The fine art of quitting smoking

The city of Halifax is cold, rainy and some would argue pretentious in attitude. I love it there.

School had finished for the semester and being unemployed at the moment it seemed only logical to hit the road and b-line it for the port city. Ruddiger and I sat up the night before waxing philosophic about friendships and so we woke up a couple hours later than expected. We didn't make it to Halifax until after 6:00. Considering that we were only staying until Sunday morning means we have little time.

We hit up the Agricola LC where I reunited with my old friend Baron Philippe in Pinot Noir glory. After a flurry of Rock Band excitement at Chris and Bree's while downing the whole bottle of wine in a matter of an hour or so, we put on our suits and were set to hit the town.

I called a mutual friend, Travis. When he picked up I asked for him and he acknowledged that he was indeed the Travis I was looking for you.

"I'm going to punch you right in the face," I said.

"Uh..." he didn't know what to say and then I started laughing and told him who I was. I told him Ruddiger and I were in town and asked if he wanted to meet up. He asked where we were going and I told him the Pogue Fado.

"Uh, that place? No thanks. Gross."

I had never been there but figured he had good reason or had been denied by whatever lady conquest he was on at the time.

The Pogue Fado is advertised as an Irish Pub but it's a pretty poor excuse for one. The food was fine. The chicken wings were some of the best I'd had in a long time and the Guinness flowed for me. Decked in our suits, there were five of us at this time, we were having a good time. The worm turned then and there.

As I bit into a wing the music morphed into the heavy repetitive beat associated with seedy dance clubs the world over. A supposed Irish pub piping dance music in as loud as can be. Lame.

It was maddening. But we stuck it out, the food and beer was worth it to a degree, clearly we wouldn't stay the rest of the night but we figured we'd give it another hour or so.

Bree hates cigarettes, I mean she loathes them. For the last few years I have been a casual smoker who sometimes goes on a week or two long binge. Basically there were days I didn't smoke and there were days I smoked at least once an hour while I was awake.

By Friday I was in the midst of one of these extended binges where I smoked regularly. I hadn't bought a pack in quite a while but I had mastered the art of bumming. Either that or my friends are just very generous people.

After a few beers and that bottle of wine from a couple hours earlier I was feeling boisterous.

"I bet you I can quit smoking right now. I'll go the next six months without a smoke, guaranteed."

Bree was hesitant. She looked around and asked Ruddiger and company if I smoked a lot. He said I did and he wished he had taken that action.

"How much?" one of them asked...remember the Guinness and the wine.

"$100 each on the condition that I get to have one more before I drop them."

They agreed but no one we were with smoked or had smokes on them. Ruddiger did occasionally much like me. He saved it mostly for when he was driving.

I jumped from my seat and left the bar for the cold and bitter street. The first person I saw smoking was a husky guy right out the front door to the right. He was huddled against the wall and I figured I'd give it a go.

"Excuse me, could I grab a smoke off ya?"

He looked at me and smiled. "For sure you can, sure." He dragged it out in what I thought was a Scottish accent. He gave me a cigarette.

"Where are you from?" I asked.

"Glasgow man. Working the docks here."

"How do you like Halifax?"

"Oh man it's a right good town, reminds me a lot of Glasgow."

Of course this is the best I can do to decipher what his exact words were as I was inebriated and he was Scottish. Good chap, name of John. We shot the shit for a while, I told him about being an out of work writer and he humoured me, which I appreciated. We went our separate ways and my last cigarette has a story behind it. A brief one, but a story nevertheless.

While I was outside, Ruddiger had gone to the bathroom. On his way back to the table he tells me a group of guys in one of the booths he passed had called him a fag. If you know Ruddiger, you know that a few years ago he would likely have stopped in his tracks turned with a sly smile and shot some choice words back at these douches. Instead he returned to the table without causing a scene, he was the better man, matured...it's somehow depressing but he did the right thing.

The dance music turned into a cover band playing radio hits from the 90's. We left and I haven't touched a cigarette yet. Sure it's early, but it's a step in the right direction.