The Cigarette
For me it was always fun when my Uncle came to stay. My mother felt otherwise. His short-notice visits emerged out of disorder; overshadowed by tension, they were rescue missions.
My oldest brother wasn’t home and I watched anxiously for him, peering from a corner of our bedroom window near the foot of the front porch steps. In the background his favourite Ventures album scratched and wailed from the lone speaker on the RCA.
My Uncle arrived, stumbling recklessly from the shallow, alcohol-fuelled camaraderie within the car of his faceless cohort. Narrowly rescued by the flimsy porch railing he climbed the staircase to the front door - the kitchen door, where my restless and angry mother would greet him. It was always the same when he showed up drunk; it flew directly into the face of the very help he had agreed to come here for.
I went to the dresser and turned the volume up to the unmarked level of isolation. I didn’t hear their exchange, and didn’t want to. She had to deal with my father’s devil-may-care drinking when he came home hours late from work on countless nights and she didn’t need more of it from his brother who was supposed to be here for help. She was protecting her nest.
When I wasn’t by the window my tension grew with every beat of the music, several minutes was all I could take at one time. Virtually split in two for the duration, I enjoyed the musical escape in spite of the nerve-racking fear of capture. By four or five songs I had stolen as much pleasure as I dare from those records my brother fiercely refused to share. I rushed to erase the scene, replacing everything exactly as I had found it. I Slid the black vinyl disk back into its cardboard sleeve and with precise measure aligned the edge of the label back into its slot beside the others on the brass wire rack. My nerves were taut and I jumped at the sudden 'thunk' as the latch sprang free from my grasp and sealed the player shut.
I wiped the sweat from my hands and stopped to listen. I could hear my mother, she was back down doing laundry in the utility room next door.
I grinned eagerly as I stole quietly up the stairs, stretching two steps at a time, I couldn’t wait to see him.
I stood unnoticed in the doorway from the living room to the kitchen. He never changed; he looked like Jimmy Dean or Elvis Presley, the centre of his combed hair flopping forward in a wispy waterfall. His body slightly leaning as he sat, he smiled and laughed between inaudible words and long deliberate pulls on that cigarette. There was something dramatic about all that; the way he pinched it between his thumb and two fingers to light up his palm as he drew a commanding plume from its filter; the way he gazed deeply and obediently at the ember as he exhaled; the way he flipped it and held it perfectly between his first two fingers above the ashtray.
“Rusty! How are you? Come here, come and sit with me,” he slurred. I grinned and rushed over, it was fun when he was drunk. I wiggled onto his knee as he hugged me exuberantly, bathing me in the fruity-foulness of his spirit-soaked breath. “How old are you now?” “Four and a half” I answered proudly.
I don’t remember much about what was said over the next few moments, I was busy thinking. The smoke was snakelike as it rose in many filmy layers from the tip. The glow of the ember brought a strange, peace-like warmth to my heart. “What is it like to smoke?” I asked, “What does it feel like?” “What does it taste like?”
“It’s really something” he said, “It makes you tough, it’s cool, Why don’t you try it”.
I knew he was right. My oldest brother was tough; he was always sneaking across to the forest clearing with his friends to smoke. I did not want to be mean like him though, but he had taught me long ago that I had to be tough. His beatings were merciless; his strut was imposing, and delivering an unspoken message that violence would erupt the next instant that we were alone.
I wanted to be cool like my uncle though. I had heard him and my dad talking before and he talked about his free life; nobody stopping him from being and doing what he wanted, nobody to hold him back, the wild times, the close calls and adventures on the streets in Vancouver. My Dad seemed sort of understanding about it all but upset about it too.
“Okay” I said, “How do I do it?”
He leaned around over my left shoulder and brought the cigarette near to me. The smell of his breath gave way to the pungent odour rising from his dark, rusty fingers. The ember was very close now and I could feel the warmth. I was calm, I was ready. I had wanted to try this for a long time, ever since I saw my brothers and their friends doing it. My dad smoked all the time too. “Just put it in your mouth like a straw and suck on it. Hold all the smoke in your mouth and breathe it in with a deep breath when I take it away.”
I leaned forward and took the cigarette in my pursed lips, at once the moment became confusing; the smoke swept up the outside of the lowered stem to sting my nostrils and eyes, but I was strong, I wasn’t giving up, I was tough enough. I drew on the filter and felt the smoke come through into my mouth; it was warm and strong and biting on my tongue, and surprisingly dry. I recollect that memory like it was a slowed gown scene in a movie, but of course it had lasted only seconds. He quickly pulled the cigarette away, “Now breathe it in”
The shock of the wall of smoke hitting my lungs brought an instant and violent reaction, I coughed and choked and choked and coughed, but I was surrounded by smoke and each gasp only brought more back to my lungs. I remember him laughing, but not in a nasty way, he was right there with me, supporting me, cheering me on. “You did good,” he said, “get some air and try again”. He patted my back to help me breathe. I was dizzy, disoriented, choking, and burping up swallowed smoke, and not in control, but after a few moments I was ready to go, his encouragement gave me that strength. The cigarette came closer and we did it again. Still dizzy from the first, I coughed choked and reeled from the second drag, my eyes were full of smoke and tears, my lungs felt blocked, my throat felt dry and hoarse.
That moment is so clear to me, I was still coughing and there was a throbbing headache sweeping in, but it did not matter. Engulfed I was by such a physical trauma affecting all my senses, yet I realised deeper numbness had taken hold of me and it was sweetened by a gentle tingling sensation. It reached every finger and every toe; it washed over my skull and down my spine. It removed me from the pains and discomforts of everything I have described.
“WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!” The shock of her voice gave me a rush of sheer fear, and the adrenalin sent me even deeper into euphoria.
I can still see her in the doorway.
“JUST WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?” Her faceless, colourless figure shaped by a huge silhouette looming twice life-size in the living-room doorway. Her hands were on her hips, fists clenched. “YOU GET TO YOUR ROOM!” Incoherent as I was, I knew that meant me. I slipped off my Uncle’s Knee and edged staggeringly toward the doorway, and her. No way around it, still blurry-eyed I cringed as I rushed to get past her. Slap! Slap! She connected with my head and arms as I dived past and ran for my room, where I would wait.
I jumped up onto my bunk-bed and laid back. I could hear her yelling at him, but like always, I made it disappear into the background. The dizziness and tingling faded quickly, giving way to the headache and a new nausea. I was fighting back the idea of being sick, because I really was tough and that didn’t scare me. I was afraid though; afraid that I wasn’t ever again going to feel that incredible feeling that brought such a sense of peace in the midst of all mayhem. I could only think of finding a way to do that again.
I knew how right away.
I sat up and slid off the bed. I made my way across the room, moving with a purpose. I paid no attention to the coveted RCA, and barely noticed the stacks of records while catching my balance on them as I passed. I knelt into the closet and dug behind the camel shoes and pointers, I reached blindly around behind the big black pipe that came down through the ceiling. Once again my blood rushed. Fear and excitement pulsed through my veins as my hand closed over the slick rectangular edge of the package. As I brought it out I was careful to hold it in exactly the same position so I could replace it the same way. My hands shook as I slid it open. Fumbling, I pulled a pair of filter tips from the ranks behind the foil, one of them slipped to the floor; I quickly snatched it back up! In a hurry I closed and replaced the pack. I replaced the shoes perfectly and closed the closet door. Everything was as it was before, except of course, the gaping space left by the two cigarettes I now held in my hand.
His rage would be immeasurable. I would deny the theft and he would beatme fiercely, repeatedly. All sense of reason would submit to the blindness of the anger within him. Unable to stop he would continue until it was over. I was ready though, I would deny and I would take what he gave me and not let him know it hurt me, and never give in. It would just make me stronger - for each punch steeled my resolve as I vowed to never be like him, to be everything he was not.
My mind came back to the ‘darts’ in my loosely clenched fist. I had renewed strength now. I had discovered something that could bring me such pleasure and freedom from the pain and loneliness. When it was all over, whatever the cost, it would be worth it.
I was addicted.
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