Smoke Break
Smoke escaped his lips like a whisper. How could you? The voice in his head sounded like his father when he caught him smoking again. Inhaling pressed oxygen against the well-developed roadblocks in his lungs. Usually on days like this, he'd bundle up before stepping out on the porch, but today he wanted to feel the cold. The wind scratched his face and throat on another inhale, but it wasn’t enough.
His body begged to be moved, but he couldn’t muster up the energy. Cancer.
Porches were a long-time refuge. When he was growing up, his grandfather sat on the porch from sunrise to sunset in all types of weather. He’d eat dinner inside with the family, but breakfast and lunch were porch meals. To him, grandpa was Pops, and Pops called him Booger. Everyone else called him Sam.
Every visit to his grandparent’s house started off porch sittin’ with Pops, and Pops would point at the flowers and state their names and attributes. He taught Sam how to identify different cars by their symbols and shapes.
“You can always tell by the lights,” he told Sam one day.
“What if they don’t got their lights on?” Sam asked.
Pops chuckled. “That doesn’t matter. It’s about the shape of the light. Although that would be harder to see without their lights on, especially at night. Don’t ever drive without your lights on at night.”
Pops shook his head at unspoken memories. Sam always appreciated his pieces of wisdom. As much as Pops loved his porch, he’d be pissed if Sam stayed out of fear, so with a momentous groan, he rocked himself up and out of his chair.
The crooked steps groaned beneath him, complaining of his weight. Reminding him he was still here. That’s what he should be focusing on. And beyond that, what did he want to do with himself? Usually on weekends, he’d play video games until his friends got off work, and then they’d all go out to a bar or stay in and game some more, but after this morning’s phone call, he didn’t want to do much of anything.
“Hey! Wanna get some breakfast at Sandy’s?” Jacque asked.
“Uh, no,” Sam mumbled, adding “Maybe tomorrow,” when he immediately felt bad. Normally he’d close his bedroom window on chilly days, but today he left it open. He stripped back down to nothing, and curled up under the tight covers of his bed.
***
A forceful breeze threatened to topple him from his bike, and because he was shaking, he almost let it. He was known for being too quick to give up.
“Push! push! Keep pushing, kid!” His father yelled a few yards behind him. Sammie fell off his bike and landed on glass and gravel on the side of the road. Tears flowed immediately as he tried to suppress his sobs.
“Come on, it’s not that bad.” His dad held his hand and looked at the wounds on his right arm. Sammie looked with him, and the chunk of green glass sticking in his skin kept the tears going.
“Daaaadddddd!” He wailed and began to cry harder.
“Look that way,” Dad pointed away from the arm, and Sammie obeyed. Fresh blood followed the sharp exit, and although he fought the urge to continue crying, one more shuddering sob escaped. “You, are, okay!” But Sammie felt far, far from okay. His father’s face tightened with anger. “Quit crying. Now.”
Pops took over bike riding lessons after that.
***
Awakened by his sweat soaked pillowcase, Sam was now wet and cold. Was it right to break up with Rachel? His face relaxed as he realized he missed his last girlfriend. Their relationship hadn’t been that bad. She accused him of cheating all the time, but god, could she cuddle. And she didn’t mind the sweat.
His desire for another cigarette pulled him back to the porch. He smacked the pack looking at the old church across the street, thinking about the first cigarette he smoked at twelve years old.
Renting a movie was the carrot method his mom used to get him back in church after many months away. His white dress shirt and black pants had been pressed into the wall by the rest of his clothes, and the misplaced creases remained when he put them on. Her smile shifted into a grimace when she saw the extra folds, but she knew there was nothing to be done.
Halfway through the service, he excused himself to use the bathroom. He wandered the hallways instead. Curiosity led him to a cracked side door framing swatches of smoke.
“Want to try?” Sam knew the kid’s name but not much else, even though they’d been going to the same church for years. His teal shirt and black pants were pressed in the proper way, but a folded checker tie poked out of his pocket. The kid caught him looking.
“Smell sticks more.”
He held out the cigarette, and Sam took it gently. The first inhale felt like swallowing a cell phone because he hesitantly held the smoke in the middle of his throat.
“What are you doing? Exhale!” Sam pushed the smoke out and a few coughs followed.
“What’s it supposed to feel like?” Other than a pain in his head, nothing was happening.
“Give it another puff. But here. First, watch me.” Sam watched Whitney squeeze his mouth around the cigarette, inhaling and exhaling slowly before passing it back.
“Here, try again. Keep your throat open, and don’t be afraid to let the smoke spill out. You’ll feel it.”
Sam did his best to follow Whitney’s instructions without letting the details stress him out. This time, the smoke went further back in his throat, slicing some more sensitive spots and leaving a buzz in his brain.
“Whitney! I know you are not giving that boy a cigarette!” Whitney’s mom, dressed in a light blue skirt suit and a matching slanted hat, fumed behind the church’s screen door. In the time it took her to come outside, Whitney had snatched the cigarette and tried to put it out, but his mom saved it with her left hand and pinched Whitney’s ear with her right.
She marched back up those steps like she was just sick of it all, and yelled at Whitney to grab the door. While he held it open, she took two hits of the cigarette herself before stomping it out and pulling Whitney inside.
That’s where it all began.
Back then, it seemed like an option. A possibility. Something different to do. Then, it became a ritual. Each morning, he’d wake up and come to the porch for a cigarette. After lunch, he’d smoke another in place of the something sweet he used to crave, another for aperitivo time, and so on, until he had half a pack total before bed.
Now, he was pulling out a post-nap cigarette, and instead of immediately sticking it in his mouth, he sat and pondered it. This white little cylinder and its yellow spongy tip had been a friend for him in many ways. When his dad died, he didn’t know how to grieve that man with others. His cigarettes kept him company as he processed his apathy and guilt. When he struggled to get out of bed during the lower depths of his depression, the comfort of the smoke and nicotine got him downstairs and out of the house. Most of the time.
He smiled when a cloud shifted and sunshine hit his face. It was shaping up to be a lovelier day than earlier that morning.
Walking weather.
He pocketed the pack of cigarettes and put the one he released in his mouth. Phlegm pooled in his throat. After spitting, he admired the yellow-brown viscosity. Were the demons inside him that color too?
He inhaled deeply, putting a known pressure on his chest. With his morning news, Sam could no longer forget the damage he’d done to his body. Saliva gathered at the taste of the unlit cigarette. As much as he wanted to flick the wheel and light it, he couldn’t muster up the energy to feel as apathetic about himself as he had about his dad. Walking meant thinking, which is what he wanted to do anyways. The cigarette went back to the pack.
***
One breakfast of cornflakes and a shower later, Sam was ready to go. Walking also meant smoking. He put the pack in his pocket, resisting the urge to put the cigarette back in his mouth. Sometimes he walked in a square - three blocks South, three East, and so on until he was home again. Sometimes he smoked on the walk to a friend’s house. But today, he started towards the park. Nothing beat standing in the sunlight between the trees.
A few doors down, Jackson had finished mowing and was putting his lawn mower in the shed that Sam helped him build. He helped him out with many odd jobs, and afterwards, Jackson would give him a cigarette, and they would smoke together
Across the street, an older man named Paul would watch from his porch, reminding Sam of Pops. Paul witnessed one of these exchanges and started calling Sam “Smoke Break.” The name was gum in his neighbor’s brains, but Jackson didn’t care for it as much.
“Hey, hey, man! What’s up?” Jackson asked.
“Not much, you?” Sam replied.
“Can’t complain, can’t complain. Take it easy!”
“You too!”
Ashamed at its new meaning, he stifled the cough that clawed at his throat. Sometimes Sam slowed down to have a longer conversation, but he couldn’t bear pretending everything was okay. Part of the reason he moved to this neighborhood was because it reminded him so much of home. Each house looked different. Different shapes, different colors, different sizes, and the lawns were in various states of care. Kids played outside til nighttime, and some folks had basketball hoops so the kids could play ball without going too far.
Sam had come to know most of the families here, and he liked to help out when they needed someone for heavy lifting. He didn’t like to take any money, but he wouldn’t say no to a cigarette.
Sam thought about the fact that he was gonna die. Him and everyone he knew, someday. His throat tightened and sunk. Because of how he’d lived his life, he probably wouldn’t make it to old age, even with all the medicine in the world. He thought about what people would say if he died today.
They’d remark on his age.
“He was so young!”
They would blame him.
“What did he expect, smoking like that?”
Would they remember how helpful he was? Would they see him as the kind, hard-working man he had set out to be?
The sunshine lit shifting blades of grass like the tips of waves, creating a sea of green. It was just after noon, and it seemed like the day was shaping up to be the hottest day of spring. It always bothered him that June was still considered spring.
The summer after his freshman year in college, it was so hot outside he ended up smoking less because he couldn’t stand the heat, and smoking was not allowed in his AC’d apartment. Sam knew that it clung relentlessly to anything it came into contact with because his father smoked. Although he mostly went outside, there were several times he couldn’t be bothered to, and Sam went to school smelling of it. Kids would look at him sideways, and he’d be so embarrassed he'd sit alone.
He remembered the pack of cigarettes in his pocket and pulled out the same one he had pondered before. The urge to throw the whole pack in a nearby trash bin suddenly confronted him. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Tomorrow. When I bring out the trash.
The park started to come into view. It was truly incredible. The city got a grant to update it a few years back, and now it was a place where people could be all day. Now, along with your typical grassy hills and tall oak trees, there was a skate park and a splash pad. The trail had been extended, so people could not only walk through but around the park, and there were restrooms that were regularly cleaned. Sam found his lighter and flicked it. The flame appeared and disappeared.
Technically, smoking was supposed to be done in the furthest corner, but most people didn’t care as long as you gave them space. Most of his time at the park was spent walking, but when he had time, he enjoyed lounging for a couple of hours on the lawn. He never had a bad day here.
It didn’t really make sense to him. He took the time to move his body and generally ate pretty well, but he couldn’t quit smoking. He tried once, after he graduated high school, and his mom asked him to try. Sam stopped all at once because it seemed like it would stick better than scaling back. The first month was terrible. Quitting those deep breaths of nicotine left him without a place to put his anger.
“Mom! Have you seen my cap and gown?”
“It’s in your closet, honey!”
“I already checked! It’s not there!”
“Look harder.” At this rate, he was going to miss his own graduation. He looked in the closet once more before walking quickly up to his mom and yelling “It’s not there!” with the same volume he used back in his room.
She didn’t yell back. She didn’t say anything. How did she forgive me for that? But she did. She stayed patient with him and gave him some advice. Because of her, he went from yelling and chewing his fingernails to running and sucking on Lifesavers.
He managed to go without a single cigarette the summer after graduation, but then he left for college, and two weeks in, he was smoking again. Being in college left him with very little time to do anything besides study and work. He still loved running, but he really only had time for it on the weekends, and the longer he smoked, the harder it became to fill his lungs.
Sam spun the cigarette left and right between his thumb and index finger as he crossed the street just before the park’s entrance. Oakwood Park in black cast iron sailed above his head, and he felt an instant burst of relief. No one had ever asked him to picture his happy place, but if they had, he’d picture this park.
The cigarette spun left-right right-left again. Several kids were hanging out at the skatepark on the left, and it looked like a couple of families were at the splash pad further ahead. His favorite spot to sit and smoke was clear of any other visitors.
To the right of the entrance, trees of various types and sizes stood on gently sloped hills. Sun and shade awaited him on the tallest hill between his two favorite trees.
How could you? How could you? How could you? How could you? His father’s words followed him to his favorite spot.
At the top of his hill, Sam rolled the cigarette. Left. Right. Think. Think. Left. Right. Right. Left. He closed his eyes and focused on his brown skin soaking in the heat from the sun.
***
“Fuck.” Sam exhaled. Smoke from a post-sex cigarette spilled from his mouth. The navy sheet creased around Ebony’s soft waist. He admired the ebb and flow of her curves. The fullness of her nose and lips mirrored the fullness of her breasts and hips. She exhaled with him. His roommate did not condone indoor smoking, but Ebony had this place to herself, so she made the rules.
“There’s just something about smoking after sex,” Ebony exhaled again. He listened intently for more and watched the smoke trace her face before floating above them, the cloud a collection of their sins.
“You can tell a lot about a person from the way they smoke,” Ebony said. She started making circles with her smoke as she exhaled, something Sam could never do.
“Oh, yeah?” Sam struck a pose. “Tell me what you see.”
“You’re confident, but shy. A people pleaser.”
Sam thought about the way he was smoking, and how she could possibly see all that from the way he inhaled and exhaled. Is it the way I hold the cigarette? He looked at his hands where the cigarette lay snuggled between his pointer and middle fingers. His thumb held far away.
“And a thinker.” She added after watching him watch himself.
“That’s definitely true,” he laughed.
“Do me,” she commanded and put her arm behind her head, opening up for more scrutiny.
“I already have.” Sam laughed again. She rolled her eyes and remained open. “Okay, okay…”
A smile hid in the corner of her mouth. The frizz of her curls caught the light and formed a halo around her head.
“You are tough,” He started. “You protect people.”
Her lips tightened as she raised her eyebrows. “Go on.”
After taking another drag, her thumb covered the butt of the cigarette.
“You don’t like sharing too much about yourself with others.”
“Oh, yeah?” She smiled.
After one final drag, instead of exhaling as she had been, she held in the smoke and leaned in towards him. The ensuing shotgun kiss left him coughing and dizzy with nicotine and love.
She continued to kiss him as she slid her hand from his chest to his dick and pulled the covers down. In one fluid move, she was straddling him once more.
“Do me again.”
***
Sam looked at his hand and how he held his unlit cigarette. He still held it that way.
In another world, he would have moved with her to New York, and they’d be cooking brunch in some beat up apartment in the Bronx. He wondered about her life there and whether she had found someone else to share her abstract thoughts with.
Would she want to know? He still loved her. Maybe she still loved him.
The smoking never bothered her because she was a smoker herself. She would have quit though. Eventually.
The sun had begun its descent, but it was still high enough in the sky that the peak of Sam’s hill was covered. Left-Right. He’d been sitting in the light for a few hours and it was starting to become too much. His thoughts continued to speed about his head. Anything other than memories was too fast to make sense of.
On his trek back down the hill, practical concerns bounced around his brain. Other than a couple hundred bucks in his checking account, he also had a 2013 Toyota Camry, a 403(b), and about fifty-one thousand dollars in student loan debt. Does your family have to pay your debt when you die? What happens to your lease? He started a list of questions on his notes app.
Now, in front of the skate park section, Sam admired the kids who skateboarded fearlessly down the ramps.
“Hey, Smoke Break!” Jeremy, a kid no taller than Sam’s elbows and with similar curly hair, shouted from the other side of the park.
“Hey, Jeremy,” Sam waved back. He waited for Jeremy to meet him at the gate, where they usually caught up. Sam babysat Jeremy for a while until he got his first full-time job. Jeremy’s inquisitive nature had always been a light in Sam’s life. One time, Jeremy asked Sam why bark on trees came in different textures. Sam had no idea, so he looked it up and told Jeremy the names of some books he could check out from the library if he wanted to know more.
Jeremy had arrived on the other side of the gate and pointed to the un-lit cigarette in Sam’s hand.
“Are you gonna smoke that?” Left. Right. Sam thought about his reply. He made it a point not to lie to children, but especially not to Jeremy.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, isn’t that why we call you Smoke Break?”
“Yeah. But I might quit soon.”
“Why?” Jeremy asked.
Sam wasn’t sure how much to say. His heart sank and his palms started to sweat.
“Smoking is pretty bad for you.”
“It is? My dad says it helps him relax.”
Jeremy looked up at Sam, patiently waiting for a response. What was he supposed to say? Sam knew Jeremy’s dad smoked weed, but that was not a conversation his parents would appreciate.
“There’s different kinds of things people can smoke. I smoke cigarettes.” And weed.
“And smoking cigarettes can cause cancer.” Cancer. I have cancer. The questions in Jeremy’s eyes did not relent. As much as Sam did not want to be having this conversation right now, he didn’t want to take anymore moments for granted.
“Do you have cancer?” he asked.
Left-Right. Right. Left. Sam twisted the cigarette. He hadn’t told anyone yet. He didn’t expect Jeremy to be the first to know, but lying to him now, only for him to find out later, seemed harmful.
The words came out as a whisper. “I do.”
Sam’s heartbeat became louder than his words. He coughed again and noticed the worsening strain and ache throughout his throat and lungs.
“Oh. Are you gonna die?” Sam’s heart sank to the ground. The question caught him off guard, but this was a possibility he couldn’t escape. Until this morning, he thought he was invincible in the way that all 20-somethings do, even at 32. None of his friends thought about death. Why would they? It always seemed so far away.
Sam didn’t want to make Jeremy upset. Besides, he didn’t really know what was going to come of his diagnosis. He dropped his shoulders down and smiled to look nonchalant, unbothered.
“Doctors are good at treating cancer. I’m sure I’ll be fine!” But he wasn’t sure at all. “Hey! Will you show me how to skateboard?” This seemed like the best time to try.
“You don’t know how?” Jeremy screamed. “It’s so easy!”
“I was more of a book kid.”
Jeremy laughed in a way that made Sam smile for real. He spent the next hour or so with Jeremy who showed him the basics of starting, stopping, and staying balanced.
***
When the sun kissed the horizon, Sam knew it was time to head home. Jeremy left about an hour ago, and when he did, Sam retreated back to his hill, spinning the cigarette and thinking unhappy thoughts. Contemplating his own mortality led to grieving the lives he never lived. At some point as a child he wanted to become a professional skydiver and jump off planes with people. His fear of being injured and his family’s teasing about the unrealistic qualities of his dream caused him to pivot towards being a veterinarian. He loved animals, but he always ended up living with people who were allergic.
He thought about his childhood cat, Snuffles, and how secretly cuddly he could be. During the day, he sat in very specific places. The furthest right couch cushion. The top of the bookshelf. The center of the kitchen table (Sam’s dad hated that). And if you got too close to Snuffles, he’d hiss until you backed away. But at night, he’d find someone to cuddle with, and that someone was usually Sam.
Phlegm thickened in Sam’s chest, encouraging him to spit again. Spitting his disease in this beautiful place felt blasphemous, but he knew the earth would simply absorb it, so he compromised by being discreet and spitting low to the grown.
Sam looked longingly down the slope of the hill. When he was little, he’d roll down the hill with his cousins in their backyard. He wasn’t sure when he stopped, but it was long ago. He couldn’t remember the feeling.
In the taut but fading summer heat, he rolled down his favorite hill. The grass became sky and the sky became dirt, rotating their roles in this reality.
The edge of the concrete slab slowed his momentum enough that he stopped just before the metal bench below. Grass covered his aching body. He reached for a cigarette, stopping at the pack’s smooth top.
Can I do this?
Can I stop?
Telling his mom without the courage of a cigarette seemed impossible.
***
In the light of the pink and purple sunset, the house on the opposite corner caught a cold, orange flame. Sam sat on his porch, cigarette in one hand and phone in the other. What am I even supposed to say? That you have cancer, duh. But how? How does a child tell their mother that they have cancer? That they could die.
His phone caught the setting sun as his hands began to shake. The cigarette turned left, right, without him thinking about it. Air left his body in retreat, and he started to panic from the lack of oxygen.
Breathe.
But he couldn’t.
When his dad died, he cried once. It was right after his mother told him. She had just found out herself. Between sobs, he thought about how he was out of chances to make things right. He could no longer forgive him, and he could no longer apologize for being difficult when his father tried to make amends.
His mother held him the whole time. And during the funeral, she never left his side. He wanted to cry like that now, but he couldn’t find the air to push at his ribs and fill his chest.
The cigarette fell from his fingers. With the bit of strength his shaking hand could muster, he pulled out the rest of the pack and put them where his one cigarette lay. Finally finding his breath, he picked up his foot and brought it back down on the cigarettes as hard as he could.
A single fiend down the steps made it clear that some of the cigarettes had survived, so he continued to stomp until they were all flat or in pieces. As he stomped, it became easier to breathe.
The first fighting breaths made his head pulse and filled his ears with silence. Sam almost didn’t hear his phone ringing. When he looked, “Mom” was centered on the screen, and although he wanted to ignore it, he recognized that this was a sign he couldn’t deny. He tapped green.
“Momma?” Sam answered.
“What’s wrong?”
Her voice filtered through the manufactured silence, clear and concerned. He didn’t have the strength to answer. He was spent.
“I’m coming over.” She didn’t hang up right away. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Sam sighed.
When Sam’s mother arrived, she parked quickly, and ran across the street. She looked at him until he looked her in the eye, and all she saw was his grief.
“What’s wrong, baby?” He was her only care in the world. His lips moved as if he were speaking, but nothing came out. Fresh tears joined the leftovers in his eyes as he began to cry again.
She held him. In his mother's arms, grief flooded his body until he could no longer contain it. It spilled out of his eyes and nose and mouth, and found a new home in the nape of her neck. She held him tighter.
