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That First Cigarette!
There is something about writing a blog that becomes almost therapeutic! A blog gives one a chance to get things off a writer's mind, to vent, to reminisce, to pay tribute to and to confess.
Put this one under the label of "true confessions." Is there a person among us who has never tasted that smoky nicotine of a cigarette? One thing I'll never forget is my first cigarette, and, as my luck goes, I got caught by my mother.
It all began when I started walking home from school with an eighth-grade classmate that I'll call Billy. As soon as we were out of eyesight of our school he would reach in his pocket and pull out a cigarette. That first day he offered me one, but being the dutiful child that I was, I knew my parents wouldn't approve of that plan.
And each day as we walked home and talked, he would smoke his cigarette and blow smoke into the clean air of Johnson Avenue. There is no way that I could ever join Billy in this activity, even if I had wanted to. Everyone on Johnson Avenue knew my parents, Ray and Vi. That included the LaPointes, the Derrs, the Favreaus, the Bakers, the Murphys, the Horvaths, the Andersons, the Armstrongs, the Beauharnois, the Quilliams. I didn't stand a chance against this army of tattletales.
But Billy's after-school habit had me curious. I started thinking about what that cigarette might taste like. So, one day after I had arrived home, I headed back up the street. There on the steps of Baker Pharmacy I saw a brand new cigarette, one that must have fallen out of someone's pack.
This abandoned cigarette had my name written on it, so I glanced around and quickly grabbed it, and headed back home. In the Gagnon kitchen I found a book of matches, used to burn the trash, as was the custom back then in Plattsburgh.
I then went behind our garage where my father had a tool shed. It was actually an old small fishing shanty that my Dad had converted into a tool shed. I went inside. I was surrounded by rakes and hedge clippers and a garden hose.
It was dark. It was cramped. Nervously I struck a match, and put the flame to the end of the cigarette. I took in a breath and quickly exhaled. I started coughing! And coughing! I hated the taste. Smoke was seemingly filling the little tool shed. I had better get out of here, I thought. My little taste test was not to my liking!
I tossed the cigarette and book of matches to the floor and lifted the latch to exit. But the latch slipped and the door wouldn't open. I tried a second time and a third! I couldn't get out! For what seemed like ten minutes I kept trying the latch, but the door remained locked.
I started to envision my picture in tomorrow's newspaper with a story about a nice kid from Johnson Avenue who had been kidnapped by some cigarette-smoking bad guy and locked in a tool shed and forced to smoke a cigarette.
I started praying. I went through about fifty "Our Fathers" and "Hail Marys." But still no miracle. I was doomed. My obituary would say I was a nice kid who had won a spelling bee in fifth grade and who someday might have played first base for the Dodgers.
And then suddenly the latch caught and the door burst open. I was free! My backyard never looked so good. I left the door ajar as I ran towards my back door and inside my home.
My Mom greeted me and noted that I was a little sweaty. "Where have you been?" she asked. Moms always ask those tough questions. "Out," I cleverly responded.
Then she moved closer to me and smelled my shirt. "What have you been doing?" she asked. "Nothing," I answered. What an empty response. I could feel my perspiration rate increasing.
She knew she had me! "I smell cigarette smoke," she said. I thought about blaming it on Billy, but I figured I might as well admit to the deed. I confessed the entire story and Mom said that for this time she wouldn't tell Dad. And, you know what? I don't think she ever did!
After dinner that night I went back to the scene of the crime, where the tool shed door was still half open. I looked inside to pick up the crushed cigarette and book of matches. It was then that I noticed they were lying next to a gallon can of gasoline!
I've never forgotten that day and that was the last taste of a cigarette that I've ever taken.
Comments
My, have times ever changed. It appears that cigarette smoking has become not so cool thing to do with our youth. The Marlboro man is dead, hopefully.
However, your country has got to go even further to display this weed out of sight. In Canada all cigarette advertising is prohibited, and the only place you can buy them are in convience stores and the supermarket where they are stored behind the check-out. Furthermore drug stores have not been able to sell them for years, and the cigarette machine has become a relic, although they might still be in Quebec.
Kudos to you for never taking up the habit.
Posted by: Norm | August 2, 2007 8:36 AM
hey i'm glad you confessed that. i thought you were the perfect older brother that wasn't allowed to do ANYTHING the way you tell it! it looks like you still managed to test the limits & have a good time! love, your little sister that got to do everything!
(Foxy's note: Now you know, Dar!)
Posted by: Darlene Pavone | July 30, 2007 9:55 AM