When I was a small child I idolized my grandfather. One day he left one of his cigars in the sea shell and pink flamingo ashtray from Daytona Beach and I picked it up and stuck it in my mouth. I elicited no small panic from my grandmother. What was the harm? I was just being the most successful adult in the family.
When I hear someone say, "sometimes a cigar is just a cigar," I feel they need to evade: it's a cute cut off, as if something is either one thing or another, not both or even a third thing. A cigar is a smoke, a nicotine delivery vehicle, a phallus, a cue to relax, a thing to stick in your mouth or someone else's, an aromatic treat, a skill, dexterity, an extension of personality, the amplification of presence.
It's more than that, she piped.
The last cigar I smoked was a Russian cigar, I can't remember the brand or type, I bought from a tobaconist in Clovis, NM. I drove up to a draw outside of town, out on the plain, girded with trees, a bit of water stirred by the breeze. I lit up the first of these cigars and became ill. I've never been a good smoker. I gave up here. I'll be one of those people who'll never do the cigar/pipe/cigarette thing properly.
[yes, that apostrophe probably shouldn't be there]
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