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Lighting up
While standing there, he took out a cigarette and lit up. He's a good enough friend that I wanted to remind him that smoking would be injurious to his health, but not so good a friend that I thought he would appreciate my remarks. I confess that I like the smell of a freshly lit cigarette. It is a combination of the acrid smell of a newly lit match, the sharp odor of burning cigarette paper, and the sweet smell of tobacco. The odor also reminds me of my father. He smoked right up to the last. I even have a picture of him holding one of us boys, looking down at the child in his arms, and having a cigarette in the side of his mouth. Your neighbor at the Post Office used a lighter to start his smoke. The smile that crossed my face was not a result of his weather observations. Rather, the smell of his freshly lit cigarette reminded me of a story I had almost forgotten. The events happened when I was a brand new lieutenant nearing the end of the Officer's Basic Class. By tradition, as the class ends, the new officers pay for a dinner party at the Officer's Club, inviting all the cadre, as well as the Base Commander and his wife. The ranking lieutenant in the class would attend the General. It was the opinion of the class that I was the most likely class member to remain sober, so I was assigned to care for the General's wife at the reception before dinner. I was to see that she had whatever she wanted to drink, to see that she was involved in interesting but non-controversial conversation, and to be sure that she did not have to light her own cigarette. Yep. That's right. I was assigned to light her cigarettes. You can imagine that the idea was appealing. I pictured how suave I'd be pulling out a lighter while she was tapping the end of her cigarette on the back of her gold plated cigarette case. There was a little problem: I didn't smoke. Lieutenant Herndon sat next to me in class and smoked at every break. Of course, he needed his own cigarette lighter at the reception, but he had a brand new lighter in his quarters. He'd be happy to fill it up and lend it to me for the evening. Great. No problem. I was confident that I could charm Mrs. General with all my witty conversation and light her little old cigarette as soon as she put it in her mouth. She was glorious. She kept the circle of new lieutenants surrounding her laughing at all her stories. In time, she pulled the cigarette case out of that little black bag and I jumped into action. The bright new lighter was in my hand before that cigarette touched her lips. I popped that sucker open, touched that button like I had been shown, and … . If I had thought about it ahead of time, I would have guessed that the first time you ignite a lighter after filling it with a flammable fluid, there could be an accumulation of fumes as a result of over-filling. The fumes from that ignition fuel wafted out into the air, just waiting for a spark. I provided the spark by touching that button. Whoof! It really wasn't a major explosion. For a second, the ball of fire did engulf my hand. The classmates who had been standing around listening to the stories Mrs. General and I were swapping evacuated the area leaving me holding the incendiary. Mrs. General? The cigarette fell out of her lips. But, you know, I guess career Army wives are tough, like their husbands. Anyway, I was still standing there holding the dwindling torch while the circle of young warriors backed away from all the action. Mrs. General was looking at me through the flame. "I think you singed the hair out of my nose." That was all she said. I thought that rather polite, considering what she could have said. On the other hand, all storytellers are looking for good stories. Maybe I was responsible for adding to her repertoire. That's the way I like to think about it. I gave her another story. I started to warn your neighbor at the Post Office that lighting a cigarette with a lighter could be dangerous to his health, but the morning was getting late. "See ya, Jim," he said. "Yeah. And good health to you, Neighbor."
Jim Herod is a retired Georgia Tech professor living on the edge of the Nethermost on the southside of Grove Hill.
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