Up in Smoke–Memories of a Smoker by Marco Katz Montiel

My approaching death looms, even as the reason for this sudden demise remains unclear. Dreamlike, the scene slowly unfolds against a backdrop of bare white walls that fail to shine in spite of harsh fluorescent lights. This could be taking place in a sick room as terminal illness strikes me down or on death row where I’m about to pay for some mortal crime. Amidst these hazy perceptions, I know only one thing for sure: I am thrilled! I continue smoking, happy that no penalty will ensue for this luxurious inhalation of tobacco. Whatever the reason for my present situation, my health and habits no longer matter.

Years after my last waking puff, these nocturnal moments of joy provide the only smoking pleasure I have left. My delight in these moments demonstrates how little the actions of my hands and mouth matter; in my mind, I am still a smoker.

Like others of my ilk, I have no difficulty remembering the first time I lit up. I was fifteen, and the cigarette was a Tareyton. It felt great, like something I had been waiting for my whole life. In a way, this wasn’t really my first cigarette; my life had always been wrapped in tobacco smoke.

My mother smoked several packs of Kents every day as an act of rebellion against her missionary parents, each puff enhancing her luster in the eyes of her Greenwich Village neighbors. She had formed the habit as a high school dropout, bumming around Paris in jeans and oversized plaid shirts. Cigarettes helped my father identify with the films he loved. “No one ever smoked as beautifully on screen as John Garfield,” he’d say, blowing perfect rings of smoke that rose to the ceiling while he demonstrated how that famous actor gracefully placed his fingers around a cigarette. Working as an extra in films and playing small parts on television, my father considered the sublime manipulation of a cigarette one of the more praiseworthy components of his own thespian toolkit.

It wasn’t just movies that blew smoke. Blue Note record covers featured the coolest jazz musicians posed against dark blue backgrounds, as off-camera lights emphasized the clouds of haze rising from their masterful hands. Folk clubs filled with fumes that provided authenticity for songs of rebellion. Around my high school, a place I rarely entered, tough guys took a liking to those who smoked the right brands. My comfort, if not my life, was ensured for years after a couple of locally famous brawlers found me with a pack of Camels.

Although I started with Tareyton, I quickly discovered that non-filtered brands tasted much better. Having passed through the nausea of those first smokes, which came shortly after those first good feelings, I craved the sensation of tobacco flooding my entire being. Camels tasted great. Pall Malls became another favorite, all the more so when I discovered that they were consumed by heroes such as the great trumpet player Lee Morgan and the ubiquitous bassist Ron Carter. As I revise this, my friend and fellow writer Ryan Jenkins tells me that Kurt Vonnegut smoked them, too.

I enjoyed Chesterfields, but they never seemed to exude a properly cool image. A trumpet player named Steve Lampert smoked Lucky Strikes, which I bummed on occasion even though they had a fried flavor that made them unsuitable for daily consumption. Several buddies of mine began buying clove cigarettes from India that, like all things Asian in those days, were considered healthier and holier. My healthy brand, when I could afford it, was Sherman’s because they advertised as having no artificial ingredients. Although I haven’t a shred of evidence to back this up, I’m still convinced that all the bad stuff in cigarettes resides in the filters and that the more natural the tobacco, the less dangerous the smoke.

If filters impair cigarettes, menthol ruins them. Even when my habit got up to a pack a day, I’d do without before smoking a Kool or any other strangely flavored brand. Marlboros, a brand that seems to have caught on all over the world, never tasted good to me, although I would smoke one if it were given to me on a street corner. In a pinch, I’d rip off the filters, an act that struck me as incredibly manly, even though this tended to make the old coffin nails taste really nasty.

Buying better or more exotic brands provided another way to enjoy smoking. Still, such steps have their perils. For example, when the French claim that Gitanes are actually cigarettes, they obviously mean to fool their American friends into inhaling foul clouds of cigar smoke. On the other hand, there are few smokes better than a Canadian Export A, and English Players may be the best-tasting treat of any kind ever produced in England. In terms of perfection, however, smokers who want both cool and taste should try to gather sufficient funds to buy a box of Balkan Sobranie. Wrapped in black paper, Sobranie cigarettes sport bright gold tips—but not filters—that smoothly caress the lips. Like good coffee, the taste combines strength and moderation, fulfilling without overpowering. Whenever I earned enough money, I turned to Sobranie.

Rockland Community College, an institution obligated to admit everybody, differed from high school in that students were permitted to light up cancer sticks everywhere. Every day, the grimy basement cafeteria filled with clouds of tobacco remains. Among my fondest memories of that dear school, one particular rainy day stands out. A small group of us stayed long after class in order to view the conclusion of Jean Renoir’s La Grande illusion. Rays of projected light piercing hazy blue smoke formed an important part of the cinematic illusion.

Many special moments cried out for the accompaniment of tobacco. Double features beckoned smokers to the balcony, where match flames and lighter sparks complemented the presentation of films, especially those produced in Italy or France. Cigarettes enhanced the contemplation of passing scenery viewed from the window of a railway smoker. I used to think of Mark Twain’s romantic description of his first all-night trip in a smoking car. For some reason, this never worked as well on buses, perhaps explaining why the evil weed was banned on them years before the railroads followed suit. Airline travel improved with smoking, mostly due to the impromptu discussions that formed around the back rows. Cigarettes go well with quiet rainy days when one sits looking at drops crawling down the window. They also invite closer conviviality at backslapping bars where drinkers talk too loudly. John Steinbeck understood the social power of cigarettes when the Communist Party organizer of In Dubious Battle explained how offering or accepting a smoke could turn new acquaintances into fast friends. Going a step further, cigarettes offer the perfect final scenes for sex acts; this works best, however, when all involved partake in, or at least tolerate the habit. Couples who smoke together can be very romantic.

In addition to caffeine, alcohol, and sex, food works well as a smoker’s prompt. I loved to have a cigarette with after-dinner coffee, although I’ve never understood those who destroy a meal by smoking between courses. One needs to learn that, with a bit of discipline, well-established addictions can be harnessed in ways that make them more enjoyable. By exercising patience, the best smoke of the day comes after the first sip of morning coffee. Even though sleeping now provides my favorite return to cigarettes, for most smokers, it stands out as their longest period of abstinence. All breaks, whether due to meetings, movies, or visits with puritanical friends or family members, ensure that the next cigarette will be inhaled with wild delight. After an aborted attempt at quitting the habit, Twain observed that his first smoke “was the best cigar that was ever made. The previous smoker,” he continued, “would have thought the same if he had been without a smoke for three months. I smoked that stub without shame.”

As years went up in smoke, expensive or otherwise, I began to see that there must be an end to these joys. My clothes had such a strong smell that even I began to notice the aroma. Browning teeth and yellowing fingers detracted from a youthful flair I hoped to cultivate as the years crept on. Increasingly, strangers treated me rudely, backing away on subway trains and snapping viciously when I lit up in elevators. My daughter quickly grew old enough to hear school propaganda designed to make her look askance at my treasured vice. Clearly, the end was near, so I determined to enjoy every cigarette as much as possible.

Quitting turned out to be easy. A day of difficult breathing combined with the sense of looming unconsciousness—only identified much later as symptoms of a severe panic attack—left me with no desire to smoke. After three days in bed, I got up feeling like Lazarus and thought maybe I’d see if I couldn’t wait one more day before lighting up the next cigarette. Another day followed, and yet another in this same manner. Every twenty minutes, the urge to light up hit me hard, but then it subsided. After a few days, the urge came only every twenty-one minutes, and I thought perhaps things would get better.

Reading wasn’t the same without those hits of nicotine; writing turned out to be impossible. Focusing on anything seemed pointless, somehow. Talking with friends who had once quit for ten years or more only to return made the whole exercise look ridiculous in my eyes. Traveling to Europe for the first time convinced me that my renunciation had been premature. A summer in Southeast Asia removed all doubt. But I held on to my memories of Twain’s experiences, thinking that if nothing else, my enjoyment of the next coffin nail would increase exponentially with each day of waiting.

I’d be waiting still if I thought any pleasure might be found in returning. But casinos boast the only bars to consistently allow the killer weed, and restaurants across the country ban my old beloved habit. Incredibly, Europeans are following suit. I recently spent a day in the hills of Segovia with a non-smoking group of friends. This practically seemed illegal in a country where lighting up once appeared obligatory. I kept waiting for the Guardia Civil to show up and lay down the law. Once, I actually saw a restaurant with a no-smoking section in Madrid! As European automobiles increase in size, people are picking up on the North American tactic of denial by pretending that ending smoking will make up for the increase in air pollution.

Smoking inside, even at home, has been banished, and smoking outside was never a pleasure. If I lit up now, where would I go? Rockland Community College must have banned cigarettes by now, and I fear that European universities are sure to follow suit, however slowly, even as they will undoubtedly increase the number of student parking spaces. I often think of returning to the Universidad Complutense de Madrid for graduate studies before their cafeteria clouds settle. I suppose I could move to Southeast Asia, but I fear that the next time I travel to Hong Kong or Bali, I’ll find new rules in place. All I have left, then, are my dreams and a few friends brave enough to lay their lives on the line in order to generously provide the occasional buzz of second-hand smoke. The ashtray on my kitchen counter lets them know that smoking continues to be permitted in my home.

I was born a smoker, and whether or not I have a cigarette in hand, I continue—several times a year—to die as one.