durango. I don’t smoke cigarettes, but I have indulged in cigar smoking since I was about 15. More on that later. Now, I only smoke in my car or in my yard or in deserted weird places where nobody else goes.

To be fair, I know I smell like smoke a lot of the time, mostly when I’m awake. And my car smells pretty bad. Even I have to say that it can be a little unpleasant, say on a 97-degree day, and there are two years of smoke build-up embedded in the seat covers and cigar butts in the ashtray and little wet specks of spit-out tobacco stuck on the dash, and yuck, even I’m getting sick.

Sometimes my dog, Hadley, coughs when we get in the car to go for his morning walk. And then I light up a new cigar and he shies away from me. And I say, “Wanna go to the pound? I’m sure you’ll find a nice home.” Then he gets it together and sticks his head out the window looking for some pissy squirrel he can bark at.

Yes, society has conspired against me and they think I’m pretty mentally challenged to still smoke, but I tell them I’m like Bill Clinton — I don’t inhale. That’s right, I don’t inhale. Really. I just puff. I’m a puffer. Not a dragger. And society, of course, being considerate, tells me to puff on this. And preferably far away from them. I have no problem with that. I never did like to smoke around sissies anyway.

As I alluded to earlier, I started smoking cigars at the unripe old age of 15. I was in the Boy Scouts. Troop 588. Westchester. 1956. Yes, it’s been 50 years since I started smoking stogies. Half a century and I’m still here. Confounding cancer specialists. Irritating non-smokers and Airedales. It’s a rush.

My memory is a little hazy, kind of like my car interior, but I think the first time I had a RoiTan was on a camp-out up at Saugus. I was with my good ole buddy, Jim Ludwig, a Connie-driving fool, and patrol leader Don Yungkans, who decked Bob Williams one day when Bob got out of line. Literally out of line. Bob was supposed to be in a line. He wasn’t. One punch. Don nailed that sucker. I can still see it.

But most of all I remember my scout leader, John Rose. I think he was smoking his cheapie RoiTan and I asked him for one, and damned if he didn’t give it to me. That’s why we all loved that guy. He might have thought I was going to choke on it and cough and spit and sputter, but he was wrong. I liked it. Right from the first puff. And right then and there, 50 years ago, I made the decision not to inhale. I’m not sure why I did. I know it wasn’t because I was overly bright. I just said that’s the way it would be, and it has been. By the way, when I had my first cup of coffee, I decided to always have it black because I didn’t want to have to worry about finding cream and sugar. Still have it black. And the first time I had sex, I decided to some day have it with another person.

For some reason, I have always loved the smell of smoke. I remember when I was 20 and I was going off to Humboldt State College in Northern California. I drove my old Chevy coupe with the chrome gearshift knob up Highway 101 and when I got to some high place overlooking the Humboldt Valley I was just awestruck. Back in those days, there were no restrictions on lumber mills and the whole valley was filled with giant teepee-like structures and the smoke was coming out of all of them and the smell of smoke was just so perfect. God, did that smell good. It almost makes me cry. Ah, if I only had emotions.

I was going to tell you about smoking and my kids. But I’m not going to. Some commie-politician would figure out a way to throw me in the slammer. Even now. I will tell you this. Both of my kids, Mike and Casey, do not smoke. They’re both healthier and smarter than I am. And yes, I offered them a few cigars over the years but they’ve never taken me up on it. Hey, I still love ’em. Nobody’s perfect.

A couple of weekends ago I drove to Tucson for a Scrabble tournament. I could have flown but I love getting on the road and listening to some high-level country music (“Remember, the men buy the drinks, but the girls call the shots.” Yeehah.) I love that shit. But more than that, I just love to drive and chain smoke stogies. Just driving for hours and puffing and singing and opening that driver’s side window just an inch or so, and having the smoke shoot-ass out the window. Just sucks it out. Never open two windows at once. You lose all the sucking action. The smoke will have an identity crisis. It won’t know where to go. One window. One inch. Maximum suck.

I stopped at a Denny’s in Guacamole Springs or someplace, and I sat down at the counter and a waitress named Lori came over. Lori with an i. She said, “Hi, darlin.” I said, “My name is Jimi, with an i, and ‘Hi darlin’ back at you.” And then she said, “Boy, you sure smell good.”

You talk about being on fire.