“Try it, honey,” the skeletal woman said eagerly holding a white little stick, “after three puffs it tastes like candy…”
And so he coughed and wheezed in pain. An experience that kept him from smoking his entire life, even if he was frequent to escort his friends on their smoking breaks. He wished it was a clever ploy to teach him a lesson at the age of ten, but remembering the fog filling the kitchen as his mother finished yet another daily pack, he always believed she genuinely wanted a smoking buddy.
He never touched the filthy habit again… until now.
Good beginnings
Sure, he might have tried a bit of hookah or taken the occasional whiff of a vape when offered. But the sticks, the ones you light on fire, were never an interest. Well, except for the few drunken nights, and few drunken balcony outings, and few free offers of one. “Why not?” After all, it only stood to reaffirm the old conditioning. Replacing life-giving oxygen with filthy smog only lead to nausea and bad taste in the mouth.
“Hey, it’s on me,” said the Meager Man. But he didn’t let him pay, of course. It’s electronic, and you put the little fitting on, and oh it’s not real tobacco! The first few attempts were rough, imprecise. But the taste was decent. Minty. Like a good gum, but different. It catered to his oral fixation.
Then, on his third attempt, he breathed harder. And it all changed.
Head spinning, hands meager, feet cold and… bliss. Everything was good. No reason. No explanation. It just was. For a few minutes, at least.
And he understood the magic. He understood the breaks. He understood the candy.
The Intermediate
It was an occasional treat, something best enjoyed in the evening, some time between a good dinner and pleasant lull into sleep. If an occasional glass of wine wouldn’t hurt, surely this couldn’t either? We all have our vices.
But sometimes, the evening turned to late afternoon, and one or two scandalous mornings. Until the mornings were no longer scandalous. It just went so well with the coffee. It made the emails readable, at least for a few minutes.
Surely, there were worse things he was hurting himself with. The electronic smoke was hardly a priority. And perhaps it could be a temporary bridge of sanity. Well, while it lasted.
End of a dream
It kind of snuck up on him. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment, until the month has passed and he realized it was no longer there. Sure, there was the brief nausea. Sure, the hands went limp. Sure, the feet got chilly. But the bliss no longer followed.
So he puffed once more, and the feelings intensified. Not the ones he sought.
It still felt nice to suck on the little metallic tube. “I have my coffee, I have my document open, it would be nice…” A ritual, nothing more. A ritual, a sacrifice, but the gods went silent.
So he left it at home that time. Urges spiked, like any common animal condition to salivate at the sight of food. “Oh wouldn’t it be nice…” He knew it was no use. That the price would be paid, but the reward not given. Most struggle with this step, but in a twist of irony, the primary psychological reinforcer simply turned sour.
He missed the candy. But there was no point licking a stale wrapper.