I started smoking in the seventh grade in what can be marked as the lamest attempt a youthful rebellion ever. I only ever had one pack, which I stole from my classmate's mom's purse. I cleverly hid them in a pack of cards, and every week I'd take an uncharacteristic walk around the neighborhood and smoke one in the park. "Smoking" them might even be too strong a word. I doubt I even inhaled since certain authority figures in the government told me smoking was OK if I didn't inhale (note: the same authority figure told me oral sex wasn't really sex, not that it helped me at the time).
My fun ended when my parents found my stash. What started out as a family game of Go Fish, ended in my dad opening the card box and dealing out my last seven Virginia Slims. I think he was less disappointed in my smoking than he was in my choice of brand.
After being forced to quit, I needed something to satisfy my addiction. And since I wasn't old enough to buy nicotine gum I was forced to steal it. I never actually got the guts to chew the gum, but the stealing was enough to satisfy my addiction to being a bad ass.
So I passed through the next nine years without tobacco. I started high school, graduated, went to college, and was about to graduate with my lungs intact. A month ago, maybe out of a sense of nostalgia, I decided to buy a pack.
For those of you who say smoking is not cool, you don't know what you're talking about. Smoking may be unhealthy, crude and smelly, but it clearly is cool. You're walking around breathing fire in a nonchalant way. When you have a cigarette, every step you take is a trip down awesome street.
I noticed an odd phenomenon. People who are normally clean and happen to be smokers will just throw their cigarette butts right on the ground. I guess the rationale is that we have to put up with so much crap just trying to find a place where we can smoke that when we're done, we'll do whatever the hell we want with the remains.
All this was great, but I wasn't a real smoker; just a casual one. I was planning on stopping after that last cigarette, but even as I was smoking it, I found an unopened pack on the ground. I took this as a sign from God to continue my experiment.
With my second pack a whole new world opened up to me. It was no longer just casual smoking; I was part of a secret society. We assembled under the battle cry of "cough." Our secret headquarters was 10 feet away from any government building. I started asking other smokers for a light, even if I had matches, just to give us a chance to bond.
There was another change that came with my second pack. I started to feel different. I wouldn't say that I'm addicted. It's more like I just want cigarettes all the time, and when I don't have one they are all I can think about. I've decided it's time to quit.
As I write this, I'm finishing my last cigarette. I can already feel myself becoming less alert and creative. Colors seem duller, and I don't care about the path of modern art anymore. I'm reminded of the end of "Flowers for Algernon," but only because I seem to recall Charlie having access to cigarettes.
Lucky bastard.
Epilogue: Just before publication, my friend asked me to go buy him some Camel Lights. The store was having a two for one sale. I'll try to quit again next week.
John's column runs biweekly on Thursdays. He can be reached at mcnamee@cavalierdaily.com.
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