Originally serialized at Kristiana's I Can('t) Quit You.
I
Both my parents quit smoking when I was pretty young, but not so
young that I can’t remember their brands: dad smoked Camel Straights
and mom smoked Benson and Hedges Lights. They had both decided to quit
for the sake of their children; they were good people, pillars of their
community, really.
It was rough going for my mom. I was
sworn to secrecy as she lit up on the ride home from the grocery store
where she mistakenly ordered a pack, “just out of habit,” you know. My
dad had absolutely no problems quitting, he just decided one day that
he was done, then never had another cigarette. Coincidentally, I think
it was around the same time that he started chewing Copenhagen, I can’t
be sure though, because the two things are definitely not related.
II
So, my father, working-class hero to many, had taken up quarters
with the vile and unsavory smokeless tobacco. Sidelong glances and
furtive whispers followed us as we strode stoically along the public
sidewalks, my father expectorating in mid-stride. Many were the
occasions when my dear mother was forced to abashedly explain to
company the mysterious contents of the translucent red urn atop the end
table.
On one such afternoon, my father, God bless him,
stumbled his drowsy, fully nude carcass into the living room. He stood
there, dick swinging and clearly wondering why anyone would have the
gall to come into his house and be so clearly dismayed by his presence,
only to quickly stop caring before moving to the kitchen to prepare a
sandwich before returning to bed. As this happened, I could see the
relief wash over my mother as one embarrassment was traded for another,
one that she ultimately found to be less mortifying.
III
A few years after my father found himself in the icy cold grip of
smokeless tobacco, my adored brother, nine years my senior, was sucked
in by its siren call. I know not the details of how exactly he was
lured; presumably he was beguiled by exotic women with tales of
adventures on the high seas. All I know for sure is that all of his
friends were doing it too, and as they stood around the kitchen
shucking crawdads, cracking jokes, and periodically angling their chins
towards the sink before letting fly with a stream of brown saliva, they
cut a pretty striking figure. These were young men, after all, in top
physical form, athletes every one, coming of age right before my very
eyes.
I dare say I wasn’t the only one who noticed. My
parents, of course, feigned disapproval, but couldn’t hide their
pleasure over what a fine example of “one of the guys” their boy was
turning out to be. Before long my dad even “stopped noticing” when a
can of Copenhagen disappeared from his stockpile. Boys will be boys, as
they say, and there just ain’t a damn thing anybody is going to do
about it.
IV
I was nine, maybe ten years old when I took my first dip of the
Copenhagen. I was taking a rest on the back of a trailer with a friend
after we had peeled off a load of hay when my dad walked over, took a
chew and held out the can to us. He asked us if we wanted to try it,
something he had asked me several times before and I had always
declined. My friend, however, was much bolder than I and he jumped at
the chance, which meant that I had to do likewise.
We each
took little tiny pinches of the vile concoction and shoved them into
our bottom lips; we knew better than that “cheek and gum” jazz passed
off on the television. We sat there for several minutes, spitting to
excess, before I turned to my friend and said, as if I had chestnuts in
my cheeks, “This is kind of burning my lip.” My friend emphatically
agreed and we both rushed to rid ourselves of the terrible burden,
fighting over who would be the first to take the hose, fresh from the
horse trough, and shove it in their mouth. Afterwards, my dad tells us
that we now know what chewing is all about, and that it ain’t no good,
so we don’t need to bother ever doing it again.
V
The day after my father taught us a lesson we won’t soons be
forgetting, my friend and I found ourselves digging through the
garbage. We had hatched a nefarious plot that involved us collecting
the leftovers from all the discarded cans and placing them into one can
where our grubby little fingers would be able to pull out large enough
amount to satisfy our burgeoning jones.
This became the
first of many times I plumbed the depths of treachery to satisfy the
addiction that would ultimately take my life. Most of the time all it
took was a nervously delivered assurance to the clerk that the tobacco
I was purchasing was for my father, certainly not myself, as I was much
too young to be encumbered with such a miserable habit. Sometimes,
however, I found myself lacking either a sympathetic clerk or currency.
In these times I would have no choice but to find a store that
foolishly left the tobacco in an accessible location, usually a grocery
store, grab a can or pouch of whatever was least conspicuous, shove it
down my pants and walk out of the store.
It is only
because so much time has passed, because I can now look back and write
off my past misdeeds as youthful indiscretions, it is for this reason
alone that I can relay the tales of a wayward child without buckling
under the shame of my transgressions. However, I sunk even lower in my
depravity; I stole from my father.
I thought myself
clever, at the time, for discovering that I could use a steak knife to
separate the label of the Copenhagen can from the lid without breaking
the label. This allowed me to remove the top from all of my dad’s cans,
take out a dip, put the lid back on and put the can back into storage
without him being any the wiser. He never did figure out my little
trick, or if he did he never let on, but things came to a head one
morning after I had accidentally replaced one of his cans with one of
mine and he noticed the different date stamps. After that, I only used
the steak knife trick when I was completely out of my own chew.
VI
On my eighteenth birthday I started working at the paper mill with
my dad. I started on the graveyard shift working on the machine with my
dad, so the afternoon before our first night together he hands me
thirty bucks and say, “why don’t you pick us up some Copenhagen on your
way into work.” From that point on I always had unrestricted access to
my dad’s stockpile of Copenhagen. Occasionally I would foot the bill to
replenish the horde, but mostly he paid for it, and most importantly, I
no longer had to fear his disapproval for chewing.
The
amount of chew I used increased gradually through middle school and
high school to the point that I was going through a can every two or
three days by the time I graduated. Once I turned eighteen and had both
my father and the law on my side, I rapidly increased my intake,
plateauing at just over one can per day. I chewed whenever possible,
only stopping when I was eating, sleeping, or making time with a sweet,
sweet young lady. Eventually even these activities began to be pushed
aside in favor of Copenhagen.
It started with skipping
breakfast every once in a while. I didn’t think much of it, I mean,
everybody misses a meal here and there, we’re busy, important people,
right? Next thing you know I was waking up in the middle of the night
with moist brown stains on my pillow and grains of Copenhagen embedded
in my lips as I had “forgotten” to spit out my chew before falling
asleep. Once again, it seemed innocent enough, I had fallen asleep
wearing shoes before, it didn’t mean I had a shoe problem, right?
It
wasn’t until I started getting slapped in the face because I had
forgotten to spit out my chew before laying a big sloppy wet one on
some pretty young thing that I realized that maybe there was a problem.
I was young and idealistic though, I wasn’t going to conform, society
was just going to have to learn “how to deal.”
VII
It quickly became apparent that society never was truly going to
learn how to deal, so I dropped out. The ladies? Piss on ‘em, all they
want is my money anyways, and I need that for Copenhagen. There’s no
vagina on this earth that could provide the smooth, sweet satisfaction
I get from sucking on a big, fat chew. Food? Fuck it, it’s for chumps.
I’ll eat a solid meal every few days, liquid diet (coffee, booze) in
between. Sleep? Well, I don’t have to stop chewing while I sleep, do I? No, no I don’t.
Oh
how naive I was. For years I lived like this, loveless, skin and bones,
never knowing the comfort of a vagina. It got to the point where I
could no longer hold down a job. I was living on the streets, begging
for spare change from panhandlers. I had resorted to using improvised
weapons like poo-sticks to force businessmen to hand over their bloated
wallets and chewing on discarded cigarette butts to get a fix. I once
woke up covered with my own shit and vomit after having mistaken a pile
of discarded coffee grounds for a still moist and steaming pile of half
used chewing tobacco.
Dark times, my friend, dark times indeed.
It
is here where this story is supposed to make the clichéd one-eighty,
where I begin my struggle of triumph in the face of adversity. Sorry.
It doesn’t happen friends. I happen upon semi-lucid moments from time
to time, particularly those times after a score like the one I made
this morning, but its never long before I am back, rambling
incoherently in my usual spot in the gutter. Wave the next time you
pass me by, won’t you?
Coda:
My dad finally broke free from the dreadful yoke of tobacco addiction
three years ago. He now chews Wrigley’s instead, even while he walks.
My dear brother gave up the snuff when his son was born five years ago.
Inspired by their triumphs of will, I dragged my lowly carcass out of
the gutter and ran as fast as I could towards a new life, flinging my
poo-stick aside as I fled my past. With the help of my family I got a
job, put on weight, and reentered society. I’m still a miserable
addict, but now I am a functioning addict. It is an uphill battle, and
only time will tell, but I hope to shake this crushing burden before I
am thirty years old.
