Smokers Anonymous by Elizabeth Schmidt

“Since I quit smoking last week, I am already feeling like I can breathe better,” says a man to the rest of the circle in the fluorescent-lit lobby of my childhood church. Although the man says he doesn’t smoke anymore, he reeks of cigarettes and looks like he rides his motorcycle way too fast on the interstate. I slump back into the plastic chair I am sitting in and I roll my eyes at his statement, although I probably shouldn’t be judging, as I am not too far off from him.

That hour-long meeting always seems to last 3. But finally, the moderator announces (very loudly I might add) that the session is over, and I already begin dreading next week’s meeting. As I exit the stained-glass doors of the eerie-looking church, I walk outside into the most extravagant rainstorm I had witnessed since last year’s flood. 

“Dammit!” I shout as I drop my last pack of cigarettes in the puddle next to my car. I always tell myself that this will be my last pack, but to be fair, I thought I had a few more cigarettes before I had to quit. I really shouldn’t be this upset, but sometimes you need these things to cope with the stress of… well… life.

So naturally, as any phony cigarette-sober woman would do, I drive my beat up 2007 Hyundai through the monsoon of a storm to my local gas station to get another pack. The radio is blaring “Hard Times” by Paramore. You know what Hayley Williams, these really are hard times. The gas station looks sketchy as hell as I pull in. Maybe it’s the weather, but maybe it’s actually sketchy. I realize that I think that same thought to myself every week when I come here after smokers anonymous. 

I step out of my car and run into the store with my hood over my head to try and avoid being soaked to the bone. As I enter through the doors, I see a man standing at the counter buying cigarettes. It takes me a mere second to realize it’s the same man who just preached “better breathing” at the church not even 20 minutes ago.

After he checks out, he grabs his pack of Marlboros and turns around to exit, but not before eyeing me up and down. Neither of us say a word to each other. Feeling ashamed that I was caught, I grab a pack of Doritos from one of the narrow and overly-stocked aisles. I walk up to the counter and hand him my chips and ask for a pack of Marlboros of my own. After he rings me up, I grab my stuff and get the hell out.

As soon as I step foot out of the building, I am determined to make a beeline to my car but I'm distracted by a man standing next to his car. It’s raining so hard I can barely make out that it’s the motorcycle man… again. Again? God, just spare me the embarrassment please!

“Come here often?” he asks me with a nonchalant expression, leaning against his passenger door. “No,” I reply, trying to avoid the situation altogether. “We both know that's not true. You see, you and I are the same,” he continues. “We really aren’t,” I say hurriedly as I try to get in my car, but he stops me. “Listen, Kelce, we can help each other. We both want the same thing. People like us, we need accountability.” He hands me what seems to be a business card with his name, and even more shockingly, his phone number. He then turns around (wearing a Harley Davidson jacket, shocker!) to hop in his car and drive away. How does he know my name?

I hop into my car dripping from the weather that I just endured, and examine his card. Valentino, that's such a biker name. That doesn’t surprise me. A lawyer, that actually does surprise me. You surprise me, Valentino.

As I pull into the driveway of my mother’s home (because yes, I still live with her), I input his phone number and shoot him a text. “Hey accountabili-buddy, it’s Kelce. You’re right, we could both use some support,” I say. I don’t know why, but in an odd way I feel comforted that someone knows the truth about me, and I wonder if he feels the same way. 

As it continues to pour cats and dogs, I run up the driveway and into my house. I am greeted with the smell of a rose-scented candle burning and “Orange is the New Black” playing on the flatscreen in the living room. I plop down on the couch next to our family cat, Whiskers, and eventually fall asleep.

-

It’s been a week since I texted Valentino, and I have still had no response. I’m on my way to the church now, so I’ll see him today at our meeting, and I am going to give him a piece of my mind. I hope I never have to hear from that man again. 

As I pull into the parking lot, it is overwhelmingly sunny and there is not a rain cloud in sight. I could’ve used this type of weather last week so I didn’t have to ruin a good pack of cigarettes.

I walk into the church and notice that Valentino isn’t here this week. That’s odd… he never misses. Regardless, I sit in my chair and wait for the session to start.

We are greeted with our overly-chipper moderator, who seems to have a chip on his shoulder today. “One of our group members has unfortunately passed away in a motorcycle accident a week ago after our meeting ended. Let’s take a moment of silence to remember him and his impact on all of our journeys,” he says.

Stunned, I sat there and said nothing, out loud at least. I really need a damn pack of cigarettes right now.

So I get up and exit without saying a word. I walk out to my car, and drive to the gas station as I always do.

“One pack of Marlboros, please,” I say to the cashier.