Cigarette

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• July 24, 2017

A waitress crouches in a dirty New York City alley to light her cigarette.  It’s hot.  She wipes beads of sweat from her forehead as she takes a drag.  She’s about my age.  Dark hair.  Light eyes.  Pretty.  I wanted to be her.  Not overall.  No, not at all.  I rarely want to be anyone but myself save for fleeting moments.  I’ve been a waitress, and I hate that life.  It was more in that instant, the temporary relief of that cigarette, the world stopping for a even a second.  That’s what I wanted.

I realized I had been staring at her, though I wasn’t really looking at her, I was zoning out with my eyes in her direction, remembering when I used to get yelled at for “oxygen breaks” I used to take when I worked in a restaurant instead of cigarette breaks.  I thought of all the times I was stuck in traffic, or wanted to leave a bar, or looking at the stars and wished I was smoking a cigarette.  It’s a bizarre craving, since I have never smoked a cigarette.  Weed, spliffs, cigars, sure, but never cigarettes.  By the time I was 20, I had successfully never even had a drag of a cigarette, so I figured, why start now?  Dying sooner should be the number one motivator not to smoke, but if anything, that was one of the pros of smoking to me.  I also always viewed smokers as cool, but I never viewed myself as a cool person, or someone who strives to be.

No doubt I’ve a bit of an addictive personality, so I’d be fucked if I was a smoker.  While oral hygiene, skin, and money were leading reasons to not start that vice, the main reason was because my Mom hated cigarette smoking so much.  She hates cigarette smoking for all the logical reasons, but to an insane degree.  Look, I’m not a smoker, but I really do not give a shit what you do to your meat vehicle.  It’s your life.  All the times I got in trouble for smelling like pot were nothing compared to how bad my sister was reamed for cigarettes.  I have theorized that my Mom’s actual disdain for cigarettes derives from her father, who was a smoker and beat the shit out of my Mom.  She says it’s just because it’s a disgusting habit.  We’re both right, probably.

My Mom, despite a turbulent childhood, has never played the victim.  She doesn’t even begrudge her father for being awful, long ago forgave him, and often reminisces about him fondly, as he was smart, funny, and creative, even with his outright awful temper.  Though that’s my Mom’s disposition.  She’s a good person.

Before my cousins wedding in Milwaukee, my cousin and I were texting about the festivities.  I asked her if she was stressed out, and she said, “some times, but then I think of your mom on the dance floor.”  At this, I laughed.  My Mom is a notorious dance floor junky.  When the music is playing, her energy is boundless, and no is having a better time than she is.  While she could be drunk or sober to groove, I have to be pretty (very) drunk to get on the dance floor.  But I will join my mom, and together we’ll lose ourselves to music.  Vodka and rhythm doesn’t stop the world from spinning, but rather you spin with it.  All you can ever do is what you can do now, the trick of it all is enjoying that.  Booze helps this, of course.  But when booze wears, you’re faced with reality even harder than before, making you just want more substance.  I understand alcoholics.  Though it’s music that I’ll get lost in over and over and over again.  On the subway, on a plane, driving in my car, in my apartment, walking in a park, writing in a cafe.  Music, my forever friend, the gateway to the minds nooks and mirror for emotions.  My hearing is already damaged, which is okay.  Though I decided long ago I’d kill myself if I went deaf.  Life is not worth it without music.

So you’ll always find me with headphones in, music at a max volume.  I’m addicted to it, because it makes me happy, because it makes life better, even if it’s just one song for four minutes.  Even if once the songs over, the feeling is gone, and I’m back to facing whatever maladies and messes I’ve made.  Like when the that waitress takes one last drag and puts the cigarette out on the concrete.  The relief is gone, and she goes back to work.  Is happiness a mere cigarette break or the perfect song in the right moment?  Many times I’ve believed this.  That life is harsh and cruel, and that a felicitous life is a fairy tale.  But I am proven wrong time and time again by my own Mother.