Pieces of Me: Smoke Signals

[ellyssian]

Where there's smoke
there's fire,
Don't be playing ball in the street...

Extreme - Smoke Signals

Not only is Extreme very fond of writing songs out of nothing but cliche; not only has their vocalist gone on to become (briefly) the worst lead singer Van Halen ever had (despite being the most talented of the bunch); not only did said vocalist attend high school with a close friend who hasn't made it into these stories yet; not only did their bass player lose his wifegirlfriend to me (for which he thanked me later, at a time when I knew exactly how thankful he was, and why - indeed, I thanked my successor as well, although he judged the next in line to be too psychotic for civil conversation, thus breaking the chain), not only did all of the above happen - but it has absolutely no bearing on the rest of this.

Going back a wee bit before my high school years, and even before the later years when I hung out once or twice in Extreme's practice place and well before the times where I occasionally ran into one or more of them at a friend's house, circa the early to mid seventies, to be both specific and vague, I voiced an opinion. I was somewhere around half a decade of years, and I have no memory of this particular event, so I'm actually botching a recollection of what my mother told me about what I said in those days long past.

The story goes, if I'm getting it anywhere near an accurate state, that my mother took me and my brother to the Dunkin' Donuts on Mount Auburn Street. It started prosaically enough, but I expect it ended in tears. We sat at the counter and were happily consuming whatever it was we were consuming - milk? orange juice? a donut, to be sure? - whilst my mother most likely ordered a coffee and maybe a cruller.

The real drama unfolded when I quietly climbed off the stool, walked around the curve of the counter, and sat somewhere as far as possible from where my mother sat. My brother, as will often happen with brothers that are three years younger, followed me. Naturally, my mother inquired as to the reason for the sudden relocation. My answer was simple enough.

"I don't sit with mothers who smoke."

You see, my mother lit up a cigarette, which was something she had done back then, off and on; and off and on again later until a doctor said "Stop smoking, or you'll stop." For those of you who are unaware, my mother is actually from another planet, and if there's something that will confusticate and bebother the doctors, she'll get it, or they will think she has it, and never the twain shall meet. At least, not very often.

My brother followed me other times as well, such as one time during my senior year in high school, when we were walking up Trapelo Road, our first - between the two of us - pack of cigarettes in our hands. Or, one of our hands at a time, passed back and forth for examination. Rather hypocritical given our behavior some dozen or so years earlier, but there you have it. My brother watched as I bravely went first... he watched me light it, take a puff, and exhale the smoke out, all cool as cool could be. So he tried it... lit his, sucked in like a vacumn cleaner (except with more suction)... and much coughing and sputtering ensued.

I eventually worked up to inhaling more, but for some reason I never quite got the knack. Like my mom, I did a lot of off and on again smoking, a bit more so, actually, up to and including 2 packs a day - I could quit anytime, after all, and could point to the many, many times I did. Usually, those times were connected with bronchitis or something similar and nasty and either coughable or sputterable.

This month, November of 2005, it's been two years since I actually, finally really did quit. It was no exception - I was sick, something (namely my habit) was mucking with my lungs. Six months from that time, after a handful of medications and lots of worries about the C word, I wound up labeled with a different C. After going to the doctor again and explaining my worries about cancer, he decided: 1) it was asthma and 2) that wasn't important. He was more worried about my blood pressure being ungodly high over nearly-dead, and I wound up being known for the rest of that day as Cardiac One - sitting up and watching the goings on of the ER while hacking, not-well-off sweet little old ladies were kicked out of Cardiac Two to Five (or whatever it went to) and made to wait in the hall each time another ambulance came in while I remained under constant monitoring. If nothing else, my time there - which seemed so misplaced to me - has convinced me even further not to light up again. That, and I hope one day to be able to breathe again.

Where there's smoke
there's fire,
What you sow is what you reap.

Extreme - Smoke Signals