I’m a two pack a day man, smoke like a fiend
Like a burned out bearing in a bad machine
I cayn’t breath in the mornin’ till I get myself a cigarette lit
Say, Daaaa aaaad Blame, anyways a man cayn’t quit.
–Roger Miller
I did not meet her as a teenager, as so many others do. True, I saw her often, flirting with the gutter punks and metal heads, men, women, she was indiscriminate, flirty bitch, and I was not attracted to her. I was NOT.
Paul introduced us. He had not known her very long, but he invited her along one night. We had no plan. It wasn’t a formal date. Just friends, feeling the first flush of adult independence but with nothing to do except drive around that dirty Indiana river town. Five of us drove out to the river. There was Paul and her, Kelly and Jenny, and myself. They all knew her better than I did, and I was uncomfortable around her, awkward, but I wanted to get to know her. I wanted to impress her, show her how cool I was. I didn’t know then how easily impressed she was.
There, on the banks of the Ohio, our first kiss. My head was a mason jar of frenzied fireflies. Ecstasy.
Summer of ‘96 I packed all my belongings into my little red Sentra. Rix later christened my Sentra the S.S. or Smoking Section, but she had not gotten that name yet, her upholstery still smelled new, like petroleum jelly.
The S.S. and I winded our way to Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary in Fort Worth, Texas, making stops along the way in St. Louis, Hot Springs AR, Glenwood, AR, and Norman, OK. In the time it took to get from Evansville, IN to Fort Worth, TX, I fully committed to tobacco, and on that trip, I switched my allegiances from cigarettes to the pipe. This was a decision made on a whim as I rolled through a drive-thru smoke shop in Hot Springs. There I bought a corncob pipe and a pouch of Prince Albert. The pipe I named Quennie.
Queenie and I snaked our way through the Ozarks, puffing and laughing, light headed. This was when one puff still gave me the lightening bug feeling. Empty one bowl, tapping her out on the side of the S.S.. Fill another. Empty another bowl, tap tap tap. Fill another. Puff, Puff, Puff. Later that night I sat around a campfire with Luc and Irys and we passed her around, taking turns. There was something sad in the air that night, like fumes of Auschwitz, and the tepee was cold despite Queenie’s presence.
How could I know then that I would scarcely spend a night without her for the next twelve years.
I don’t smoke, and I don’t chew, and I don’t go with the girls that do.
~anonymous
I knew immediately when I arrived on the campus of Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary that i had made a mistake in coming there. A quick review of the bumper stickers in the dormitory parking lot told me all I needed to know: “My Boss is a Jewish carpenter,” “We Vote Pro-life,” “In Case of Rapture, this Vehicle Will Be Unoccupied.” But in that election year, the top-rated bumper sticker was “Dole/Kemp ‘96.” Even in the height of my religious fervor, I despised jingoistic Christianity and hated this identification of evangelical Christianity with the Republican party, and SWBTS, the largest Christian seminary in the world, was, at that time in history, the seedbed of jingoistic, politicized Christiainity.
Smoking was anathema. No one smoked on campus. In fact, all SWBTS students were required to sign a pledge saying that we would not smoke or drink alcohol. I broke that pledge within two seconds of my arrival. I violated the pledge at least five times a day during my brief stay. I was afraid, though, of getting kicked out of graduate school, so I smoked in secret.
If smoking is an ice cream sundae, smoking in secret is the whipped cream and cherry on top. The secret makes the smoke delicious. My favorite place to smoke was the Denny’s on University Avenue in Fort Worth, and it was here that I would spend my nights and early mornings for the one and one-half years that I endured SWBTS.
My habit was to go the seminary library and check out books of theology that had been blacklisted from classroom reading lists. Then I would take these books to Denny’s and devour them along with twenty cigarettes. Yes, cigarettes. Queenie demanded too much codling. She was a demanding lover. She needed constant attention, cleaning, accessories. Ciggies only needed a light, and Armando, the manager at the Denny’s was always good for a light. He was sweet on me.
Then one rainy Tuesday afternoon, I couldn’t handle SWBTS anymore. I was sitting in my Southern Baptist History class. Earlier that morning at Denny’s I had finished a book about the recent history of the Baptist Convention. I read about the so-called “purge” of liberalism; I read about the back room deals (one wonders what might be different had those rooms been smoke filled); I read about all the subterfuge and jockeying for power, and I was illuminated. “I am not a Southern Baptist anymore.” I left class, got in the Smoking Section, lit a cigarette, and drove the ninety-miles to Waco, TX where I enrolled at the Truett Seminary. They didn’t care that I smoked, or at least, they didn’t make me sign anything saying I wouldn’t. True, they were still Baptists, but they were kinder, gentler Baptists. Joining their ranks brought catharsis for a time. To celebrate, I sat on the banks of the Brazos and smoked half a pack in the rain.
