Cigar

I see this guy in here once a month, like clockwork. Always the same. He wanders in on a Friday evening, still in his suit. I've seen the flash of a badge on his belt. I take him for a Fed. Not too many detectives or beat cops frequent my shop. To be honest, not too many Feds do, for that matter--unless they're on up in management. This guy, though…there's no way he's management. He's got that look of someone who's seen too much in his life, but still hits the streets because there's no way he'd enjoy the view from behind a desk any better. I've seen that look before. I came from a family of cops and could probably tell you more about law enforcement-types than an average Joe would ever get from a 20 minute conversation with one.

No, not too many of D.C.'s finest find their way into my shop. I see more business from politicians or, more often, their staffers sent on an errand run. Not too many of them want to get caught by the press coming out of a high end cigar shop. The commotion from one of those anti-tobacco lobby groups can cause would be enough headache to make someone need a cigar to relax with…

Anyway…this guy. Always with the monthly Friday night visit. Always with the same cigar. Not the most expensive thing I've got, but still a decent selection, and probably a little on the extravagant side for what I imagine he makes. Probably explains why it's only once a month. We had worked into this routine over the years. At first, he'd examine the selection to see if there was something else he may try, but then after a few months he gave up the pretense of looking around and a few months after that, I gave up trying to suggest something new.

So we'd come to the easy familiarity of two guys who see each other often and know each other, but don't really know each other. We'd chat briefly about those things guys talk about – the latest hockey game, the weather, how the football teams were looking this year—that type of thing. And then he'd be off with his cigar. And one month would pass and he'd be back and we'd repeat the cycle. I'd gathered through the years that he had a son he didn't get to see much and a partner that drove him nuts and made him crazy for her. (Though, I must admit, I used to think he was switching partners pretty often because there was no way he was talking about the same person, but, as it turns out, I was wrong.)

This month, he didn't come by when he normally did. I noticed immediately, but wrote it off as maybe he'd finally drawn up the courage and was taking that partner of his out on a date. It was Friday night, afterall. All things considered, it was probably more peculiar that he had managed to spend a Friday night every month swinging by my shop by himself than it was that he actually didn't stop by one Friday night.

When I get home and flick on the news, though, I see him there staring back at me. Dead from a gunshot wound to the chest the weekend before. Funeral services to be held next weekend in Arlington. "Decorated war hero, FBI special agent……" The TV commentary buzzes in the background as I think of what I knew of this man and think about what his son will do and what of that partner of his? Then I find myself briefly considering going to his funeral. In some ways, I've known him longer than many of my friends, even longer than my wife. But that would be weird. Thoughts flash before my eyes of having to explain how I knew but didn't really know this man to those who really did know him and quickly decide against attending.

And for the next week, I mostly push aside thoughts of this man I barely knew, aside from the daily news report and brief thoughts of him as others bought what I had come to think of as the 'FBI special' cigar he always procured.

On the day of his funeral, I am working on restocking and reorganizing shelves behind the cash register in the evening when I hear the door chime. I nearly drop the box in my hand as HE walks in, grabs his cigar and makes his way toward me. I notice some of his movements are stiff, but overall, he's….well…he's very much alive. I'm sure I have a look of shock on my face as he begins to pull out his wallet but I snap out of it soon enough.

"Don't worry about it. I think you've had a couple hard weeks. It's on the house, man."

He grunts, pulls out some bills, and drops them on the counter despite my protests. "You don't know the half of it." He turns and is nearly to the door when he yells back, "See you next month."

....he seems so sure of himself...I can't help but believe him....