We sit outside on the trailer’s back porch, looking down a steep hill to a backdrop of pines. I sit in my lawn chair, perfectly fit for a six-year-old, and I soak in the sun’s rays. Grandpa lounges in his outdoor-fitted La-Z-Boy, undoubtedly the product of southern ingenuity. Society demands of him nothing in the sticks, he tells me. There’s no conformity in the woods; thus, his outdoor recliner. I simply nod my head in agreement.
Grandpa puffs on a cigarette, seemingly the same one he’s had for hours. The smoke picks at my nostrils with its second hand.
“You shouldn’t smoke, Grandpa,” I say, in an attempt to wane his habit.
“It’s okay, boy. They’re prescription.”
Abruptly, he perks up and says, “Gotta take a leak. You stay here.” He takes the cigarette out from his mouth, careful not to extinguish it, and sets it on the wooden railing. No cigarettes in the house; those were Nana’s demands. (That’s one rule Grandpa conforms to, at least.) What looks like for the first time ever, I see Grandpa without a cigarette. A sight to behold. He rushes inside.
The sharp summer breeze picks up, blowing the smoke further in my direction. Forever passes, as I wait for Grandpa to come back. I glance at the cigarette, this white paper stick with ashes on its rear. I can’t let it go to waste, I convince myself. The smell at once becomes satisfying. Something provokes me. Perhaps the smoke itself embodies me, whispering, “Let’s be friends.” I look over my shoulder to ensure I’m safe from authority, and then I pick up the cigarette, placing it in my mouth.
I’m absorbed with awe, thinking, Is this what it feels like to be an adult? In the span of seconds, my eyes criss-cross as I examine the flaming stick protruding from my mouth. I feel so cool, so adultish. Then, I notice an orange tip at the edge of the cigarette. Confusion sets in. It was just lit. Where’s the flame? Even a six-year-old could tell a lit cigarette from a fresh one. Suddenly, my tongue starts to melt, and—
“Ouch!” I say, as I launch the cigarette out of my mouth. The flaming paper stick falls over the ledge of the porch into the forested backyard. I scream and panic; I’m going to start a fire! I forget about my torched tongue and instead focus on the soon-to-be torched backyard. I stand there, paralyzed, accepting my fate. I’m a dead man, and it’s not from my early exposure to tobacco and tar. The flame appears to grow. I bite my tongue and shut my eyes, praying—just praying—for a miracle.
Suddenly, as if from a scene written by Hollywood, I hear Grandpa rush out from below the porch. Trumpets blare and angels rejoice as Grandpa, in his blue boxer briefs and a tattered white t-shirt, sprays the flame with the garden hose’s water, then jumping on it with his outdoor slippers, just to be sure. He sets his arms to his waist, posing like a superhero with a huge dentured-smile, as if he’s saying ta-da!
I smile gracefully, wiping sweat from my forehead. We both laugh, and then, lo and behold, out of nowhere, Grandpa grabs a fresh cigarette and places it in his mouth—this time, I notice, with the orange tip between his lips. He pats his pockets, as if he’s missing something, and then looks up at me.
“Toss me my lighter?”
Art generated by DALL-E.