Puff

Just one. Damn it. Just one. It's been twenty-five years since I quit. What harm could one lousy cigarette do? Yes, I know I've had COPD, an MI, and have emphazema, but what harm could just a few puffs make? Hell, the doctors told me I'm going to be dead in a year anyway, so why can't I enjoy this little bit of time I have left on this plane and smoke one? How much worse? I already can't speak without coughing, so what difference would it make? Hell, it might alleviate the pain and make me feel better for a bit. Yes, I know it's what caused me all this fucking trouble in the first place and I know they're expensive, but how much harm could one little, thin cigarette do? Huh?  

Yea, I know what the surgeon generals says and I know what the doctors and the surgeons told me, but they'd never know. It wouldn't change anything. Just one cigarette, then I'll quit again. Okay? Just one. Yes, I know the nicotine'll cause me to want another, but . . . it's just one lousy cigarette. No, I don't want to call a help line or nic A, I just want a cigarette. A feminine cigarette, maybe, or a flavored one, like clove or mint. Mmmm. It'd make the house smell great for days and I could give the rest away to my friends who still smoke . . .why not? Just one cigarette. Or I could even bum it off another smoker. Please. Just one. I'll inhale slow, hold, feel that beautiful buzz or nicotine, exhale, and just do it with one cigarette. Okay?  

Well, tough. I'm over the age of eigthteen, Christ, I'm 87, and I can do whatever the fuck I want with or without your permission. You don't own me. I'm not your slave, I'm your patient. So, fuck you. I'm going to go out and get a cigarette and any kind of damn cigarette I please. Go ahead. Call my daughter, what the fuck do I care?

*

So, I walked out the door, with my walker, and started grudging down the sidewalk to get my goddamn cigarette and she did call my daughter, but I don't give a shit anymore. I want a fucking good cigarette. I'm her mother. She should be the one worrying about me getting angry with her, damn it. Respect your elders. Should've taught'em that. Oh, well.

So, I get to the stuff and the young fucker smiles, welcomes me, and asks if he can help me with anything. I think about it. Damn it. If I'm only smoking one cigarette, I want it to be the crème de la crème. So, I tell this fucker I want an organic, clove flavored cigarette from Cuba. He asks if I mean a cigar since cigars are from Cuba and I tell this fucker again what I want. He finds an organic clove flavored cigarette, but it's from China.  Ah, fuck. Well, can't have everything and I buy a pack of ten and a goddamn lighter with my money and I go outside and as I'm about to unwrap the fucker, I think about my health and why my daughter doesn't want me to smoke anymore. I think of the doctors who said all these fucking caughing fits could've never happened if I never smoked, but I unwrap it anyway, and I feel happy, like a kid opening Santa's presents on Christmas morning.  

And I put the fucker between my lips and I think no one is forcing me to do this. No one is pressuring me to do this. I could take this fucker out of my mouth and throw the whole pack in the bin. Go back home, make my amends, and say I saw the errors of my ways. But, it's like an automatic reflex, like biting my nails, shaking my leg, so I lite the fucker and inhale and it feels beautiful. All the problems of my life go away for a moment. The pain in my body dissipates. Shame it's only going to be one lousy cigarette, but it smells good in the air and on my clothes, like an expensive perfume.  I exhale and it looks like clouds angels live on. I flick the ash in the tray and take another long suck and it feels even better. This was worth the cash, worth disappointing my fucking daughter, worth walking out on the HHA. Damn it, it was worth it. I keep the esctacy of the cig in my lungs for thirty seconds and cough it out.  

I feel dizzy, but it's a good dizzy, a high dizzy. Feels like I'm floating on air, but I know I'll need to walk back home and face the bitches. Hell, my daughter's probably already there by now. Bitch. But, I finish my cigarette slow and put the rest in my purse along with the lighter and I feel good. Damn it. I feel good. I walk back on the sidewalk and see the bitch HHA pull up beside me and ask if I want a ride, like the character in Driving Miss Daisy. And like that character, I accept. She drives me home and says she called my daughter, but my daughter's at work and didn't pick up. Thank God. Maybe there is a tobacco God. Hell, a lot of Native Americans used to smoke tobacco and it was spiritual for them. It's natural, you know?  

*

But, after a few hours the fucking buzz wore off, as I knew it would. Then, I felt like shit, but I looked in my purse and saw the nine more in there. No, wait. Come on. Those were for my friends, remember? But, most of my friends are dead and I'll be dead soon. So, I go in the backyard like a teenager hiding from their parents and I smoke a second one. It feels good, but I start feeling guilt. I said one and I lied to myself. Eh, who gives a fuck? I probably won't even live to see my next birthday. I've got kids and grandkids. No one wants to outlive their kids. So, I let myself enjoy it, walk back in the house, and flush it down the toilet. Son-of-a-bitch. Like I'm growing down.  

The thing is there's just so much pain a person can handle before they need to escape. Some people work out, some people go to a movie, read a book. Me, I sneak a cigarette.  Shoot me. I'm getting a DNR.