Loosie 2/$1

Mike smoked Newports.

Here’s what I remember about Mike:

He was from Albany.

He had contacts and eczema. We met New Years Eve and he came down for a weekend. The weekend ended with him screaming out the window of my friend’s car how much he hated Brooklyn. I believe he was actually yelling “FUCK BROOKLYN.” We pulled over and dropped him off in front of Penn Station at some ungodly hour. I never talked to him ever again. We had sex and I became addicted to Newports.The rest of the details of this regrettable affair are gone.

Sure, I’d had a few Parliment Lights outside of dirty SoHo bars with my co-workers before Mike arrived in my life. Proper artsy kids that Salinger would’ve had wet dreams about. That seemed very chic and mature of me. But this was different. The menthol was different. It was seedier. Grittier. Dirtier. Tougher.

Newports are quite indeed the heroin of the tobacco world.

And yes, I knew how gross they were.

I once dated a much older man when I was in high school who chain smoked Marlboros the entire time I stayed with him and his trashy family in Long Island. My mouth still gets dry thinking about that taste when I kissed him. Imagine a vulgar mix of the golden amber ashtrays you passed by on your way to your bedroom during one of your parents parties in the 80’s. Sade playing, smoke rings in the air, nasty, dry, flaky, ashy, trays full of grey tears. That’s what his mouth tasted like. The dying dreams of laid off coal miners. The ghosts of tobacco plantation uprisers. Tasted like shit.

But now here I am. Youthful Christina. Buying loosies from the bodega. Looking tough. Looking strong. Looking fearless. A pack of Newports was a form of street currency. I always had one available to give to any homeless person I saw. Get yourself a moment of peace. People generally left you alone to smoke. They nodded and walked past. Harassment stopped. I felt like I belonged to the tribe of stressed out, overworked, underpaid, generally sad tribe of Brooklyn basement renters. If I felt scared or lonely or bored or awkward…I always had something in my pocket that could put an invisible shield around me. I had something to do with my hands. I had somewhere to stand. I had a place in an otherwise unwelcoming city.

*Years later, I read an article about the Lorillard Tobacco Company and how they began specifically targeting minority communities in the 1980’s (earlier even, but that was the big national marketing push). There was a lawsuit against the company because a woman who was dying of lung cancer told lawyers she started smoking at 9 years old when reps from the company would come to the projects and hand out free cigarettes. Just coming buy, giving third graders Newports in the hood. Like…wild. Anyhow, they were found liable and had to pay a lot of money. Justice? But I digress.

The smoking went off and on for years. Most times it was only “when I was drinking.” Then it would be weeks and then something would happen…bad day at work. Someone in the family died. Something that, “I just need to have a smoke.” My old friend, always there to comfort me when I needed it.

Pregnancy took me out the game a few years.

Being depressed. Being alone. Being angry. Being scared. Being frustrated. Being tired. Being happy. Being human. Everything felt a little easier to manage. I mean, it really does lower your stress level…for that 5 minute (and exactly 5 minute) break. A chance to get out of your office and take the elevator down and stand on the street and chat with friends. Gossip. Laugh. It was like a secret society. A chance to get some “fresh air”. The irony is just…too good.

When I got older I realized even more how despised and hated smokers were, and more than anything in the world, I want to be liked by everyone. I was an approval whore. So I still smoke but kept it hidden, like a functional alcoholic. My dirty little secret. And that’s how it’s been years. Hidden from most people I hang out with. Definitely hidden from people I’ve dated. I lied I lied I lied. I lied so much I actually believed my lie. I wasn’t a smoker. I didn’t smoke. I never smoke. Until, they caught me smoking. And then, I lied more. I will quit. It was just the once. It wasn’t my cigarette it was my friends. I was a dirty, smelly, lying, loser. I was an addict. I didn’t love myself enough to stop.

A secret smoke before work.

I would wear a hat and a smoking jacket on my patio so that the smell wouldn’t linger on me.q

I promised I would finally quit for years.

I know, it causes cancer. I know my Aunt Elsie just died after being hooked up to an oxygen machine for the past 8 years…still trying to smoke e-cigs because she just couldn’t let it go even though it was literally killing her. I know that I was so mad at her for that, because I know that might be me.

I know I’m not hiding it as well as I think. I know anyone that gets too close to me can tell when I’ve smoked.

And yes, I will stop. Maybe this will be my final push. Me publicly admitting a dirty little secret I’ve kept for 20 years.

But here’s the real dirt. Here’s the real secret. It’s not hard to quit because I’m addicted. It’s hard to quit because I enjoy it.

Today I ran three miles like I do most mornings. (I negotiate with myself, yes you smoke but also…you ran three miles! You’re healthy!! And delusional!!!)

I went to work. I had dinner with my parents. I ate 187g of protein. I read. I worked on my puzzle. I drank a gallon of water. I did everything everyone says you should do to be a mentally and physically healthy woman in America.

And as soon as I was home alone, I put on some Tribe, sat on the patio, candlelight and wine, and lit myself a Newport cigarette.

The ancestors of the Lorillard family sitting right next to me laughing in the breeze.