A Smoker Reminisces, Part One

I started smoking at the age of thirteen, but not very seriously. At the time, I wanted to run with the fast crowd, which entailed smoking, drinking, marijuana, petty vandalism and lying about sexual exploits. When school was let out each day, a group of us would saunter off school property just far enough so that we could legally smoke cigarettes within eyesight of the crowded school buses and the teachers walking to their cars. It was more about posturing than anything else. Marlboro Reds were my smoke of choice, if only because they were considered the harshest and therefore the coolest. We would chain-smoke as much as possible before heading off to detention, spraying ourselves with cologne in the parking lot in a vain attempt to cover up the odor.

At that age and level of inexperience, cigarettes would still give us a buzz. We would feel light-headed and giddy -- an effect of deprivation of oxygen to the brain coupled with the illicit thrill of rebellion. We were novices, glorious and wonderful. Embarrassing as it is to admit, me and a couple other thrill-seekers once even tried smoking dip. We flattened one half of a soda can and poked holes in it to form a makeshift pipe and took turns inhaling the noxious fumes of burning Skoal. I felt high for twenty minutes before vomiting in the school courtyard.

For all the adolescent stupidity and social one-upmanship of middle school, I will remember it fondly as my first rebellion, my first independence. That old tobacco smoke, acrid and sweet, still hangs in the air.