A History of Smoking (Part I)

Like many a pre/early-teen wanker, I thought it was 'cool' to smoke and drink bad scotch behind the supply shed beside our school. I would sneak into the liquor cabinet at home and swipe some Rothman Kingsize from a pack that my dad had set aside as his 'just in case I'm dying for a cigarette even though I've quit' supply. You see, my dad had been a smoker since his youth. Smoking was cool. My dad was cool. I remember walking into the bathroom and being nearly knocked over by the whoosh of blue haze. My dad would spend what seemed like hours sitting on his throne/ashtray reading magazines. I remember being nearly asphixiated in the car...especially during the winter...especially after having my lungs full of fresh athletically induced air (we went cross country skiing as a family) and...most of all...I remember hating it. I remember taking smokes from my dad and smushing them up in my hands and then flushing the evidence down the toilet. I remember hiding his ashtrays. I remember refusing to kiss him good night cuz he stunk so bad. I remember when he finally quit. Instead of seeing him with a smoke hanging from his mouth, my dad became addicted to life savers. Rum and Butter seemed to be his favourite. He did, however, leave one pack of smokes on the second shelf of the liquor cabinet in the kitchen. He explained that whenever he had tried to quit and not had any smokes conveniently on hand he would start craving them so bad that he would rush off to the store, buy a pack and smoke one right there and then. With a pack in the cabinet, he could always tell himself that if he needed/wanted one, all he had to do was reach for it. He would then promise himself that he could have one in '5min.' When 5 min. were up, he would tell himself to wait another 5 min. The 5 min. gradually became 10...then 20 and so on. He is still, to this day, delaying the pleasure of that next smoke. His pack, however, is no longer waiting for him. You see. I smoked them. All. Well, I didn't really smoke them. I was 13 and wanted to look cool. My friends were smoking. It was something to do that was wrong. We had to sneak. We could be punished. Was anything better? I, however, could not inhale. I 'puffed' the smoke in, held it in my mouth a couple seconds and then blew it all out in what I thought was a slow and sophisticated exhalation. Like in the movies (not that I think that people smoking in the movies caused me to smoke...they just showed me how to smoke 'well.') After the pack was empty, I 'quit.' I left the empty pack in the cabinet. My dad didn't ever discover that it was empty. He and my mom got a divorce and my mom ended up throwing it out without a second thought. I didn't want to try and buy more. My dad wasn't buying more. I was starting highschool and, my friends were changing. There were new ways to be cool. For all essential purposes, I had kicked the habit.