Cigar Smoke: A Perfect Illustration

I found myself in an interesting state of mind the other day. I was angry over some miscommunications, but in my ramblings I came across an illustration that really captured the essence of that anger. Now, I don't smoke, but peep this.

I was listening to Cee-Lo Green's "Evening News", a song about dark deeds done on dark nights. The feel of the music reminded me of something somewhere between the Godfather, Dolemite, Carlito's Way, and Shaft.In my mind, I picture a man in a big leather chair behind a desk...

The chair is turned back as he faces away from the desk, seated in a "good posture is what I say it is" type way. His fedora has long been on his hat rack, and the sizable windows behind his chair are all but visible through the slightly cracked drapes.

As the character turns around slowly, the light pans gently across the top of his desk. It's just enough to steal a dull gleam off the beretta that sits on his tabletop. He leans back in his chair as he turned to face whatever lies before him; in one hand is an embossed metal lighter; it's spark is hidden by his other hand as he brings the lighter to the cigar clenched in his teeth. As the flame attacks the end of the cigar, our host steals quick puff and lets a few dark clouds escape the sides of his mouth, slightly ajar.

As he settles, the chair comes full circle and he seeks his ash tray opposite his beretta. Meanwhile the cigar glows a glaring red as the man inhales, utterly oblivious to it. A strong puff and the head of the cigar is reduced to an illusive, crumbling gray matter. A nonchalant tap against the cigar's body and the head falls effortlessly into the ash tray.

The only thing that holds the smoker's attention is a newspaper article he has drawn from his desk drawer. He reads it slowly and dangles the slowly disintegrating cigar effortlessly in the air, as if he intends for it to burn itself out. However, as he reads further, a furrow begins to appear in the midst of his forehead, then three more. As his teeth clench tightly, the muscles of his jaw flex with quiet but volatile tension.

The cigar quickly returns to it's position between the man's teeth. No longer a leisure, the cigar has become the man's method of maintaining his composure. He puffs furiously as the cigar begins to vaporize in a haze of fierce red and gray smoke. In the clenches of his teeth, the cigar flips up and down as if begging for a merciful douse to quench the flame.

In an instant, the cigar has run its course; it happened so quickly that the frail ash managed to collect in a sizable amount at butt's end. The smoke is so thick that it's visible all over the officeroom. The man slowly removes the remaining portion from his mouth and dips it into his ash tray, twisting the remaining spark out in a few smooth motions. He is calm now, and he folds his paper up and tucks it under his arm, preparing to leave.

He stands and makes his way to the door. But before he leaves, he grabs the breast of his expensive suit. He takes a sniff and grimaces. "'Gonna hafta get this dry cleaned."

...And just like that, the cigar made his presence known. I am the cigar that was lit and dissolved; I am the ash that fell apart and was tossed aside; I am the smoke that remained and became unbearable.

A Perfect Illustration B-J