I QUIT!! - My Last Damn Pack of Smokes - A 197,000 Cigarette Odyssey

The sun drenched and peaceful lake sat majestically under the afternoon sky. It was hot. Damn hot.

The air sweltered with stickiness, containing so much moisture you could almost swim in it. For some odd reason, the lake was completely void of watercraft and made it the scene seem rather eerie. From upon the lake, the shore seemed to consist of an endless array of tall pines. Among the statuesque evergreens was an occasional elm, birch, or oak tree.

An old oak that spanned out like an awesome octopus of the depths sat at the west edge of the lake, and had become quite famous for its rarity and stature. It was estimated to have taken root sometime around when the pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock, and on today’s date was providing some much needed shade for Jeb Jackson, who was fishing from a rock below the massive tree. Jeb had been sitting or standing on that rock since dawn, and other than a couple of sly fish stealing his bait, there had been no action. He reached into the left breast pocket of his trusty flannel, the one he wore even when it was ninety degrees, and pulled out an almost kicked pack of Lucky’s that had only one cigarette left in the pack.

“That’s my last damn one,” Jeb muttered to himself as he lit the wrinkled cig and reeled in the last cast of the day. He took a long rip of the smoke, letting it linger in his chest and slightly sear his lungs. He tried in earnest to enjoy the cigarette, because he truly intended for it to be the last one he ever smoked.

He went about the task of packing up his tackle, dancing nimbly among the boulder while his sacred smoke dangled loosely from his lips. He skipped off the rock and jutted back toward his truck though the lush forest, with two poles in his left hand and his tackle in his right. Jeb’s cigarette was mindlessly consumed - from ignition to filter it hadn’t left his mouth.

Jeb darted from the sandy lot and naturally fiddled for his breast pocket in a vain search for his best friend. “Oh ya, didn’t I just quit?”

He started to jones for a smoke. Jeb drove on, trying to convince himself of negative connotations in regards to cigarettes. He started to try and figure out just how many cigarettes he had inhaled into his poor lungs during his lifetime. He figured he had smoked an average of a pack and a half a day since he was fifteen. Jeb had gotten it up to two packs by now, but figured in the old days it was probably only a pack. Since he was now a ripe old man of 33 (Think about what Jesus and Bruce Lee accomplished in their 33 years!) it meant he had smoked about 30 cigarettes a day for the past 18 years. So the math equation becomes 30(cigarettes) x 365(days of year) x 18(years). He rattled the numbers around in his brain and came up with the rough answer of 197,100. 197,100 cigarettes. To try and fathom just how many cigarettes that is, he figured the cigarettes to be about 3 inches apiece. From that, he concluded that if you strung all those smokes together the string would extend almost 50,000 feet, damn near 10 miles. If you put those cigarettes end to end they would stretch across a football field over 160 times.

He concluded his internal mathematics and then realized he was the next person in line at the convenience store.

“Pack of Lucky’s please,” and the cashier handed Jeb the fresh sticks. He looked back at her as he walked out of the store and said, gesturing to the cigs with his hand, “Last Pack.”