CONFESSIONS OF AN ADDICT
"I swear, here, before God and both of you, that I will never smoke another
cigarette again, after tomorrow, of course." I made that very bold and prolific
statement on Monday afternoon. Tuesday afternoon, I bummed a smoke off Pete
My first memory of cigarettes was as a small, snot-nosed toddler, running
around screaming at the top of my lungs as my parents smoked. Both of my par
ents still smoke. I saw cigarettes in movies, on TV, and even on billboards. I
wanted to be that guy with the Air Wolf shades, mullet and all of the poofie
haired chicks. Unfortunately, now I smoke, as do most of my scumbag friends
and comrades.
I remember my parents telling me at a young age, "...cigarettes are bad for
you." There were two problems with this. One,
they-mommy and daddy-were sometimes smoking
when they said this. Two, if I was told not to do
something, I always ended up doing it just to see
what all the fuss was about
At the age of seven, my friend Tommy and I just
carried out black operations against G.I. Joe
forces in my backyard. Cobra struck at the heart
of the G.I. Joe command, and every troop in the
base was not only killed, but also burned in a
mass grave. Cobra was one battle closer to total
victory.
Tommy and I walked inside to drink some milk
and eat cookies. Mommy was out in her flower
garden rebuilding the damage done after someone
"happened" to kick a soccer ball through the gar
den and then trampled through it after a very painful spanking
I don't know why, but I grabbed a cigarette and a lighter; Tommy and I went
up to my room to plan future operations. I locked the door. I lit the Winston
Light 100, puffed, coughed, and passed it to Tommy. He puffed, coughed, and
passed it back to me. This went on, and I remember the extreme buzz that I was
feeling. I was so cool.
Then there was a knocking on the door, followed by shouting."Marko! Marko!"
It was my mother. I turned the cigarette out on the top of a can of Jolt, and
dropped it inside. The room was filled with smoke, as I
unlocked the door,
The rest of the smoking incident was a blur. Lots of
yelling, webs of lies, intense interrogations carried out by
mommy (daddy was on a business trip). We were inno
cent, someone else was to blame.
We kept our bearings, refraining from admitting any guilt
or making self-incriminating statements, until we were
together in the interrogation room (my parents room, with
my mom's blue and black portrait of the Old Man loom
ing over us, staring at us coldly).
"Well, who taught you how to do it?" I knew the gig was
up, and that I had to deflect the responsibility. I answered
with a bold-face lie. "Steve and John did." Steve and John
were Tommy's older brothers.
If I would have said, "TV, movies, Steve and John, you,
daddy, Tommy's mommy, and many of the old people
(adults) that I see," I would have been toast. Reluctantly,
Tommy went along. He knew that we had to be percieved
as innocent. We were dead men, but we were vindicated.
The intense retaliatory beatings, torturings, and experiments that followed our
ratting out Steve and John were enough to deter me from smoking. That is, until
the middle school years.
Periodically, Dave's little brother Tony (a model son who at the age of 5 he
managed to steal the car keys and drive the car through the garage door) would
steal some of his mom's smokes, or I would from my parents. We would puff
smokes (and the occasional stogie) while we waited in the field behind the
Hillbillies' house for cars to pass on the road, to pelt them with rocks, acorns,
tomatoes, and eggs.
It was around age twelve that my crew and I discovered the magical wonders
of alcohol. In the movies, anytime people would drink, they would smoke. It
was the way it was done, so if we were stealing booze from Dave's dad's collec
tion while Barb and Dwight were upstairs, we had to go out back and smoke.
We attempted to buy cigarettes at numerous convenience stores and gas sta
tions, with no luck. The most shameful incident occured when Schroeder,
(F)Adam, and I walked down to the gas station on Butztown, and (F)Adam
knocked over a bottle of barbacue sauce, breaking it and splattering the sauce all
over the floor. .
By MARKO PRIMORAC
Assistant News Editor
photo by Joe Ruggiero
This shot down the operation; no wonder that the 50-something cashier didn't
believe that (F)Adam's dad gave him money and permission to buy him a pack
of Malboro Reds and Swisher Sweets due to his ""broken legs."
So we had our older siblings buy the nicotine for us. Eventually, I was eighteen
and legal to buy. Freedom, horrible, horrible freedom.
I was a young, dumb chain-smoker. But, since I played sports, I always stayed
in shape and the smokes didn't affect me.
I knew that smokes were bad for me, and it wasn't until I was running with the
other loser Poolie's getting ready for bootcamp that I seriously considered quit
ting smoking. There were one or two dudes that were faster than me on the 3-
mile run. This was unacceptable.
So, after five years of stating ""I will not smoke again," I actually stopped.
Two and a half years of superiorority over the weakling scum who had no self
discipline and stupid addicts, followed. I quit
cold turkey, I did not need any help. I could
have a few beers and not even consider one of
those cancer sticks. I was born again hard,
running five miles minimum per day, spar
ring, lifting and swimming. I was a Roman
God.
At least until March of 2002. We were on
active duty since January, and life was pretty,
well, punishing. Every weekend, nearly all of
Echo Company would go to the local filth
holes in Jacksonville, N.C., or do a road trip
to a filthy-hole somewhere else. I was not
immune to numbing my mind and trying to
forget my present situation. I felt the addiction
creeping back, but I fought it. I even refused to go out, and stayed in my room
pretending to read.
I upped my runs to 12 miles on Saturday and Sunday. I would not succumb to
the weaknesses of the mere mortals. Until I went to visit Laura in NYC. We
went out for a few drinks, and, with the aid of the eclectic mix of port, sherry,
Guiness, and an array of martini's, Laura broke me. "You can have one, your a
Marine, you deserve it." It was a Parliament, I hate Parliaments. It tasted like
crap, but I still smoked it and I felt a rush. Curse those Satan's temptresses!
After the weekend, I went back to my regular routine of running. Reluctantly, I
admitted that I broke and smoked a cigarette. My roommates,
Ike, Taylor, Bichito, and that disgusting pig Fish, were elated.
Bichito, the self-proclaimed greatest man in all of human histo
ry, just wanted to see me fail. Grant, the crazy Jamaican, was
dissapointed. He didn't smoke or drink, and suggested that I
should go back to my old ways. Taylor, Ike, and Fish smoked,
and I would hold court about the uselessness of their shared
vice. I was no longer better than they were, I was a fraud and
had to keep my big, fat, stupid mouth shut.
And so the downward spiral began, I would bum a smoke or
two here or there, which degenerated rapidly to the point where
I would go halvsies on a pack, but I would never purchase or
carry it. It was my self-denial.
Then, on a wretched Monday morning before one of our
death-marches, we had a few minutes of free time. Without
telling our fireteam or squad leaders, a bunch of us went to the
convenience store that was a grenade throw away from the
armory where we were staging gear and drawing weapons.
I filled my coffee, poured seven vanilla creamers in it, and
walked up to the register. My eyes fixed onto a pack of Marlboro lights. I
remembered thinking that if I bought the pack, I would officially be a worthless
addict again. I could still reclaim my life and discipline.
The cashier rung up my coffee, and asked me if I wanted anything else. "Yes, I
will have a pack of Marlboro lights." There was serious trouble in paradise.
And so I still battle the addiction. The worst is morning coffee, that cigarette
with that coffee is so damn good. The first Guiness and a smoke is always nice
after a long week of all-nighters, so nerve soothing. When will it end? Soon,
hopefully.
I quit for two months in Iraq, when seven of us bet $lOO on who could hold
out until our dismissal formation in Harrisburg. Two months I remained nicotine
free, until the night before we boarded buses for Pennsylvania.
I think it was (Sc)Umble who gave me a Marlboro Red while I was in my
drunken haze; I had no will and caved in. The worst part is that I lost $lOO along
with my dignity and self-respect. But I mangaged to go two months without
smokes when all there was to do was smoke, so there is a glimmer of hope.
I will qui, one day...one day. I'm shooting for this Monday, let's just hope I'm
not shooting from the hip-again.