And Soon No Drinking and No Talking

When I was a freshman in high school, I’d had only a few brushes with the stage. I’d performed minor roles in school plays and had enjoyed a few “chorus” roles in community musicals after aspiring friends dragged me to their auditions. I was too painfully shy to be the focus of attention on stage. Wouldn’t even try.

Then I met Marc. Marc was an actor. He dragged me to the theatre often and soon I was working behind the scenes. I found love. But it wasn’t with Marc. Before graduation I was President of the Thespian Society with a lifetime membership.

Over the years, I worked “real” jobs during the day and gave my nights to community theatre. In time, I ventured out from behind the scenes. I now understood why shy people became actors. When you are always at a loss for words yourself, afraid to speak out, there is something amazingly comforting about having some bit of time when you know EXACTLY what to say and when to say it. When you know EXACTLY how the other person will react. For some, being on stage is scary. For me, it was the least scary part of the day.

Five years ago, I decided that instead of working all day for money and all night for free, I should find a way to combine the two and be paid for my time in theatre. A friend was performing at a dinner theatre in Nashville that was looking for a Stage Manager, and when he dropped my name, I got the job. I would not be on stage, but I would be paid and I would get my foot in the professional door. It seemed like a great idea at the time.

When I was a freshman Stage Manager, I’d had only brushes with smoking. My parents, grandmother, and uncles had all been smokers. I’d dated smokers. I was not a smoker myself. Didn’t want to be. Had no interest.

Then I met Warren. Warren was a smoker. He dragged me to smoke breaks often and soon I was smoking on my own. I found a savior. But it wasn't Warren. Before I quit stage managing, I was a smoker with a pack-a-day habit.

I had, at the time, a better than average infatuation with my chain-smoking friend. Neither of us lived in Nashville and our different schedules weren’t conducive to carpooling, so we spoke during breaks at the theatre. His method of pulling me aside was to ask me out for a smoke with him, and by golly, I took every cigarette he offered. In time, I felt I should have a pack of my own on hand for those moments. Cigarettes cost money, after all, and I’d been smoking his.

After a few months, as he accepted more roles and his schedule more closely matched mine, we did begin to carpool. Or rather, I began to chauffer. I was unwilling to prohibit smoking in my car on the long drive for fear that he’d choose instead to make the trip in his own car – without me – but I couldn’t stand the smell. I’ve never figured out why this is, but it was easier to smoke one myself than to breathe one second-hand. So, now I was smoking in the car, too.

That’s how I started smoking, but it’s not what kept me lighting up. I didn’t love cigarettes the way I loved theatre, but in theatre smoking became a necessity. It afforded me something nothing else could. Something, to me, worth every puff.

As one show ran for audiences at night and its replacement rehearsed during the daytime, workdays stretched on for twelve to thirteen hours. Breaks were rare and random and, as Stage Manager, I often worked through them. I was at everyone’s beck and call and everything needed to be done right now. In time, this created no little resentment on my part; the pay wasn’t great and I was exhausted. Then, I had an epiphany: everyone respects a smoke break. They may not respect the smoke or the smoker, but they respect the break. When you have a cigarette in your hand, you are allowed, no matter how begrudgingly, to respond to demands “when you’re finished.” In so long a work day, coupled with a long commute and – who can believe now? – a second job, those few moments to STOP were invaluable. For three years, cigarettes proved a powerful tool in insuring that I would get the breaks others took for granted and that I would have a few moments to myself during the day. That’s how it became habit.

I quit Stage Managing two years ago, but I didn’t quit smoking. I was by then living in Nashville and dating a non-smoker, but I continued to work for the theatre, waiting tables. In that arena, the smoking porch is to employees what the golf course is to Donald Trump: a social place where deals are made. Quitting would mean giving up much more than cigarettes, it seemed. Beyond that, it was habit now and a crutch I relied on.

I left the smoking porch behind when I came to San Diego. With no expectant smoking buddies, no boss to schmooze for shifts, and no good reason to smoke alone, I chose not to pack cigarettes.

There have been times I wanted a cigarette. A block from the theatre where I'm now performing, there's a seedy little dive bar where I’ve gone once or twice for a beer. What is a beer in a seedy bar without a cigarette, I ask you? But Eddie Izzard was right: you can’t smoke in bars in California. Crazy state. Nutso. What’s a seedy bar without smokes? But if you can’t smoke ‘em when you want ‘em you don’t buy ‘em.

And two months fly by.