Cigarette Butts Out

Cigarette Butts Out

By Arlene Levin 
(C) 2019

It was the 1950’s. My mother and dad were “smokers”. I’m not sure how much they smoked but, by today’s standards, it was a lot. They smoked Camels straights. This was before filters became popular. “Filters are for sissies” was their firm opinion. While my parents both smoked the same brand I never knew why they kept separate cartons. I always thought this was an unusual practice. I guess in a weird way that was how they kept track of their “habit”. My mother bought her own cigarettes but in the evening, I was often sent to the nearby store to get my dad a carton, $2.25 as I recall for 10 packages.

In my 5 room, 2 bedroom apartment, ashtrays were everywhere, next to my dad’s easy chair in the living room, on the coffee table, beside the bed, in the kitchen and on the dining room table, to be used before and after dinner, but rarely during a meal.  There must have been great clouds of smoke and a tobacco smell, but I never noticed it. This was home and all was normal.

“You will be tempted Arlene, but don’t smoke” my mother pleaded.

“Well you smoke!” was my response

“Yes, but that doesn’t make it right. It is a terrible dirty disgusting habit and I’m sorry I started.”

Addicted, my dad had a terrible smokers cough. Many mornings we would wake up to gagging sounds coming from the washroom. Even with these dire warnings I was up against the popularity of smoking cigarettes. A non- smoker was a rarity. “Arlene, Don’t smoke until you’re at least 18”, exasperated, my mother begged.

I missed it by 2 years. Sweet Sixteen parties began. For my wealthy girl friends these were elegant rites of passage. There were ostentatious luncheons in hotels and restaurant party rooms.

Set with tablecloths and napkins to match, more than one fork graced each setting. All dressed-up and feeling quite adult, we took our seats. Before us were “cocktail cigarettes”. They were thin, in colorful sleeves of paper with a filter tip. In front of each setting there were matchbooks with the birthday girl’s name printed in gold or blue or yellow. Waiting to be used, the matches sat in an ashtray beside the cigarettes.

This is where most of us girls had our first cigarette. We felt it was a “right of passage” on to being an adult. Excitedly I struck the match and brought the light to the pastel colored  cigarette I held in my lips. For years I’d practiced with candy cigarettes, but this was the real thing. Touching the light to the tip of the cigarette I inhaled as I’d seen my parents do so often. A little cough was followed by a dizziness, both of which I tried to ignore. There was a bit of a headache but that passed too. There was a murmur around the tables as we continued to settle into our new role defined in part by our first cigarette. “Today I am an adult” we thought...well at least closer to being an adult.

When I got home my mother asked me about the luncheon, the food, the ambiance, who sat next to me, the usual questions I would expect. Then she said, “Arlene, were there cigarettes too.” Of course, I had to tell her the whole story, the dizziness, the cough. “Cigarettes were on the table. Everyone was doing it.” I whined.

“Oh my God” she exclaimed. “What were they thinking”. I said I was over the experiment and wouldn’t do it again, but I’m sure she knew “Pandora” was out of the box.

This “right of passage” was eventually carried into my day. The cough, the headache and the dizziness disappeared with more experience. School lunchtime was spent at Shers, the hangout across the street from my high school. I walked down a few steps into a small smoke filled store with a jukebox, a few booths and a wee dance floor. If you didn’t bring your pack of cigarettes you could always “bum” one. Though you had to be sure it wasn’t from the same person. Errors like that would cast you as a “mooch.”, something to be avoided at all cost.

The rarely enforced age requirement to purchase cigarettes was 18 years. A package of smokes was about $.25, certainly affordable even then.

The challenge was “where do I hide my cigarettes to avoid discovery"  At home, the stairs outside our apartment were rug covered.  I found a loose end near our front door and tucked  my stash there.  At school, I risked discovery by leaving them in my locker.  I don't recall the  school's punishment for this offence but I am sure there was one that I chose to ignore. 

Years ago, ashtrays were everywhere. That is because you could smoke just about everywhere. But there were exceptions. It was frowned upon to smoke in an elevator so beside each sliding door there was an ashtray. One popular type was a chrome cylinder about two feet high topped with a layer of white sand. Here smokers left a “forest” of butts to be periodically cleared by the building caretaker.

The rule was, if there wasn’t an ashtray you shouldn’t smoke. There was an "etiquette” around what people did to remain considerate of the rule and still smoke. From their purse, women would produce a small stylish ashtray with a lid. Depending where they were, ashes sometimes and cigarette butts, for sure, were deposited in this personal container and disposed of later.

I’m not sure what older men did but my boyfriends developed their own technique. If sitting, they would carefully drop the ash on to their jeans and rub it into the fabric. Watching it disappear, the ash inadvertently added a desirable color and texture to the jeans. If standing, my tough boyfriend would drop a cold ash into his hand and then rub it into his jeans.

I quit smoking cigarettes ages ago. It was 1967. Married for 2 years, I went to my family doctor complaining about my cold feet. He sat me down and said, “Arlene, this is a circulation problem. You can take birth control pills or you can stop smoking. You can’t continue to do both. ”. I returned his concerned look and without hesitation I put my package of Viceroys on his desk, thanked him and left.

It wasn’t easy. I kicked the habit by taking up a new addiction, crocheting.   For more than a year I was never without my crochet hook and yarn. I remember, on a flight from Toronto to Chicago, I dropped my hook to the floor. Compulsively, for almost 2 hours I crawled around the floor of the plane searching for “my errant hook” which I never found. After that I always kept a spare at hand.

My crocheting ability was very limited so I just made squares. One square after another, over and over and over again, I’d pull the yarn through and finish yet another. When I had enough, I assembled the squares into a brightly colored blanket. These were presents for new babies, for birthdays, weddings and any other celebratory event that came up as I finished yet another afghan.  My new “kick the habit” obsession did have benefits for myself, my family and friends. It was a great relief to be out of the woods and on to a life smoke free.

Postscript

I did smoke after my first “quitting” experience. I had relapses, some lasted longer than others but I always knew these were temporary. Some of the slips and misses were times filled with memorable experiences.

I remember the morning after a particularly decadent evening. Smoke of all kinds, drinks, laughter, all went on until the wee hours of the morning.  I woke up feeling pleasantly caught between guilt and giddy satisfaction. My studio was a bit cold. The temperature was just a fraction below perfect. My skin tingled. It felt good.

I sat at the end of my bed and surveyed my studio. It was 1500 square feet that mirrored the messy-really messy top of my desk. The washroom seemed miles away. I started to walk across the cold under my bare feet. I passed the remainders left on the oak table that sat witness to the evening’s debauchery. There were empty wine bottles, glasses, cracker crumbs and dried-out cheese, beer bottles and a bowl of soggy potato chips. Ashtrays were filled with cigarette butts, ashes, leftover roaches and emptied pipes. I picked up a crumpled package of cigarettes and looked inside. “Ha, more than two left, enough for later” I thought. I fished one out. Absent-mindedly I put it in my mouth, lit the end and took a deep drag and then another. I mused, “Smoking a cigarette, half asleep, on the way to the washroom?” I felt dirty, good dirty, a decedent dirty that makes you smile. With that thought, I continued walking, barefoot on cold, with the burning cigarette still in my hand.