The wooden match flared brightly as I fumbled\u00a0my hands in front of my face.\u00a0 The flame once again danced\u00a0dangerously close to the tips of my fingers.\u00a0 It was supposed to dance dangerously close to\u00a0the\u00a0end of the cigar clamped\u00a0in my teeth.\u00a0 After five matches you’d think I’d\u00a0figure it out.\u00a0 The pile of burnt match sticks at my feet was getting embarrassing.\u00a0 I just hoped no one was watching.\u00a0 Before I could get more than two puffs and a quarter rotation I was forced to put out that match, too.\u00a0\u00a0How hard is it to light up a stogie, honestly?<\/p>\n
Some weeks back, a dear relation of mine sent me a package for my birthday: assorted candies, teas, sweeteners, etc., that I took to be the end result of\u00a0her latest kitchen\u00a0cabinet cleaning.\u00a0 Why she\u00a0put it into a box to send to me instead of into the “circular file”, I could never quite figure out.\u00a0 I was more than a little concerned that apparently this dear relation of mine looks at a pile of refuse and immediately thinks of me.\u00a0 I would hope that it would be stunning works of art or paragons of physical perfection that would remind her of me.\u00a0 But I digress.\u00a0\u00a0I should have been grateful really:\u00a0 usually it’s the contents\u00a0of her desk that end up in the postmarked box.\u00a0 Honestly, how many Post-Its, paper clips and ball point\u00a0pens\u00a0does one man need?\u00a0<\/p>\n
Included in the package amongst the assorted odds and ends this time\u00a0was one of\u00a0her husband’s highly prized\u00a0cigars. \u00a0It was a fine cigar, plump and lengthy, with just the right amount of crackle: not too wet, not too dry.\u00a0 The man obviously has a fine person managing his humidor.\u00a0 I suspect it\u00a0to be my own dear relation.<\/p>\n
I called\u00a0my dear relation\u00a0to thank her immediately upon opening the package and she recommended I smoke the cigar at a Super Bowl party.\u00a0 I thought this to be an inspired idea and I decided then and there to do just that.\u00a0 More precisely on the way home from the party. You know how these non-smokers are about smoking indoors, especially a cigar.<\/p>\n
I stepped outside to the curb and lit my cigar with a wooden matchstick, as I understand that is one of the cleanest ways to light up.\u00a0 A\u00a0lighter would\u00a0pollute the flavor of the tobacco with the tang of\u00a0lighter fluid,\u00a0and wood smoke would serve only to enhance\u00a0it.\u00a0 Or so I’m told.\u00a0 So this is what I did.\u00a0 And in my unpracticed hands, it took at least\u00a0five minutes and\u00a0a cascade of matches that, before I gave up,\u00a0yielded only a lopsided result.\u00a0 So with a glowing\u00a0orange semi-circle\u00a0leading the way,\u00a0I blinked my way through the smoke-induced tears and headed west for the subway.<\/p>\n
So there I\u00a0was at 11:30pm casually strolling through Harlem, NYC smoking a quality cigar and thinking I look like a real bad ass.\u00a0 Except when the smoke goes a little too far down my throat.\u00a0 At which point I double over, grab my knees and\u00a0attempt to keep my lungs from making a break for the outside world.\u00a0 And, curiously, it’s at that very same moment that the world decides to tilt violently on its axis while the stars\u00a0do their best imitation of the Northern Lights.\u00a0\u00a0And all the while\u00a0trying to remain cool.\u00a0 Man, those cigars are good.<\/p>\n
The occasional\u00a0bronchial spasm aside, I thought my “puff pacing” wasn’t bad, though I was concerned I might be hitting it a little hard.\u00a0 Being the natural-born miser that I am, I had to\u00a0try to smoke as much of\u00a0the cigar\u00a0as possible by the time I reached the subway entrance where I’d have to discard it before heading underground.\u00a0 I was concerned that a draw every\u00a0three steps or so might be a little much, especially for one unused to tobacco as I was, but I had limited geography to accomplish my goal and it was getting smaller with every step.\u00a0 I got about half of it\u00a0smoked before the green, half-domed lights loomed in the distance telling me I was close to my destination.\u00a0 That was when I started to feel it.<\/p>\n
I usually have a pretty\u00a0decent sense of equilibrium.\u00a0 I wouldn’t want to walk the high steel or\u00a0start\u00a0a tight rope act\u00a0but there’s been no vertigo or bouts of dizziness that I can remember that weren’t induced by playground shenanigans or raging influenza.\u00a0 Even on the rare occasions when I’ve managed to over-indulge on fermented spirits, I’ve never felt dizzy.\u00a0 Tunnel vision, yes.\u00a0 Nauseous, yes. \u00a0Vertigo, no.\u00a0 This time, I was dizzy.<\/p>\n
I stood on the corner of the cobblestone island\u00a0by the subway\u00a0stairs\u00a0taking a last couple of puffs and having them go straight to my head.\u00a0 It seemed a shame to discard so much of a good cigar still unsmoked.\u00a0 I tried to tamp out the glowing cherry on the metal rail of the stairway.\u00a0 No dice.\u00a0 It was a hard, orange, glowing ember.\u00a0 It wasn’t going anywhere.\u00a0 So I took out my pocket knife and started to cut off the glowing end.<\/p>\n
I gave a generous length of about an inch from the lit end of the cigar and cut it against the railing. Between my swimming head and a knife not designed for\u00a0such a\u00a0purpose, I made a ragged job of it.\u00a0 I crushed out the lit end on the cobblestones under foot then examined what remained of the stogie.\u00a0 It looked okay, not really singed on the cut end.\u00a0 But what concerned me is that it was still warm.\u00a0 I wrapped it back in the plastic wrap I had taken it out of and twisted both ends.\u00a0 Then I stood there with my head swimming, staring at the wrapped remains\u00a0and pondering the possibilities.\u00a0 In the end, the image of me tucking away a quietly smoldering half cigar wrapped in slowly melting cling wrap only to have it burst into flames at a most inopportune moment, like\u00a0while slowly nodding off to sleep in the seat\u00a0of a swaying subway car, won out.\u00a0 I regretfully tossed it into the trash and held tight to the handrail as I\u00a0wobbled down the stairs to catch my train.<\/p>\n
I made sure to stand well back from the platform edge as I texted\u00a0my dear relation\u00a0the results of her suggestion and offered one of my own: \u00a0that maybe her dear husband could give me\u00a0a lesson or two in cigar smoking upon the occasion of my next visit. \u00a0I had a feeling I might need one.\u00a0 After all, real men smoke cigars.\u00a0 Don’t they?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The wooden match flared brightly as I fumbled\u00a0my hands in front of my face.\u00a0 The flame once again danced\u00a0dangerously close to the tips of my fingers.\u00a0 It was supposed to dance dangerously close to\u00a0the\u00a0end of the cigar clamped\u00a0in my teeth.\u00a0 After five matches you’d think I’d\u00a0figure it out.\u00a0 The pile of burnt match sticks at … Continue reading