Camels

When I was a teenager I started smoking. I wanted to be like my dad and smoke Camels. Unfiltered, one word I would use to describe myself. I didn't like everything about smoking. The after smell was an insult. A freshly opened pack lingered the aroma of ancient. The pack of Camels was way cool. I started sketching the pack during English class in high school. Rhett, Rhett cigarette the kid beside me chanted. My cowboy boot sent him off his chair and onto the floor. On the way to the principals office I took out most of the smokes and dropped them off at my locker. I already spoke English I reasoned. I focused on envisioning a series of paintings of the Camel pack; imagine my disappointment learning Larry Rivers beat me to it and in a big way. Smoking did have its redeeming qualities, collecting Zippo lighters for instance. And then there was the college girl who, while sitting in a nightclub waiting for the Talking Heads to take the stage ask if, I had an extra one of those. We drank Southern Comfort on the rocks. A romance with fire.