January 14-21, 2012: Smoked Out

An hour or so after I was laid off from Crushed Soul Publishing, the conditions were perfect for me to crack.

I exited Crushed Soul HQ for the final time and trudged across the blacktop to my car, which was parked next to the smoking area. Fate, it seemed, was about to play another cruel trick on me: A good friend of mine was standing right there with a cigarette in his hand. As I explained to him what had happened, smoke billowed through the air and into my welcoming nostrils. It was the first pleasing sensation I had experienced since being delivered the gut-slamming news that I no longer had a job.

Maybe just one cigarette, I thought. Lord knows, I deserve one right now.

I had been down this road many times in the past. One cigarette would lead to two cigarettes, whether it was the next day, the next week or the next month. And two cigarettes would lead to three cigarettes, and so on. Ultimately, I would be a “smoker” again—the guy huddled somewhere with a butt as the “non-smokers” eyed me contemptuously while walking past.

On the other hand, this was an extenuating circumstance. I had just been laid off, for crying out loud. “It's okay to have just one,” whispered the little red man on my shoulder. “You won't go back to smoking again.”

This time, however, I didn’t crack. Instead, I shook hands with my friend, got into my car, fired up the engine and drove off to an uncertain future.

Not that the little red man hasn’t reared his little red head since then. There have been plenty of moments during these past several months when a smoke would have calmed my frayed nerves, such as:

• The time I needed a root canal. Doctors, big needles and pain in general tend to bring out the worst in me.

• The time Fluffy was prone on the bathmat, his fate hanging in the balance. A world without Fluffy is just too grim to fathom.

• The times I’ve popped out of a deep sleep at 3 a.m.—for some blasted reason, it’s always 3 a.m.—and wondered, What the hell am I going to do with the rest of my life?

Or there have been plenty of moments these past several months when a smoke would have given me a much-needed boost of energy, such as:

• Right now. Nicotine is like a steroid for the brain—a shot of it makes me more lucid. For years, I relied on cigarettes to help me get my creative juices flowing when I wrote, but that era has passed. I was once Sammy Sosa hitting tape-measure blasts—now I’m Craig Counsell just trying to dribble a grounder or two up the middle.

Or there have been plenty of moments these past several months when a smoke would have made a happy occasion that much happier. Such as:

• The time our friends the Plelis gave me a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label as a “present” for being laid off. What better way to complement a glass of this wondrous spirit than with a smoke?

• After every workout. Sick and counterproductive as it may seem, this was always my favorite cigarette—it enhanced my high after an endorphin-releasing round of exercise.

I’m pissed off that I can’t smoke anymore. It means I’m getting old and wise, and I don’t want to be old and wise. I enjoyed being young and reckless. Back then, I was indestructible, and nothing bad was ever going to happen to me.

As the years have passed, however, I’ve learned the inevitable lesson: Bad stuff can happen to anyone, even me. For starters, I’m old enough and wise enough to realize that being laid off is a walk in the park compared to lung cancer, emphysema or a good old-fashioned heart attack.