The Smoking Gun

Before leaving New York a few weeks ago, I treated myself to a grown up night out.

All by myself.

I went to go see a Broadway play.

I enjoyed a slice of pizza.  

Or three.

And at the end of the night, I walked around Times Square.

Smoking a cigar.

Mad Men here I come.

The Broadway part and the pizza part were part of my usual routine.

But the cigar is something I don’t usually do.

But once or MAYBE twice a year.

For some reason, it just felt like the right place.

And the right time.

A few years ago a guy I was working with said he got a Christmas gift from Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Yes, that Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Is there another?

I’m not sure how he knew him, but the gift was a bunch of cigars.

And since my friend didn’t smoke he handed them out to those of us who did.

Or at least said we did.

A cigar from The Terminator, how could I turn that down?

Of course, it’s been seven years since I got that gift, so that probably gives you some confirmation of where my smoking habit is.

Now for those of you who read Cigar Aficionado, I’m sure you have a pretty good idea of how dry an unhumidorified cigar can become after sitting in a ziploc bag on top of my dresser.

For seven plus years.

For those of us who don’t smoke much, I couldn’t tell the difference.

After going through nearly an entire pack of matches, I finally got the thing lit.

And once it was lit, I became very cool.

Instantly.

It was like my cigar didn’t stink.

I spent about 45 minutes huffing and puffing.

But no inhaling.

My friend Bill said that inhaling is not good for you.

But boy did I feel cool.

And people really responded to me.

Two different people asked me if I had an extra cigarette for them.

Which I did not.

But I was really fitting in with the New York crowd.

Smoking is big in Manhattan.

Of course they don’t allow it in bars or in buildings or in restaurants or pretty much anywhere.

Except right on the street where everybody has to walk through it.

Second hand smoke is more popular in Gotham than a yellow taxi.

My favorite part is when you meet the stealth smoker.

There you are, walking up 5th Avenue, minding your own business, when all of a sudden, right in front of you...

BAM.  POOF.  POW.

The puff of smoke appears from out of nowhere.

And you’ve got nowhere to go, but right through it.

And the next thing you know, you are inhaling.

I’ve actually never purchased a pack of cigarettes and I had no idea how much they cost.

Until I walked into a Manhattan convenience store and saw the price.

Holy lung cancer Batman!

$15 a pack.

People are paying $15 a pack to kill themselves?

These infamous two-pack-a-day smokers are spending like $20 a day --- sorry, carry the one...

THIRTY BUCKS A DAY ON CIGARETTES.

Are you kidding me?

No wonder those two people were trying to bum a free cigarette off of me.

Times are tough.

But apparently once you start, there’s no stoppin.

Not long ago, my friend Phil and I were strolling through Greenwich Village on a beautiful Saturday afternoon.

As we walked past one of the many bars, we saw a group of people standing outside, wearing red t-shirts.

As we got closer, we noticed that they were smoking.

And we also noticed their t-shirts said they were supporting their friend Troy.

Who has cancer.

Or had cancer.

We didn’t hang around long enough to find out if Troy was still with us or not.

Or what kind of cancer Troy had.

I just found it amazing that a group of people were supporting their friend who has cancer by standing outside of a bar.

On a beautiful Saturday afternoon.

Smoking cigarettes.

Ironic.

Like a death row pardon, two minutes too late.