Novice Smoker

Last year I decided to take up smoking. I knew what the Surgeon General had to say about it, but I didn't care. I went to the gym, didn't eat a lot of red meat and never drank enough liquor to keep me from getting behind the wheel of a car. Yet I was willing to risk all of that to look cool. I wanted to be able to handle a cigarette and feel like I would have fit in at the butt room in high school.

My grandfather made it to 90 on two packs a day of unfiltered Pall Malls, so I had genetics on my side. And if I was going to get in from a night out smelling like an ashtray and contracting black lung from secondhand smoke, why not look good doing it? I also wanted an excuse to carry around a nice lighter, the refillable kind engraved with my initials, should I ever find myself in the presence of a beautiful woman with an unlit cigarette. Something better to offer than some Tic-Tacs or the use of my cellphone.

To ease my way in, I tried bumming cigarettes off friends from the dog run. Sean, a smoker who looked cool even without a cigarette, just waved me off. Jackie, a girl I'd once dated, would have no part of it either, no matter how often I begged. "You're no smoker. Get your own habit," said the three-time veteran of the patch, now back up to a half-pack a day.

Unable to muster the courage to make The Purchase, I waited for New Year's Eve, figuring there'd be at least one smoker with a resolution to quit at the party. Before midnight, I found my mark. Brett, another dog runner, announced that he was about to have his last cigarette. I followed him out onto the fire escape. Though wary of my plea that I could help him quit by taking his place, he handed me his last Marlboro Light. Leaning against the railing, I assumed my pose, my first cigarette held between my third and fourth fingers, mimicking Kenneth Tynan, the debonair British theater critic whose diaries I'd been reading. So what if emphysema would kill him at 53, and that he'd had an insatiable spanking fetish? He was a pro with a cigarette, and that was good enough for me.

Brett finally lit up and handed me a lighter the size of a piece of Bazooka. After a quasi-respectable six attempts, I managed to get my cigarette lit, but as I did, I lost control of the little lighter. It went bouncing off four flights of metal stairs to the courtyard below. "Congratulations?I guess," said Brett. Then we shared a smoke and talked about how we both missed Jerry Garcia. Pretending to inhale, I finished my cigarette and we concluded what would be my first "smokers' chat," and his last. I followed Brett's lead by stubbing out the butt and flicking it off the railing. His sailed smoothly to the pavement below. Mine, not completely out, ricocheted off a tree and landed in the garden of the next building. I ducked inside before the plants across the way could ignite.

Now a Smoker, though feeling far from cool, I kept my new habit to myself for a while. One night the following week, as I brought my Milanos and Dulce de Leche to the register of my neighborhood deli, I perused the packs behind the counter. I hadn't dreaded making a retail purchase this much since I was a freshman in college about to get lucky for the first time. There were 1000 varieties back there, and I hadn't even begun to think about which brand to buy, let alone whether I wanted regular or light, box or soft pack. What was menthol anyway? As a line began to form, I blurted out, "A box of Camels please. Lights?I guess." It happened so fast, but now I was committed. I figured I'd wait before looking into lighters.

For the next few days I practiced, sitting on the radiator, ashing out the window. When the downstairs neighbors complained, I moved to the kitchen, setting off the smoke alarm and scaring my dog. By the time I'd discovered that the back stairway doubled as my building's unofficial smoking lounge, I'd made it through half the pack and had reduced my coughing fits to every third puff. It was time to go public.

I went to the dog run to see if I'd pass muster with the pros. Nodding to the usuals gathered at one end, I headed for a tree, behind which I prepared. Fending off a curious Doberman with one hand, I managed to light up on the second try. I put the Camel between fingers three and four, and sauntered over to my posse.

I was the only one with a cigarette. Brett, who'd maintained his New Year's resolution, nodded dubiously. Jackie, chewing on a wad of nicotine gum, shook her head in disgust.

Then Sean appeared. Sean is so cool he makes JFK look like W. From his expression, I could tell Sean was going to let me go through the motions, but I already knew the result. He looked at me, looked at my hand and nodded. I nodded back.

"Let's see you take a drag," he said, crossing his arms.

I brought the Camel to my mouth as if it were a loaded gun. I inhaled, sort of, exhaled and put my arm down.

"No way, man," said Sean. "Forget about it."

I stubbed out the butt and handed him what remained of my Camels. I was done with smoking. Now I'm looking into motorcycles.