He Quit

Our next-door neighbor, Mr. Dolan, did not have a medical degree, and in fact did not even trust or like doctors, but he was convinced that cigarettes were evil, and a great hazard, and had to be eradicated from life.

He would discuss this while smoking at our dining room table.

Mr. Dolan came to our house often after dinner. My father was a good listener, and they were best friends.

Mr. Dolan was a great talker, practically Olympian. He could talk on any topic and, strictly speaking, did not even need particular topics.

But one of his favorites was smoking.

The monologue was frequent, with minor variations.

"They're killing us, Burke. You know that, don't you? We sit here sucking on these things, and we're sucking on death. Deep into our lungs, and our hearts." Like my parents, Mr. (and Mrs.) Dolan smoked unfiltered cigarettes, and had for a long time.

Jimmy Dolan was a strapping guy, prepossessing, loud, undaunted by anything in life, it seemed, strolling the street in plaid pants and shiny shoes. His name was Irish, but his mother was Italian, and Mr. Dolan had a personal blend of Italian toughness and Irish gab.

But for all his confidence, he was afraid of cigarettes. He tried, and tried, to quit.

In the midst of successful respite, he was a pleasure to hear, describing to my father the blessings of life without smoking.

"Burke," he would say. "You walk down the block and feel free. You're not a slave anymore. You know what a beautiful thing that is?

"You can hear the birds in the trees. The air smells better. Food tastes better. A meatball sub is like filet mignon. This beer tastes unbelievable to me," pointing at his bottle of Rheingold. "What does it taste like to you? Smokey piss.

"That's terrible. To me it tastes like Champagne. That's what my life is like now. Like a big glass of Champagne that never stops. And you don't have to pay for. How much are you paying for cigarettes a week? That you could put away for the future? If you have a future? You know what your future is, with those things? A coffin. A coffin for a tragic, early death.

"Don't get me wrong. I'm not gloating. I'll miss you. I'll speak at your funeral and I'll probably cry like a baby. I'll never mention this, but I'm asking you now: quit. Like me. Do it for me. Holy Christ, do it for yourself! For your kids! What are those kids going to do without a father? And a mother, God forbid? Jesus. You got to talk to Pat. I'm talking to Barbara. But she's thick. She's hooked, like you. Like all of yous. You know, time is fleeting. Do it now, before it's too late."

This kind of talk would go on for weeks, or even days, until Mr. Dolan succumbed, and started smoking again.

And then it would go like this:

"You don't know what it's like, Burke. It's not easy. It's the hardest thing you could ever try to do.

"It's like moving a mountain. Like moving it, then moving it over and over again, every day. Back and forth, like unbelievable torture.

"You get up in the morning and you know that's what you face. Another day of hell. And the cigarettes are right there. They'll save you from this hell.

"Oh, yeah, they'll take you to a deeper one. A cold, dark grave. But, Jesus Christ. What am I supposed to do, live in torture every day? Even a war ends. This don't end.

"But you wouldn't know. You don't know about the torture. You don't know about the pain. You never tried. You never been in the war. Well, I'm telling you, pal. Here's a report from the front. It's a killer. And we're losing.

"It don't look good. The prospects are dim. There's no way out. It's like we're in our graves prematurely. Right now. This very day is just a stop post to your grave. And these cigarettes are taking you there. You and me.

"But I don't know why I'm talking. It's like a veteran in the war doesn't tell the folks back home. There's no way they could know. No way they could understand. It's a hell I know, but you don't know, because you never been in the war."

I heard all this countless times, sitting on my father's lap at the table. There was practically nothing I liked more than hearing any summation of life or observational thing from Mr. Dolan.

Usually, my father didn't say much. But this time, stabbing out his cigarette in the ashtray between them, he said to Mr. Dolan,

"You see that cigarette?"

"Yeah, I see it," Mr. Dolan said. "What am I looking at?"

My father looked at him, then pointed at the butt. "That's the last cigarette I ever smoke in my life."

Mr. Dolan was silent. Uncharacteristically. But, in character, not long.

"Yeah, right!," he said, with big laughter. "You think it's that easy! You'll see, my friend. Now you'll see. I wish you luck. But you don't know what you're up against. I'm glad you're trying. Now you'll finally know what I'm saying."

My father didn't save the stub. Too bad. It was exactly what he said. It would have made a nice artifact.