The Fellowship of the Smoke Ring

I was nineteen when I started buying cigarettes by the pack and smoke on a regular basis, before that I smoked intermittently since I was fourteen. Contrary to popular belief I was not sucked into the habit by sinister subliminal print ads nor by juvenile peer pressure. Smoking requires deliberate decisions. Nobody gets hooked on their first cigarette. I bet most smokers didn't enjoy their first cigarette. It probably made them cough and retch followed by clammy dizziness and nausea. A smoker only got hooked because he stuck long enough, in spite of these initial drawbacks, to get addicted. That, I submit, is a deliberate act. Personally, I got into smoking because I enjoyed it. After smoking a few sticks of cigarette, the initiate must make a choice-- which requires an even more purposeful deliberation: menthol or regular? And lastly, the smoker decides on a brand. Finding a brand is like choosing a gang or a second religion, it defines you.

Me? I was born to be a Marlboro Man.

In the old days, Marlboro comes only in one unadulterated dose:-- full strength. There were as yet no anemic Lights, sissy Mediums nor heretical Greens-- which, I think, only gave false hopes to smokers who fear death from smoking by being led to believe that they are smoking less lethal versions of the poison. I preferred the full on Reds particularly the more lethal Military or Reynold's. They were so intense my forefinger and middle finger would turn yellow orange from smoke exposure; and Marlboro comes only in two sizes: “Filter Kings”-- the regular sized cigarettes and in “student” size. The "shorties" was pure genius. Marlboro wouldn’t admit it but it was really meant for teenagers. Shorties comes in flip top packs which are no more than two inches in an almost square configuration that could easily be hidden by tucking it in your socks or rolling it in your T-shirt sleeve.

Back in the days of yore, one could light up anywhere— like you could be a doctor examining an asthmatic child or a priest administering Extreme Unction, and you could go ahead and light up. Nobody would mind. Smoking back then was a personal thing that was tolerated much like farting is in public rest rooms. You could smoke even if you're riding in public transport. You could get a stick of cigarette from your trusty “Ta-Ka-Tak” boy, light up and blow smoke on the face of the person sitting next to you. It was an accepted inconvenience in public transportation, nobody complained about secondhand smoke or any of those lame issues wing nuts dreamed up.

And because smokers can light up anywhere, anytime, I didn’t much notice my fellow smokers until we began to be cordoned off from the rest of humanity sometime in the 90s. It was still possible to smoke though. Not as easy as it had been in the 70s or 80s, but most places still tolerated it, there was always a “Smoking Section”-- separate sections in restaurants and hotels, or a “Smoking Lounge”— a cordoned off area with carpeting and upholstered divans.
 
Then suddenly schools, government buildings and hospitals became “Smoke Free Zones”. Then not just buildings, but entire cities have since banned smoking in public. In order to have a cigarette in airports, I had to drag my tired ass and huff and puff back to the main entrance. Pass through at least three security checks then walk about fifty meters away from the main gate to a place where other losers hang out, I usually find a bunch huddled around a trash can. Only then am I allowed to smoke, but even then I still have to endure the killer stares of passing self-righteous cranks who looked at me as if I'm defecating in public.

While most places still provided a place for smokers, it had become shabbier through the years. Now, instead of a “Smoking Section”, smokers are directed to the “Smoking Area”, which is usually a designated place in a back alley alongside stinking garbage cans and toxic trash trolleys; a miniature pocket of slum where twisted butts and yellow-green spit decorated the ground around a caramel stained ash tray-- disguised as a garbage can, that nobody bothered to empty. You’ll know it’s the place because it smells of neglect, a dreary communal pyre where smokers gather to sacrifice their lungs to an unsmiling god. A place where the fellowship of the smoke rings still holds its regular meetings and where adepts exchange secret messages by sending out smoke signals to each other. Passing prigs would often stop by, cover their snotty noses, give you their best death-stare, point and say a bad word or two.

It has come to this.

The world has become inhospitable to smokers. It pains me to see hard-cores hot-boxing three quarters of their cigarettes then quickly walking away from these gatherings. They probably could not stand how things have become. Personally, I never liked the imposition nor the insult. I'm old school, a firm believer that a smoker should be able to light up wherever, whenever.
 
And so one fine day— one very ordinary day, I simply stopped. There was no plan. No preparation. I’ve even just bought a can of lighter fluid and a pack of flints for my Zippo lighter; and on the day I stopped, a half empty pack of Marlboro lay beside my Zippo on the table. It was as if I’ve been allotted a certain number of cigarettes and I’ve smoked them all and now I’m done.

After more than three months I guess it’s official: My thirty year affair with tobacco had ended. They say it takes sixty days to break a habit and forty-five days to break an addiction, I guess whatever you may want to call my relationship with nicotine; it’s over.
 
I sometimes walk over to the “Smoking Area” of a mall I frequent to check out on the fellowship. They are still sending out smoke signals but its gibberish to me now. When I turn to walk away, I feel their stares burning a hole at the back of my skull. I have betrayed the fellowship and now I have abandoned them. I now live in constant fear that the fellowship will one day gather around my house and throw their lighted cigarettes on my roof and watch as my house burns down.