We
sat in a cigar bar in Ybor City in Tampa with mostly male patrons. The bar, reminiscent
of hang-out on tropical island with its scratched wood chairs, old tables, vine-painted
walls, and bolero-playing piano, was where men enjoyed a mutually enjoyable
pastime, as evidenced by the constant exhaling of sweet earthy smoke towards the
ceiling. Like my friend Amara, they appreciated the power of doing as you pleased, when you
pleased. But Amara also knew that the trick to being in a man’s world was to be
grounded and graceful in your own world so that your actions were never open to
debate or discussion, and her actions that day were as natural as any of the other
patrons, as I gathered from the men who gave her fleeting, approving glances
before returning their focus to the pleasure of their own smokes.
She
gave me a master class in how to smoke a cigar like a man but enjoy it like a
woman. Retrieving from her messenger bag all the accoutrements needed for
storing and preparing a smoke, she focused only on what she was doing with the
careful dexterity of a paleontologist on a dig rich with findings, removing her
sterling silver lighter, French cigar cutter, and Davidoff Classic #2 cigars,
with the white label and gold stenciling. We were to go deep into our experience
and relate it to the five senses, with sensual and spiritual edginess. “Do you
see what I am doing?” she asked as she held up the cigar up for inspection,
taking a whiff from its smooth, light brown body, as if the place didn’t
already reek of tobacco, as if there was a more intimate scent to be gleaned
from a smoke she promised would have a clean aftertaste. “If you want to know
anything about the earth and soil, you ask the men who harvest, roll, and age these
things,” she said, holding up her stogie for further inspection and
admiration.” She reminded me of an elegant Victorian man, dressed in black
tails and fussing as he lit up and smoked in his parlor.
She asked repeatedly if I was paying attention
to what she was doing. I was required to learn and apply the rules of cutting
and lighting, which seemed non-negotiable, leading me to believe that everyone
in the bar put the same care and thoughtfulness into the process, but when I
looked around, others were not as keen to follow any such ritual. Some men grabbed
cigars from their back pockets or asked for matches from the bar’s attendant. Still
others bit off the cigar’s head before spitting it out and lighting up.
“Now
pay attention, and do as I do,” Amara said, cutting a small opening at the head
of the cigar. Then she lit and puffed on her stogie, gently closed her eyes,
titled her head slightly upward, and emitted a thread of voluptuous smoke from between
her thin, glossy lips.
I
was too nervous to follow suit: I cut too much from the opening and coughed
when I inhaled. Her impatience was followed by a series of reprimands: “No.” “Like
this.” “Here, let me do it.” I tried to act confidently, but the experience was
too new, and beads of sweat collected on my forehead. I feared the men in the
bar would laugh at me, but a quick glance their way proved they were too busy
enjoying their own smokes to worry about mine. Really, I was too nervous to try
on Amara’s sophistication, but I also knew that this was an invitation to not
only learn how to handle a cigar but to venture into a world of my own doing,
to see what it felt and looked like to try on the unconventional, unexpected,
and surprising, and to claim it if I saw fit. After so many years of taking
part in the shared mental, emotional, physical organism of married life, I was to
find my way back to a New World and select, with care and conviction, all the parts
needed to live an authentic life.
“Where
did you learn to smoke?” I asked, trying to detract her attention from my
fumbling.
“I
picked it up here and there,” she said while loosely dangling the cigar between
the inner folds of her middle and index fingers. If Amara had one talent, it
was to observe and mimic, which she could easily do, as when she imitated the foreign
accents she heard on the streets. Mostly, she mimicked those she admired, which
consisted of confident men whose grace was in their lack of self-consciousness.
When
I looked at her again, she seemed far away, a woman possessed of a shamanic
ability to leave the present at will. “Don’t forget,” she said, as if talking
from a distant land. “Cut a clean, flat opening in the head of the cigar; light
foot, puffing and slowly turning all sides towards flame; blow on foot, looking
for ashy/red embers, a sign the stogie is fully lit; hold loosely beneath middle
and index fingers and right beneath band of cigar; inhale; stop; hold smoke
until aroma reaches roof of mouth and all five senses; exhale smoke slowly; enjoy
the buzz! And don’t forget to appreciate the history of brand. Think about the
wrapper, binders, origin of the tobacco leaves, and aesthetics of the band.”
My memoir, "The Continent of Ruby," available at:
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