A view to a kill…

At first, it was just because I was bored, waiting in line for a pool table, with little to do, so I lit up a cigarette and smoke it slowly, haltingly, hesitantly, enjoying the momentary rush, the momentary dizziness, the momentary distraction it provided me, faster than the drink and shorter-lived. I had not smoked since I was thirteen, when I stole a cigarette out of my father’s pack of Winstons, only to cough uncontrollably when I tried to smoke it—wondering why anyone on earth would do such a crazy thing. But by the time I got to the bar, my lungs (much like everything else about me) were harder, harsher, jaded, more used to abuse. And alcohol has a way to dull the edge of reason and by God I was bored. So I smoked.

Soon, it became a sometime thing, then an often thing, then more so. I blame Patty. She smoked; she was the only one who smoked and I felt sorry that she stood by the tree outside our office, smoking by herself months now, ever only one, at lunch, Monday through Friday—and when we went out to drink. Much unlike St. Sir Thomas Moore, I sold my soul for friendship and went out to smoke with her—and thus the sun shone through my smoke for the first time in over a year—ever, really.

A year later she got married to Eli and stopped smoking. Damn her! Thereafter, I stood out by the tree by myself, smoking one and sometimes two during lunch, Monday through Friday, but not on weekends, except when we went out. But things do change and the lungs, faithful servants, quickly get used to the abuse and signal subtly that they can take on more, so I gave them more. At first, it was one or two on the way home, and then more, and then more, and then more.

Today, I finished a pack I bought Monday night on my way home from work. They’ve held steady at about $4.50 a pack for quite some time now, so my wallet doesn’t much complain—though my son (ever so much smarter than his dad) did the math and it seems like a veritable ton of money I’m burning ten times a day. I do make it a point to buy two cartons when I go to Mexico, since I’m already there, and to save money. Oddly, those last longer than the ones I buy here—perhaps they’re harsher, or seemingly more precious for coming from so far away. Either way, those two cartons last what three might last had I bought them here. I should buy them there more often. They’re cheaper, too.

Last year, I went to Seattle on vacation, seeking a dark, depressive, outright suicidal place where I could feel at home, full of blustery days and brooding moods, but no! The sun shone the entire time—I swear it was sunny at 10 p.m. It never dipped below 70 degrees and those damned Seattle people just thanked me for bringing the California weather with me. And did I forget to mention it rained the day before and the day after I was there? God does work in mysterious, often-infuriating ways.

While in Seattle, I drove up to Vancouver, just to say I’d been there. It’s a very pretty city, and though I have often said I might want to live in Seattle, I seriously now think I might prefer to live in Vancouver instead. It seemed a bit sleepy, after growing up here in Los Angeles—and I’m sure more so in comparison to the other many cities that boast of Chinese take-out at 2 a.m.

Not five minutes from parking, while walking through the beautiful city of Vancouver, two people came up to me and asked if I was looking for a cannabis café. WTF? Do I look like a druggie? Leave me alone, people, alone to pretend you have it perfect there, alone to admire the cleanliness of your streets and the crispness of your air and think that perhaps, just perhaps there is a place where Rockwell might still want to live.

A homeless woman, out on the corner handing out flyers to some local event, asked me for a cigarette. I gave it to her, of course—one of the Mexican ones in my pocket at the time. I lit hers and lit one for me as well. We talked a while. That’s how I know she’s homeless. She told me cigarettes there are about $6 American for a pack. Go figure! I paid $1.50 American for the pack we were enjoying. I looked at the pack wondering how it could be the same thing, packed in the same way, printed on the same paper with very similar ink could vary so much in price only a couple thousand miles away. Handing her the rest of the pack, I thanked her for the conversation, and walked over to Starbucks where I paid about the same for a cup of White Chocolate Mocha as I do in Los Angeles and did in Seattle.

Back to the present—in this Starbucks, and to cigarettes. I need one now. It’s been a full hour since I had one and not my lungs but my mind asks—nay!—craves one. It’s all in my head.

Yesterday, one of my coworkers told me his dad was diagnosed with stage-four lung cancer. Inoperable. Incurable. Inexplicable, as he has never smoked in his entire life. He’s chosen not to fight it—he’s 82 and claims to have lived a full life already. Personally, I think my life would take ages to be complete. So many lives I could imagine—and did just right now. Schrödinger would be proud. But he’s given up, I guess, and nothing kills faster than that.

Well, God does. But let’s not blaspheme.

He’s far too creative for that.