A Smoke on the Porch

It was blowing outside. I mean the wind was tearing at anything it could get under. Every once in a while I’d see someone struggling outside of my house, fighting for every inch, just trying to get home.  The umbrella just made things worse.  Then a particularly strong gust of wind would come, turning the pin-prick rain drops into icy arrows, knocking aside their umbrella shield to pelt their flesh with nature’s missiles.

As I sat on my porch, another student’s homeward bound journey led him onto my street.  Just as he turned the corner, a rogue swoosh of wind caught his umbrella and bent it inside out, almost tossing it across the road.  It was as if She was displaying Her awesome power by flicking away the student’s defense.  He continued on towards my house, his wool poncho now soaking wet.  Oh yeah, this one is a stoner.  He pulled his knit hat down almost covering his eyes and forged ahead, shielding as much of himself from the onslaught as he could.

I leaned back in my lawn chair under the protection of my large brick porch.  Resting my head against the cool, coarse brick, I lit another Camel. Turkish Gold. It was nice to smoke outside on such a cool day.  The constant thrumming of the rain drowned out any of the unpleasant noises coming from the urban campus of Cincinnati.  No one was driving, only an occasional adventuring returning from an early class that wasn’t cancelled because the tornado warning hadn’t sounded yet, or a grumpy Arby’s employee who wouldn’t have been called off anyways.  It was especially nice because no one would be around to remind me how bad it was to smoke.  Your lungs! Your teeth! 

I didn’t care about these things.  Well, I guess I did, but not enough to stop smoking.  I liked it.  I liked the whole experience.  Reaching for the cold, smooth, steel lighter in my pocket, flipping it open and sparking the thing in one fluid motion on my denims.  The spark was so comforting.  A crackle then it would ignite, blue-orange warmth right there in my hand.  I’d slip the smooth cigarette in between my lips, rolling it to one side and then the other, tasting the tobacco.  Then, raising the flickering fire to my face, I’d pull in a breath of crisp air, igniting the tobacco and embracing the calming sensation that follows.  The smooth cold steel, the flash then flicker, the red amber from the drag, the calm… I don’t think I could leave it.

And then there is the whole death thing.  You’ll get CANCER.  Jesus. Everyone gets cancer.  You won’t live as long. 

I looked back at the stoner, struggling past my porch.  He didn’t even look up at me on my perch.  He just kept on, occasionally wincing as a battalion of ice-cold pellets found his exposed cheek.  His baggy cargo pants dragged, sopping, behind him.  All he could think about was the fat joint waiting for him on his coffee table, next to his prized bong and his grinder. 

I live my life one cigarette to the next.  Everything else in between is a labor. A pain.  Its either bad news or good news soon brought down by bad.  And then I get that warm, long, smooth drag from my tobacco.  I hold it, I exhale, close my eyes, and live for a few seconds with that comforting assurance.  It’ll come every time.

Yeah, maybe I won’t live as long.  But at least I’ll stop smoking sooner.