Why I Became a ‘Tarnished Finger’
Exploring the roots of his smoking habit, from infancy on
Wondering just why he became a dedicated smoke – i.e., a “tarnished finger” – Boomer reader Jimmy R. Coleman explores the roots of his habit, from infancy on.
Eons ago it was, countless numbers of people asked me why I smoke. Any intelligent question deserves an equally good reply if one is readily available, which was not the case when I was first interrogated. All I knew was that my cigarettes brought me much comfort when I was not coughing, walking faster than a snail’s pace or occasionally burning a hole in a newly acquired carpet. You can always spot a dedicated smoker by his or her nicotine-stained fingers, appropriately referred to as a tarnished finger!
Being philosophical, I too wanted to know the essence of my smoking. Thus began my long and tedious investigation into why I smoked. Regardless of the pain I might experience, I was determined to leave no stone unturned. Since I am a product thereof, the answer more, likely than not, would be found in my environment, I looked in that direction. My suspicious mind paid off.
It is now obvious that I was preconditioned to smoke. The journey down smoker’s highway began in my early infancy, at the ripe old age of one month when I received my first pacifier, my first experience at what psychologists call the ‘sucking urge.’ A milk bottle substituted for my pacifier whenever it heated up and needed a rest. Psychologists say this proved my mother loved me. It makes sense – I would have starved to death had I been deprived of the bottle. Rotating between the pacifier and bottle, I felt contented during my early impressionable years. Mother had no way of knowing she was producing a latent tarnished finger.
Unless we are Chinese, we must all eventually graduate to using the impersonal cold steel object called a spoon. The spoon did nothing exciting for my sucking urge, so I found a marvelous substitute – the thumb, a most handy gadget. Like any normal child, however, I had to relinquish my thumb at the young age of seven, except of course, for prehensile purposes.
To overcome such obstacles I became creative, discovering the ballpoint pen and pencil, which made for excellent chewing. I abandoned pencils after experiencing memory lapses. Over time, I had swallowed at least a pound of pencil eraser, figuring the rubber wiped out part of my memory. The ballpoint pen was even more disastrous. One day at school, after noting I had become the center of attention, I discovered black ink oozing between my teeth, as if I had been kissing an octopus.
Fate deprived me of my pacifier, bottle, thumb, pen and pencil, and I became as jumpy as a barefooted kangaroo on scalding sand. Not recognizing the five early warning signs, I was well on my way toward smoker’s alley. Only sheer luck prevented me at this time from entering cougher’s haven.
I was fortunate in my seventh grade class to sit behind a girl who had long curly locks, although initially I thought the situation a curse. Every time she turned her head, her hair would slap me in the face. Then one day while experiencing extreme withdrawal symptoms, I grabbed a few strands of Goldilocks’ hair and started chewing on it. Disgusting, you say? I was desperate, deprived, remember? Be tolerant! My good fortune was short lived, however. Her hair became off limits to my taste buds when she commenced spraying those luscious curls with some awful tasting substance.
It was at this point I moved to the harder stuff. Two older machos introduced me to my first cig at a rather impressionable age. Back yonder when, when smokers surpassed the number of babies sucking their thumbs, I finally found a pacifier with which I could feel secure! No one would dare challenge the fraternity of smokers, or so I thought.
We few remaining tarnished fingers are being challenged today, like there’s no tomorrow. Even my wife forces me to light up out on the deck, one day when it was five below! I have hope, however. She is taking a psychology course and maybe she will begin to understand why I became a tarnished finger.
Read other contributions from Boomer readers in our
Do you have your own stories you’d like to share with our baby boomer audience? View our writers’ guidelines and e-mail our editor at Annie@BoomerMagazine.com with the subject line “‘From Our Readers’ inquiry.”
OR
