The Last Cigarette

Flash fiction

Emilio had smoked a pack of Marlboro Reds a day for 30 years. He was 45 years old and apparently it was killing him. The previous evening his doctor had told him what the morning coughing and wheezing on the stairs was all about: he was in the early stages of emphysema.

Hells bells! ‘What can I do about it?’ Emilio asked. ‘Switch to Marlboro Lights?’

The doctor fixed him with one of those looks that doctors fix people with, as though they’re talking to a three-year-old or an extremely stupid person. ‘Pack it in right now,’ he said, ‘or you won’t be celebrating too many more birthdays.’

Emilio left the surgery somewhat chastened and not a little afraid. But the first thing he did was light up! Holy crap! he thought, dragging fiercely on a Marlboro.

He knew that smoking wasn’t good for your health. But emphysema? Damn! Why did the names of diseases always sound so horrendous? At any rate, he decided to kick the habit.

Emilio sat on the balcony of his fifth-floor apartment, watching the sun come up. He had been up all night, drinking strong black coffee and smoking his way through his last pack of Marlboros, which he had bought straight after leaving the doc’s surgery.

He was in a kind of trance, telling himself over and over that he didn’t need cigarette smoke clogging up his lungs and arteries. He had his Apple tablet on his knee and was studying a diseased black lung. Next to them were healthy lungs, literally in the pink. He didn’t like to think that his lungs looked like something a coal miner had dug up.

He lit another cigarette. There were two left. After that, he would stop. On a dime. To hell with nicotine patches and gum! He would go cold turkey. Apparently, the first 72 hours were the worst. Three days. He could cope with that. Couldn’t he? It was just a matter of willpower.

Not smoking wouldn’t kill him, but carrying on would. It was a no-brainer. No contest. He looked himself in the mirror and told himself, ‘You can do this, kid! If you don’t, I’m never speaking to you again!’

He thought about how he had started smoking, way back when. It was at school, egged on by his friends. It was a macho thing, it was cool. They all did it. James Dean smoked, after all, and he was cool personified.

As youngsters, they ignored all the cautionary tales. And here he was, 30 years later, a cautionary tale himself.

He stubbed the penultimate Marlboro out and held the heaped ashtray to his nose. He took a good whiff and turned away in disgust. Yuck! He sniffed the yellow index and middle fingers on his right hand. Disgusting! Then he went to the kitchen and brewed some more strong coffee, ground from dark Arabica beans. Nicotine and caffeine were his thing, but one of these addictions was about to become history.

Apart from spending the night looking at pictures of diseased lungs, he had also watched Jim Jarmusch’s Coffee and Cigarettes. His favourite scene was the one with Tom Waits and Iggy Pop. Apparently, both musicians have given up smoking. However, someone has left a pack of cigarettes on the table. Tom remarks that now that he has given up, he can allow himself a cigarette. Because he’s given up, right? Tom delivers this tortured logic completely deadpan and it’s hilarious. Iggy agrees and they both light up.

Emilio stands in the kitchen and thinks about the scene. He laughs but decides that he probably, hopefully, please God, won’t be following Tom’s logic.

He poured a cup of coffee, thick as engine oil, and went back to the balcony. The street was coming to life. People were coming out of the apartment building opposite and setting off for work. The tobacconist, which he wouldn’t be using anymore, had opened up. He saw his neighbour George go in for his cigarettes. George smoked Lucky Strikes although what was lucky about them was anybody’s guess.

Brand names for cigarettes were a funny thing. Apart from studying diseased lungs and watching Jim Jarmusch movies, Emilio had been surfing the internet during the night and discovered some interesting brand names for the things his father had called ‘coffin nails’.

There were ‘Dragon’s Delight’, ‘13 Fairies’, ‘Picayune’, ‘Fleurs du Pays’ (like smoking hay according to some smokers), ‘Kool’ (well, no, not really) … but surely the most disingenuous brand name had to be a South African one from the 1960s called ‘Life’. Emilio guffawed at that. But the prize for the most honest brand name went to the Enlightened Tobacco Company in the UK who in the 1990s took the opposite approach and named their cigarettes ‘Death’. The packs were black and had a cheerful skull and crossbones on them. Nice touch, thought Emilio. Their slogan was ‘It’s your funeral.’ So, when you took your pack out among friends, you might remark, ‘Can I offer you a Death?’

The sun was well up by now and the balcony was bathed in a warm golden light. He lit his last cigarette and inhaled deeply. He let tendrils of blueish grey smoke trickle luxuriously out of his nostrils. He decided to enjoy it while it lasted.