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Angela Lee

The cigarette, with all its self-righteousness, is the most fragile thing. The
way it surrenders itself between the pillows of my fingers makes me believe that
I control this stick of death. It is only clothed in paper, so with ample force it can
break in a way which mimics the bone as it snaps. When it tears, the scattered
flakes of tobacco are nothing more than the indication that the cigarette is short-
lived anyway. It is death itself. As ashes come to life along its tip for a brief
second, the cigarette fades away. But as it does, it leaves a mark and an aroma
that identifies the smoker. It creates a world that only the smoker has lived in.
As it consumes itself, it allows me to consume the world it allows me to take.
A cigarette, broken or not, is never a waste. I want to believe this, because
I want to believe that the cash and the lungs that hang on its grip are given
justice. Consequently, I find comfort in the sound of packing newly-bought
cigarettes. Hitting the top edge of the fresh pack against ones palm was to keep
the shreds of tobacco tightly compacted. They say it makes sure that the sticks
would burn slower. It was an action I found both pretentious and necessary. The
crisp and distinct echo the plastic or carton container of cancer made screamed of
the desire to be noticed. The moment the feeling lingers on the base of my hand
is the moment heads turn and eyes stare with either congratulation or contempt.
That kind of attention hangs in the air as I seek for the loose bit of the
plastic tightly wrapped around the pack. This slight imperfection was meant for
me to grasp and spiral around the house of tobacco. I would then reveal the
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cheap or expensive material used to hold its residents together. It is their
protection; their faade. The moment one errs to place the pack in a pocket so
susceptible to pressure, they break with no resistance. This is where the
cigarette case finds its purpose, when one opts to pay an extra sum for the
protection of their sacred pillars of nicotine. Not me.
The attention disappears along with the torn plastic I dispose of. For some
reason, less attention is given when I pull out an older pack. There is nothing
special when one opens the less brand-new. People cannot complain against the
ancient amount of money and oxygen you wasted long ago. Either way, as soon I
flip or tear open the packs lid, I imagine all eyes that castigate to focus on
something more worthy. I am alone as I pull out the first stick.
They say that the kind of lighter one opts for defines a smoker. The
generic disposable ones found in convenience stores are the most accessible; and
one is to expect that it is used for other mundane tasks. I remember how my
mom became furious every time the household lighter disappeared during
blackouts. She would always blame my aunt, who is the only smoker in the
family. My father quit when the doctor warned that smoking more than a pack a
day was not the best companion for his diabetes. I can only imagine the amount
of black that had amassed in their lungs. It was probably as thick as the wax
trickling down the candles my mom had lit. I marveled at the purpose of the
lighter. That which fuels the cancer is that which ignites the flame.
The convenience stores Cricket or BIC lighters had nothing against the
classic Zippo lighter. The moment I saw it on screen as a kid was one of the first
moments I wanted to buy something for myself. The way the action stars and the
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gangsters flipped that iconic brass lid open with a distinct snap enthralled me.
The air of bravado, coupled with the leather jackets leaning against Harley
Davidson bikes the capitalist had sold me a dream. At that time, it did not even
occur to me that I had nothing to light with a Zippo. I merely wanted to hear
that metallic sound for myself, and make it my own. Someday, I told myself.
Someday meant learning and loving the act of dragging smoke into my
lungs. Ten or so years after the dream, it was enough reason for me to buy the
treasured lighter. I held the chunk of brass worth six times my daily allowance
myself. It was cold and heavy against my palm. I chose among the cheapest ones
amidst other attractive designs, and swore to return with a more promising
budget. A silver Zippo with the Serenity Prayer engraved on it was sold that day.
I wonder if I forced myself to fall in love with the paradox to get my moneys
worth. I knew it was better than the colorful disposable lighters at least I had a
strong reason not to lose this one. No, more than that, this was what defined me.
If it was only the attention I was aiming for, I might as well have settled for
matches.

While one balances the flimsy stick between their lips, their hands focus
on keeping the flame of their lighter sheltered against the wind. The Zippo is
windproof, so instead I focus on keeping a good grip on the heavy lighter. When
one uses their hands to form a nest at the edge of the stick, they take their first
few sips. This is to test a running flame that would slowly travel along the sticks
body. As one lets out a number of scattered puffs, it is dense enough to affirm the
presence of a smoker. Once the flame becomes reliable, one keeps the lighter
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somewhere safe. The nest of hands break, and you only need one hand to cradle
death between your fingers.
The first sip is the least satisfying. Tasting the hint of chemicals reminds
you that the cigarette, with all its glory, is factory-made. You exhale this first
drag, and promise yourself that the second would be better. This time, you suck
in the smoke and leave it resting in your mouth, allowing the heat to cool down.
You then breathe it in, permitting the devil to work its way into your system.
The best cigarettes do not usually leave an itch in your throat. As you exhale,
you notice the trickle of smoke that failed to get into your lungs. Some choose to
exhale through the mouth, some through the nose. I used to prefer the nasal
pathways, thinking it allowed me to fully taste and smell the cigarettes flavor.
The rich taste of tobacco however would always leave enough aftertaste for me to
never know which way was better.
Whenever I take a drag, I could clearly feel the sensation of smoke
spreading within my lungs. As these chambers expand while I inhale, the tickle
inside my chest suggests that it may be the other way around. Instead, it feels as
if they are contracting with each sip I choose to inhale. But it feels good. The
short wave of pleasure the smoker identifies as the buzz is the nicotines hold on
you. It is a light euphoric feeling in your head that keeps one addicted after the
second stick. The first one is always a dilemma it can only give birth or abort a
smoker. Experiencing the first buzz was not the most appealing, because it
would most likely result to a fit of coughing and a round of nausea. I remember
lying completely still on the bed for five minutes after smoking from the second
pack I ever bought.
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My parents were out when I decided to drop by a convenience store one
night. It was odd for me to try something risky and unplanned. I entered
carefully, scanning for any familiar faces. When I felt safe, I approached the
counter and frantically searched for the most familiar pack. I settled for a
Marlboro that I usually saw my aunt, my friends, or the people in the streets
smoking. It was a black and green pack that even I could tell was a menthol
variant. Ignoring the wary stare the cashier gave me, I purchased the pack and a
small Cricket lighter. I made my way to our apartments staircase to keep away
from any neighbor or absolutely anyone. As a beginner my first sip was guarded
carefully avoiding any form of coughing. Never having learned how to smoke, I
did not know that I had to inhale the black air into my lungs. I simply sipped
and blew the smoke out like a child who played with bubbles. Even when I
learned about the proper way, the idea of it was daunting.
The fear was rewarded when I found the charm of smoking. It was more
than the brief pleasure granted to your mind. It was my brief escape from the
anxiety that the daily troubles of life caused. Smoking gave me a reason to be
alone. I could escape from the pressure of the schools deadlines, the
condescending air my mother left in our apartment, or the uncertainty of my
future. The reason was to be excused momentarily from life, and even though it
was not a healthy way to be excused, you will be forever separated from the
wholesome anyway. The area infected by the smoke I exhaled marked my
territory: I was not to be bothered with unless I granted you permission.
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Although the trail of smoke could also mark death, it might as well save me from
what life could kill me with.

I remember my first encounter with the cigarette was when I found my
aunts unzipped bag very interesting. I was around six years old. If the rest of the
family were to find any way to condemn her, it was her smoking habit. This
made me wonder how the white roll of paper that made the adults look cool
would shun them from the socially good. I would find the white pack of
Marlboros nestled within a pocket, ready to be opened again. I pulled out a stick,
pressed it against my nostrils, and took in the unique aroma. I found it fragrant,
and wondered why it would smell so bad when smoked or when its smell clung to
my aunts body. When I later found out that smoking could kill a person, I
promised myself to never try a single lung dart ever.

Despite the euphoria a cigarette grants, it also makes me even more
conscious of the world around me. The cars that drive by, the people around your
smoking circle, and the environment you take in during a session are as crisp as
the tip of your burning stick. But the world around you is something you witness
as an observer you are fleeting and are put aside from a rich reality. What you
have is the rich taste of tobacco dancing on your tongue; while you are made to
witness the rare acts of altruism that occur between passerby and beggar, the
cacophonic rush of commuters, the insects that drape upon an unsuspecting leaf,
the pollution from the citys endless display of trucks, or the rambunctious
streetchildren who ask you for a stick. You watch and appreciate the smaller
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things, and for that brief moment you are made small and unaware of societys
chastising.

As I stare at the cape of smoke waving against the tip of my knuckles, I
am reminded of the many superheroes that had saved countless lives. You
merely want to convince yourself that the ugly goop of tar that forms within the
cigarette filter is that which would save you. But as you take one last drag and
drop the filter that was once a majestic pillar, you notice that the cigarette will
always die swiftly. Stepping on its remains emphasizes that in the end, it is
nothing more than a cancer stick the commodity makes us want. The cigarette
once so fragile is strongest at its grave. We are again at a dilemma, choosing
between the brief instances of life or the endless reminder of it.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to
change the things I can and wisdom to know the difference.

The cigarette, with all its self-righteousness, is the most destructive thing.



25 August 2014