Cigar Shop

So, I went to the cigar shop last night to have a smoke and to hopefully have a friendly chat with one of the few guys whom I have connected with in this whole, wide world. I picked out a nice J. Fuego 777, cut it, lit up and found my friendly acquaintance sitting in one of the more intimate areas of the shop, where one can watch television, play dominoes or simply relax. He had been out of town for a couple weeks, so it felt good, almost like Grandma's house back in the day, to see him sitting there, having a smoke himself, and casually glancing up now and again to see who might be strolling in next.

I sat down and we talked for a few seconds. The travels were good, he said, the reason for the visit unfortunate, yet all was well, and he was glad to be back in town. After catching up, a guy who I often see, but whom I have never talked with, came into the room and sat between my friend and I. Here we were, the three of us, sitting in the lounge, all enjoying some fine Dominican and Nicaraguan tobacco, when a nice couple comes into the room and sits down on one of the couches. They pull a bottle of wine and a bottle of whiskey from their bags and pour themselves drinks, offering us one by way of a nod and a smile.

"No thanks," I said.

"I'm good," my friend says, sipping on his own glass of Cognac.

My friend introduces everyone to everyone else, a couple more people come into the room and the greetings and salutations take place again, until finally everyone is introduced except for the guy whom I've never spoken with and myself.

The next thing I know, Tiger is on the television and the room goes silent. Tiger Woods, sans Nike ball cap, with big, moist eyes and his heart-warming, written speech to the world filling the room. News in America that relentless, twisted case of deja vu. You know, that reel which America has seen over a million times already, yet which continues to ooze out of the television one more time to tell us that Tiger is a damned slut, and that he needs to repent by making calculated, written, emotionless speeches, showing us all that he is weak and needs to go to Sex Addicts Anonymous, and that he's naughty and all of that stuff.

"He's just a human-being!" the guy whom I've never spoken with says.

The room begins to bubble with pockets of talk, here and there over the whiskey and cigar smoke, as I look at the television screen trying to ignore the guy with the seeming case of Tourette syndrome sitting right next to me. My friend looks over at me, and then at the guy whom I've never spoken with, and then back to me.

"Paul. This is John," my friend says to me.

"Hey John," I said, offering my hand for that automatic handshake I've learned so well over the years.

"Kick a man down just because he's rich and famous," John says, staring at me like some 1930's B-film mind-reader, leaving my hand dangling, as if I was the spirit of Hearst incarnate himself, coming back from the dead to rake the muck on Tiger just to piss him off.

I looked at the guy and then back at the television. Everyone else in the room having their own little conversations, as John taps me on the arm and says, "Don't you care?"

"I really don't care about what Tiger does. That's between he and his wife."

"He's a human-being," John says, emphatically shaping his mouth to fit around the words human-being like he was trying to blow imaginary bubbles.

No shit? Really? I think to myself, but can only stare numbly at my newest acquaintance, wondering why chance had become so cruel to me all of a sudden.

My friend, the guy whom I came to speak with, not the outspoken defender of humanity John, looks at me and smiles. A set-up, you bastard, I think, but can only smile back, and subsequently continue to act interested in the television.

"Tiger needs to apologize," someone in the room says.

"They're raking him over the coals," John says. "They're bastards, everyone of them."

"He signed up for ridicule and incessant pestering and defamation by becoming a superstar," I say. "He should've known they'd slaughter him for being stupid."

"People should love him," John says. "It's not fair that they treat him like that."

I was really at a loss here, a grown man just figuring out that life wasn't fair, as we all sat around the television, the room alive with conversation now, as my friend sat over in the corner laughing to himself, me nearly cramping inside with the whole mess.

"You have to tell people privately when they are screwing up," John says to me, grabbing my forearm now, emphatic as a preacher on meth, as I try to pretend that my life had not ended up in this bleak, dark hole of some alter reality.

"I agree," I said.

"You don't understand," John says.

"I think I do, really, John."

John is now staring at me, white spittle around his mouth, like some frothily emotional girlfriend, who just wants me to love her, dammit, and who is so damned frustrated by the fact that I am so obtuse and insensitive and stupid and all of that, but after a couple frightful seconds, I realize that he's not a girlfriend, and I almost burst into tears or laughter or both simultaneously, as he turns deeper shades of red with each passing second.

I can't really do anything at this point, but speak my mind as honestly and clearly as possible, not really caring about the outcome of the situation, and letting the chips fall as they may, as they say.

John listens intently as I give my defense in relation to my lack of concern over the treatment of Tiger Woods in the media. He leans in my direction, painfully it looks like, as he bores holes through me with his intense, longing expression that personifies real, genuine care and empathy, and the most ironic thing in the world happens next. I mean, I spoke from the heart here, and he seemed to respond to that very well. He instantly wanted to be buddies for the very first time in our short conversation, and so we talked about politics and religion and anything else that would allow us to teeter on the edge of utter social destruction for the last few minutes before he had to leave for work.

My friend told me later that he always wanted to see how we would get along. Thanks, buddy, I thought. And that was that. I got to finish my cigar, met some good guys and John went on his way, fighting the good fight.

I just want to say to my friend Sarah that I understand when you say that crazy people tend to pick you out of a crowd, and want to talk to you. Me too, now that I realize it. Keep the faith, and remember, this is where you can come to learn how not to go insane. Laughter is the key, I say. Amen.