Essay: Remembering Cigarettes

A Forbidden, Smokin' Hot Love

By Fay Funk

QuailBellMagazine.com

The other day I was walking around the school near my house. As I rounded a corner I saw a woman coming toward me, one hand at chin-level, the other holding her elbow. She was holding a cigarette. As we passed each other, the smoke hit my nose, and I was instantly transported to another time.

I love cigarettes.

I’m careful about admitting that in my personal life. So many people hate cigarettes. On more than one occasion I have heard my sister go off on a rant about how disgusting and stupid it is to smoke. I have had friends glare at smokers in public, pointedly moving away from them, waving their hands in front of them and loudly coughing. And cigarettes are bad for your health, there’s no arguing with that. I believe in prevention and education about the risks. But I also think cigarettes are more than a bad habit. There’s something powerful about them.

Scent is one of the most powerful memory triggers in existence. Cigarette smoke is the only scent that triggers memories for me, but when I smell the smoke it’s like stepping into a time machine. They remind me of being a kid and visiting my grandparents on the coast. When I smell a cigarette I am taken back to cold sandy beaches, small yapping dogs, and tsunami warnings.

The beach is only one memory, jumbled in with so many other associations. Most of the time it’s college that I remember, the first place I tried a cigarette. I find myself sitting in high-ceilinged rooms with dirty white walls, little plumes of smoke curling up around me, adding to the already oppressive summer heat. It reminds me of specific musicians and bands, too, a time when I used to play a bit more. Lots of musicians smoke, and inevitably I jammed with them, in cramped practice rooms with tiny electric heaters blasting, anything to stave off the cold of a Brooklyn winter.

I have never been much of a smoker myself. The most I smoked was three cigarettes a day for about a month, years ago. The smell of of a cigarette triggers memories of that time, too, of course. Memories of walking around the very same school where I saw the smoking woman, feeling light-headed and paranoid, in case I saw anyone I knew. When I stopped I got a mild case of quitter’s flu, cold-like symptoms that occur as your lungs clear out all the mucus in them.

I never got into smoking because I like to run. Running is how I unwind, in the same way some people read a book or take a bath. Even one cigarette makes going for a run impossible. I still get cravings for cigarettes occasionally, because that happens even if you smoke rarely, but the thought of being unable to run is enough to stop me from indulging.

Most of the time. Running is for day-to-day stress, and cigarettes are for heartbreak. Overwhelming, shocking pain. The kind of thing that turns you into an instant nihilist. Who cares if this little burning stick clogs up my lungs and ruins my skin and teeth? Who cares if everyone shaves ten minutes off my life? It takes your brain outside, and you don’t have to be a part of any of the bullshit, at least for the length of time it takes you to smoke.

The last cigarette I had was almost a year ago. I remember looking down on it, seeing my hand shaking. It was an unusually cold day for May, threatening to rain. I remember the porch I was standing on, the plants in the yard and in pots, the exact moment the temperature went from pleasantly brisk to uncomfortably chilly. I remember every detail like it was a photograph. And it all comes back to me, whenever I pick up that smell.  
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