Nicotine is what they call it; a substance for feeling
good. Some say it is a stress reliever but others disagree.
Grandpa Woody sat in his wooden chair and placed the tip of the cigarette between his lips, far enough, but not too far, into his mouth. Then, he lit the end of the cigarette with a lighter. Next, Grandpa Woody inhaled, took the cigarette out and held it between the second and third knuckles of his fingers in his right hand. This was Grandpa Woody’s life.
Every waking moment of his life, he smoked a cigarette. He smoked from when he was a young man to his death bed. Sure, everyone has bad habits. Some people bite their nails and others eat that extra piece of cake when they’re supposed to be on a diet. But Grandpa Woody’s life revolved around cigarettes. Everything in his life revolved around sneaking off for a quick puff. He took those cigarettes with him wherever he went. He couldn’t wait to have another smoke. He’d think about it all day, he’d dream about it, he’d even cry about it. They called him Smoky Woody.
In the past Grandpa Woody attempted to quit smoking. He was aware of lung cancer and heart disease. He knew about wrinkles and bad breath. He tried those patches—didn’t work. He tried to quit cold turkey—didn’t work. He joined one of those support groups—didn’t work. No matter what the circumstances were, Grandpa Woody always started smoking again.
Grandpa Woody soon gave up on quitting smoking. He was destined to be a smoker, he thought. But not only was he a smoker, he was an addict. He’d fill his pockets with Newport cigarette packs, and other brands. He’d tape emergency cigarettes behind the toilet and underneath the sink. He’d stash them in odd places such as the inside his underwear drawer, underneath the carpet and mattress. He’d place them in various boxes inside his closet. He even put a few cigarettes in an old pair of smelly shoes.
Everyday Grandpa Woody woke up, had his morning coffee with a cigarette. He went for a walk and smoked a cigarette. He snuck into the upstairs bathroom and cracked opened the window and smoked a cigarette. His daughter, Mary, never let Grandpa Woody smoke in the house. The cigarette smell gave her a headache, and she did not support her father’s nasty habit. She’s been trying to get him to quit for years. Mary was thin, but she ate right. She ate healthy, and cut out carbohydrates, especially the bread.
“Don’t you dare smoke that in here!” Mary yelled at Grandpa Woody, as he huffed and puffed round perfect circles. “You know that smell gives me a headache. And it’s not good for the kids. How many times do I have to tell you!”
Mary swayed her hips in anger and tossed her long silky hair back, as she handed Grandpa Woody an ash tray.
“Calm down, it’s not like it’s weed,” Grandma Woody said.
His 6-year-old granddaughter, Izzie, however, was amazed with Grandpa Woody’s smoking. Just like pulling a coin out from behind an ear or a rabbit from a hat, it was magic, she thought, magic. Izzie had a strong desire to smoke cigarettes. She wanted to learn the magic. And this special talent, she thought, could bring her fame and fortune.
She wanted publicity. She wanted paparazzi to crowd outside her house, snapping as many pictures as they could. She wanted reporters to strive to get an interview with her. She wanted to be a star. She wanted to be known as “cigarette girl.”
She admired Grandpa Woody. After all, she didn’t have a father figure in her life. Her father left her family when she was born. Grandpa Woody was her role model.
It was a Sunday afternoon, and chocolate ice cream was on the agenda. Izzie sat next to her two older brothers, Bill and Tony, on the kitchen table. Grandpa Woody stood out in the backyard in his blue jean overalls. He lit a cigarette, and did what he did best. Izzie stared at him through the door window.
“Wow,” Izzie said, ignoring her ice cream as it slowly melted in her bowl. “Grandpa is smoking! It’s so cool!”
Bill and Tony burst out in laughter, and Izzie’s face became red from embarrassment.
“Kid, grow up,” Tony said, and patted her on the head. “Eat your ice cream.”
Izzie watched Grandpa Woody smoke his cigarettes, one by one, day after day. Izzie’s brown eyes lit up; her face brightened. Goosebumps appeared on her arms as Izzie watched in astonishment. She observed like a detective. She was determined to know how this operation worked.
She would often pretend to smoke using white crayons, candy, and sometimes, she snuck into Grandpa Woody’s room, grabbed a cigarette from one of his hiding places and pretended to smoke in front of the upstairs bathroom mirror.
One day, she decided to test her limits by actually lighting a cigarette.
Her mother went out shopping and Grandpa Woody was sleeping on the couch. He was supposed to be watching Izzie. On the center of the dining table the small box with the sticks called cigarettes was placed perfectly, just waiting for Izzie.
She walked over slowly, t tip-toeing, making sure not to wake Grandpa Woody up, and lifted the box and took a cigarette out. Soon she had it all in her hands. It was the key to fame, the magic, and the ability to make the puffy, circle smokes. She could be famous. She could be the richest girl in the whole wide world!
When Grandpa Woody smoked it didn’t look hard, Izzie thought, and went to the kitchen and turned on the stove even though her mother told her never to touch it. She jumped back startled to see the blue flame pop up. Grandpa always used fire to light the cigarette. As soon as Izzie lit the magic stick, she put it in my mouth and inhaled, just like Grandpa Woody did.
Cough, Cough! She couldn’t stand to breath. She was choking. Cough after cough, it felt like little needles were stabbing her lungs. Tears grew in her eyes. Izzie felt like she was going to past out. The skin on her face grew extremely pale. Her body temperature had increased.
Cough, Cough! Her throat closed in and she fell to the ground, dropping the lit cigarette on the tile floor. Footsteps arose nearby as she stopped coughing. Fear stuck to her nerves and she couldn’t move. Grandpa Woody was awake.
“What in the devil’s name…” Grandpa Woody came in. “Are you okay? What happened?” He looked at Izzie and saw the lit cigarette on the floor. “
Izzie just gave him a blank look, two afraid to speak.
“Answer me girl!”
“Yes…” she said with my head down in shame not sure what exactly she did wrong.
***
The last bell rung for the day as multiple students scattered outside the school. Izzie was now 18. She stood outside the school. Emily came out and headed toward Izzie’s direction wearing a long black winter coat that went down to her knees. Because of the sun, Izzie couldn’t see her face very clearly until she walked closer to her.
“I need a smoke,” Emily took out her wallet and handed Izzie a twenty dollar bill.
“What’s this for?” Izzie asked.
“I smoked my last square this morning. You’re eighteen now, buy me a pack.” Emily started walking down the street to the nearby gas station . But Izzie didn’t move.
She remembered the day of Grandpa Woody’s funeral. Hundreds of people came to pay their respects. Izzie sat with her mother and older brothers in absolute silence. Izzie was 12-years-old, and was crying with everyone else. Izzie didn’t understand as a child, but she as she grew up, she learned more about Grandpa Woody’s smoking habit. She knew the facts now: cancer, emphysema, and heart disease. She knew it was a hard habit to break; it was addictive— like heroin. And it took Grandpa Woody’s life.
She vowed to never smoke. Not for anyone or anything. And she wouldn’t support it.
“No, “ Izzie said to Emily.
“Excuse me?”
“I will not buy your damn cigarettes,” Izzie said and started to walk away with the twenty dollar bill still in her hand.
