Chapter 6
What is a Man without a Vice?
"Show me a man without
a vice and I'll show you
a lying son-of-a-bitch."
~ Robert Frost, 1984
Sometimes I feel like a cigarette is my oldest friend. A cigarette will never let you down. When life has gotten you trodden down and your friends and family alike have all turned their backs on you, a cigarette will be there for you. A cigarette would never strip you naked and lock you out in the cold in the dead of winter. A cigarette would never show up, drunk, to your ninth birthday party and urinate on the cake. A cigarette would never cheat on you with your best friend and then tell the whole fraternity about it. No, a cigarette would never abandon you in a gas station bathroom, steal your car, and head to the next state with the station attendant. But I digress.
A man's first cigarette is an experience which he never forgets. I still remember my first cigarette like it was yesterday. It was a Camel Turkish Gold—the good stuff. My father had only taken one drag off of it. He was engaged with my mother in one of their regular exchanges of witticisms. I watched intently as he carefully lit the tip, whilst my mother told him in no uncertain terms that she had married the wrong brother. I was so captivated, watching the brightening of the orange glow as he inhaled, that I barely heard Mom add that at least Uncle Jim could hold down a job. I was mesmerized as my father stubbed the cigarette out in the living room ashtray just before screaming at her that she and Uncle Jim would make a perfect match and he would see them both in hell, then storming out the front door. My mother, as she often did after one of these exchanges of banter, took her leave to the bedroom where she remained for several days, leaving me alone with the cigarette.
I was thirteen at the time and I knew well enough that I should stay away from the thing. Cigarettes were for men, not boys. Still, I could hear it calling to me. The lingering wisps of smoke, reached out to my teenage nostrils, drawing me in. I tried to resist, truly I did. But in that scent I smelled my father's approval. I smelled manhood waiting for me. I smelled life and I wanted a taste. After making sure my father had driven away, leaving his telltale tire marks across the front lawn that indicated he wouldn't return for at least a week, I settled into his easy chair. Gingerly I lifted the abandoned cigarette from the ashtray. With my thumb and forefinger, I carefully straightened the bent tip. I ran the sleeve of tobacco under my nose, taking in the aroma of the tobacco mingling with the faint scent of the scotch that had been on Dad's breath. It smelled like adulthood. It smelled like home. It smelled like freedom.
Carefully, I lifted my father's lighter from the end table. I considered the weight of it in my little hand. It seemed to match the weight of the situation. Often we only realize our experience of a milestone or a rite of passage in retrospect. This was one that I appreciated in the moment. A new day was dawning and I felt the importance of it on my shoulders. I raised the cigarette to my lips just as I had seen my father do so many times before. As I flicked the flint and the lighter sparked to life, I could feel my eyes dilate in anticipation. Then, I drew the flame to the tip of my father's cigarette and, with a long, slow drag, I brought the thing back from the dead.
I've heard many people tell the tale of their first cigarette and admit that they had a coughing fit or even threw up. That was not the case with Bill McNeal. Perhaps it was all the years of second-hand smoke from my father, which I had endured. Maybe it was simply that the cigarette and I were meant to be together. Whatever the case may have been, I did not cough. I did not sputter. I certainly did not vomit. No, I inhaled that sweet smoky goodness and held it in my lungs as though I were embracing it in a long awaited hug. It felt comforting, almost as though the smoke were hugging me in return. As I exhaled, I felt older—more mature. When that first breath of smoke cleared, I saw the world more vividly than before. There was nothing I couldn't do. Or so it seemed.
In actuality, there was one very important thing I could not do: buy cigarettes. Once I had a taste of that delicious embrace, I wanted more. However, I was not of the legal age and, given that I hadn't hit puberty yet, there was no way I was going to sneak one past the local store clerk. Thus, I had to resort to petty theft. I would swipe one or two cigarettes from my father's pack—never enough that he would notice, but as many as I thought I could get away with. Every now and then I could snag one of my mother's Virginia Slims, which she kept hidden away in her nightstand drawer. Once I was even able to sneak a couple drags off the lit cigarette pinched between my father's fingers when he fell asleep in front of the television. Times were tough back then, but I persevered. One day I would be old enough to buy my own smokes like the man I already felt I was inside.
By the time I reached the age of sixteen, my older brother was old enough to purchase cigarettes legally. Every so often I could talk him into buying me a pack. The price was steep, though, and I wasn't always willing to pay it. It wasn't just the cash, although he did charge a 200% markup. The real price was what I had to agree to do at school the following day. Johnny would buy a pack on my behalf, but he would hold it in safekeeping until we arrived in the school halls the next morning. He would not relinquish my cigarettes until I had smeared on some bright red lipstick and attempted to kiss the biggest, toughest jock I could find. After I had taken my beating and endured the laughing and finger pointing, only then would he pass me that small box filled with my twenty little friends.
When the glorious day finally came that I was able to buy my own cigarettes, I was free. I made it my personal goal to try every brand and variety available. I now consider myself something of a connoisseur when it comes to the art of smoking. If you really want to know what makes Bill McNeal tick, start by smoking about a thousand packs of cigarettes. You might start to get the idea.
Over the years, the God-given freedom to be able to enjoy a cigarette anywhere I so choose as a red blooded American, has been questioned. Do-gooder politicians and whiny office spazzes alike have tried to infringe on the rights of smokers like me. To them I say, I'll be damned if you're going take away my freedom to kill myself any way I so choose. Yes, I am fully aware that cigarettes are bad for my health and may one day kill me. But what a way to go. I can think of no kinder killer than sweet, sweet nicotine. Still, I try to lead a balanced life—spread out my risk factors, so to speak. Thus, where smoking ends, drinking begins.
It is a fact that I am, sometimes, a drinking man. There's nothing quite like the gentle burn of a good scotch to cap off a perfect New York day. Nothing hits the spot quite like an ice cold beer when you've had a long week of filing restraining orders against stalkers and potential assassins. I find a stiff gin and tonic is a great way to take the edge off when you realize your girlfriend has stolen your car again. Yes, alcohol can be almost as wonderful a companion as a cigarette.
Much like the way I remember my first smoke, I have not forgotten that first taste of alcohol. Although, unlike my first cigarette, my first drink did make me throw up. That was most likely because it was very quickly followed by my second, third, and fourth drinks. Even so, that first sip was pure magic.
I had just turned seventeen years of age. My brother, Johnny, was home from college on what he said was his winter break. Only weeks later did I find out it was actually a university mandated suspension, but I'll let him tell that story in his memoirs. My father was out on another one of his benders, as Mother lovingly called them. My mother, herself, had gone to stay with her sister and watch Lifetime movies or whatever it is women do when they're alone. That left Johnny and I to our own devices.
My brother did what he did best in those situations. He rallied a bunch of his old high school buddies, stole a couple handles of tequila, and settled in for a night of lighthearted fun. In years past, when this resident gang of hooligans set up shop in my home, my inclination was to make myself scarce. Yet, something felt different that night. Something drew me toward the raucous celebration. Rather than spending the night on the porch as was my modus operandi, I decided to insert myself into the heart of the festivities.
My brother must have noticed me milling around the liquor. He approached me with that devious grin that only an older brother can muster, shoved a red cup into my hand and asked, "Care for a drink, little girl?" He then poured me a swig of tequila. At that moment I felt that I was standing at the precipice of something big. Was this to be a turning point in my relationship with Johnny? Was this a test of brotherhood or an offering of an olive branch for the countless beatings and endless mockery I had endured? My seventeen-year-old mind couldn't understand the finer details of the significance of the moment, but the weight of it was undeniable.
Thus, I made the only choice I felt I could make at that moment. I poured that liquor down my throat like a man. When I finished gagging and my brother finished laughing, he poured me another. While the rest of the night is pretty much a blur, I will never forget the feeling of that first drink. I can still recall the burn in my throat, the tickle in my nose, and the feeling of the bond between my brother and me solidifying.
Yes, it was a special evening and one I remember fondly. I only wish my father could have been there to witness my first taste of liquid manhood. When it came to alcohol, my father was the expert. It seemed there was nothing he wouldn't drink. I once witnessed him swigging whisky straight from the bottle, shot gunning a beer, and then driving off to work, all before 8:00am. It was quite a sight to behold.
On another occasion, Dad decided to liven up our grandmother's wake by spiking the punch. Personally, I thought it was very generous of him to share the spirits which he usually hoarded for himself. My mother saw things differently, however. I'm told that Uncle Jim imbibed a little too much of said punch and ended up attempting to crawl into the casket alongside Grandma. At that point, Mom upturned the whole punch bowl and threw everyone out of the funeral home. She blamed Dad. Dad blamed Uncle Jim. Who's to say who was really to blame? I think we all just grieve in our own ways.
Then there was the time my father showed up to my parent-teacher conference, drunk as a skunk. He sauntered in twenty minutes late, reeking of bourbon, directed a string of unflattering superlatives toward my mother and then kissed my teacher on the mouth. After the teacher slapped him and my mother rolled her eyes, my father strolled back out again. Johnny and I would have a good laugh about the whole situation once I filled him in later as to why Dad went missing for the next ten days.
Speaking of Johnny, he has taken after dear old Dad in more ways than one. The two men share more than just a name. Much like our father before him, Johnny is now a raging alcoholic himself. In holding true to our father's precedent, my brother regularly shows up to important family functions heavily intoxicated, hell bent on making a scene. As it was, Johnny barely scraped through college without dying from alcohol poisoning. We all thought he would settle down once he graduated and got a job. It turned out we underestimated our Johnny boy. He has proven himself to be quite the functional alcoholic. It is not unlike him to turn up at his place of business somewhat inebriated nearly every single day. He has gotten fired once or twice for belligerently screaming at his supervisor while in a drunken stupor, but he always gets right back on the horse. It seems the world of high finance is the perfect place for someone of his proclivities.
In spite of Johnny's ability to seemingly function in society, holiday dinners with the family in the days before Dad's passing were always something of a circus. Father and son would try to outdrink each other and the result would be that no one won. Usually it ended with a shouting match and someone flipping the dinner table, Christmas goose and all. This may all sound Machiavellian to some, but I assure you it is all in good fun. Everything always got smoothed out in the end. Usually the tension dissolved when my mother burst into tears and told us all that this family was the worst thing that ever happened to her. Then she would run off to the bedroom and the rest of us men would have a good laugh and another drink to bury the hatchet. You see, alcohol really is a cure all for everything. Good times, good times.
It's clear to me now that both John Sr. and John Jr. shared a drinking problem. Perhaps the love of drinking is genetic. If so, I'd say it's safe to say that Johnny inherited that gene from our old man. Thank goodness I sidestepped that landmine. While I am not an alcoholic, I certainly would defend their right to indulge in however much alcohol consumption they see fit. This is America, after all.
Yes, it's true, I do enjoy a good stiff drink every now and again. Who doesn't? But there is a fine line between an alcoholic and a connoisseur of fine spirits. The main difference is that I know how to control myself and avoid making a scene. You see, the more I drink the more charming I become—unlike the average boozehound who becomes more obnoxious and boorish with each passing sip. Share a scotch with me some time and you'll see what I mean. Hand me a drink and a cigarette and I assure you, I am nothing short of a delight.
Ah, drinking and smoking: the two greatest joys known to man. Without such vices, are we truly men at all? I should think not. Some of the best highlights of my life were punctuated with a cigarette and a good whisky. I've capped off weddings and funerals alike with a smoke and a drink. Add a cigarette and a cocktail to the most mundane day and all of a sudden you've got yourself a reason to celebrate. What I'm trying to say is, without tobacco and alcohol, life is simply not worth living. They tell me that the smoke and drink will one day ruin these golden pipes of mine. That may be true. It may be false. Either way, if that day does finally come, I will raise my glass and say, "Salud!"