The Last Smoky Soldier
Don't Feel Bad About Smoking. You're Probably in a Better Mood Than I Am
by Dash Colfax

On December 31, 1999, at approximately 11:50 p.m., I consumed my last cigarette.

It was a Winston Light. I smoked it on the patio of my cousin's apartment in University City, Missouri, just outside of St. Louis. I had a cup of keg beer handy, I don't remember what brand of beer it was, but that doesn't matter. What matters, in hindsight, was that last cigarette, and little else.

I remember my hands shaking as I lit it, because I knew that THIS WAS IT, NO TURNING BACK.

The first drag was quick. Then I settled in. Five minute passed all too quickly into that brisk yet temperate winter evening. I was nearly down to the filter, but there was still enough for one monstrous suck, and I took it. You could have counted "one-one thousand…two-one thousand…" all the way to five in the time it took me to pull in that last drag. I nearly passed out, half from the ecstasy of the act, half from the oxygen deprivation.

And then it was over. I looked to the sky and offered up a prayer for my continued abstinence from nicotine, tucked the expended butt back into the hard-pack box (as a memento), and wandered back into the New Year's Eve Party. (Shortly thereafter I consumed a bottle of Jack Daniels in a scant 20 minutes and held it down for a mere two hours longer, but that's a tale for a different day.)

Flash forward: It's a Monday in September of 2004, and I've maintained, somewhat miraculously, a smoke-free lifestyle since that last day of the 1900's. You may ask whether I miss it. My reply, of course, could be one of many colorful retorts.

I might say, "only a non-smoker would be so ignorant as to even ask such a thing."

Or I might exclaim in a bellowing voice, "FUCK YES I MISS IT, LIKE I'D MISS A FINGER IF YOU LOPPED IT OFF WITH A PARING KNIFE".

Or I might simply punch you in the face, I'm in that kind of mood.

Maybe it's another Monday after a sleepless night, maybe it's the pulling sensation deep in the center of my chest that plays a solemn, wistful dirge in honor of Phillip Morris and his comrades, I just can't say for sure.

See, I had a kinship with the smokes. Anyone who's ever endured, or continues to endure the habit knows what I'm talking about here. It's not about love, or even about lust. It is, over time, about simple need. Every shred of my loins cries out for one…fucking…smoke.

Even now, after almost five years, I still yearn for it, with a fierce intensity, an intensity that I must consciously fight on a regular basis. Every time someone fills all the machines in the laundry room with their loads after I'm down to my last pair of skivvies, every time I get behind the guy who's doing 30 in the 35 zone, every time a supervisor comes to me with a "last minute request" that I know good and God-damned well he was aware of three weeks ago…I clutch at my chest for that imaginary pack, and it's enough to bring a stronger man to his knees.

Sure, I may feel better physically--I can make the flight of stairs to my apartment now without getting winded, and the chronic burning in my chest after long nights of drinking has dissipated somewhat, but my soul…my soul is like a husk. I am not the man I once was. I let society rule me. I let the fear bring me down. I knuckled under to the Surgeon General, and a part of me misted off into the ether that fateful day.

It may have been the "right" thing to do, but that doesn't mean I don't hate it. A smoke-free life is a skim-milk-drinking, speed-limit-obeying, law-abiding, churchgoing, love-the-one-you're-with kind of life.

What kind of life is that? Just a weak excuse for one, that's what. A "C" average. It's lightly buttered toast. White toast. I weep for the future.

So the short answer to the question of whether or not I miss cigarettes should be obvious by now.

But for emphasis, let me just state this: If all-out war ever comes to the American mainland, the first words to emanate from my lips will reek of the sweet, sweet bouquet of an unfiltered Lucky Strike, and those words will be:

"Smoke 'em if you got 'em."

- www.KCDrinker.com - 2004 ©

Dash Colfax is a copy writer/editor for obscure lingerie catalogs. When not lamenting his decision to quit smoking over a keg of Nat Light, his hobbies include: dating other guys' wives, dating the wives' daughters, drinking a fifth of Jack Daniels, then doing it all over again with another family.