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02 wife. mistress. succubus.
PROSE




prose about a man and his smoking habit.

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My father is a smoker.
Heavy. 2 packs a day for 45 years. 
Everywhere he went. Cigarette, pressed between lips.
New pack, shirt chest pocket. Lighter, left front pants pocket.
At work. In the car. In the house. My soccer games.
Lighting up straight out of the exam room after the doctor told him he needed to stop.
Whenever my mom could wrestle him, kicking and screaming, and smoking, into church.
During Mother’s day dinner, and especially on his birthday and Christmas.

He always told me, “Never start. It sucks the life out of you.”
I don’t think it was the smoking that sucked the life out of him.
My mom and I tried to get him to stop many times but it was always the same.
He never really seemed interested in what was going on with us.
It seemed when we spoke he was listening. But he was hearing the waves. 


My father is a man of the sea. At least that’s where he seemed happiest.
Whenever we’d go on our “family vacation” for the year
He would be up at 4 AM to go fishing, swimming, and surfing.
He would be back around 9 before anyone else was up.
I always thought that this was his way of communing with nature in the same way that hikers do. 
Or those people who do yoga in the park.


One year we rented a house on the beachfront for a week.
The first night, I stayed up watching TV until I could watch him leave.

Of course he was up at 4 AM, out of the house by 4:15. 
like so many times before. But this time there was a voyeur.
The lonely light of his headlamp betrayed him in the morning gloom on his way to the affair. 
He sat for a time on the beach.
Waxing his board, stretching, setting his line.
As dawn began to creep over the horizon his light went off. His line went out.

As I sat on the balcony watching him I saw my father do something I’d never seen him do.
That is, go more than half an hour without a cigarette.
In fact, he went the whole 5 hours. 4 AM to 9 AM without it.

He caught a handful of waves. He and the ocean did this little dance every time.
She would play hard to get.
Sending a few waves that looked promising but didn’t amount to anything.
He would be patient. Fully relaxed and watchful until she gave him the right one.
As he dropped in, his surfboard would caress her cheek, and he would reach his hand out to clutch at her bosom until the wave climaxed, and he let himself be consumed in her wiles.

He caught a few fish.
Always the same, perfectly patient, relaxed.
Until the line was struck and he would reel it in,
examine it for a bit, then throw the fish back.
As he caught these fish I caught on.
He grew up by the beach.
This was how he lived until he met my mom
and when I came into the picture he couldn’t exactly throw me back. 

He reeled in his line for the last time
and we met at the top of the steps.
I was greeted with a smile and a pat on the back.
He took me inside and started making breakfast.
I’ve never been so hurt by seeing him so happy.
His smile said he was glad to see me but his eyes told the truth.

He sat me down to a big plate of pancakes
with syrup and butter and orange juice and bacon.
As I took my first bite of the bribe, 
he did something that I’ve seen him do a thousand times before, 
and a thousand times since, But this one time I’ll never forget.

He reached into his pocket and lit another cigarette.





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