The island

Smokers are the new lepers. We are shunned not so much for any physical deformity as for the noxious fumes we expel from our upper orifices — mouth, nostrils, and, with the occasional freak, the ears as well (which you must admit has entertainment value at least). Plus we stink. If it’s any consolation to non-smokers, we’re well aware of that. Hence the logic of check-out counter adjacencies: cigarettes, lighters, breath mints, hand sanitizers, prophylactics. Okay, maybe not that last item, but have you noticed how people in movies always have a post-coital smoke even if they don’t smoke anywhere else in the film? Just curious.

Anyway: the smell. Way before the evils of second-hand smoke crept into public consciousness, that’s what my non-smoking friends made such a stink of, pun fully intended. Imagine the to-do when they found out they were actually inhaling as much poison as (or even more than) us smokers. Unfortunately for them, they were in the minority. “Don't worry,” we would console one such friend, Lucille, “we’ll chip in for your coffin, ha-ha, cough-cough-cough.” To date, we’ve lost only one of our number, and that was because she quit. It wasn’t an unwelcome development. Not only is she stink-free these days (save for when she’s in our company), she literally bloomed.

That’s what I keep telling my best friend, Jerome. He has a stressful job. Recently he has taken to smoking — heavily at that — which is not something you would encourage in anyone, much less someone in his 40s. I lay it to him gently, which is unlike me at all: I am of the belief that a person has the right to kill himself any way he chooses. Except if he’s friend or family, in which case it is generally unacceptable. I beg him to give up the habit — I, who have been at it for almost a quarter of a century. That is a serious moral disadvantage right there. I might as well petition St. Jude.

That said, we don’t smoke in his car. Jerome loves his cars something crazy, and we both agree it would be a shame to stink up the leather. Once we were driving around Makati’s business district (we were lost, actually) when we passed a group of men huddled around a big drum. They were all in barong and seriously puffing up a cloud. “Stop!” I told Ruel, the driver. “There’s a smoking area!” We didn’t stop, of course. There was nowhere to park, legal or not (and Makati traffic aides were apparently notorious for being over-zealous and omnipresent). “Sir,” said Ruel, “better wait ’til we get to Greenbelt.”

I had not been to Greenbelt since the early ’90s. Back then it was all of one building. It was not even what you’d call upscale by current mall standards. Today it’s the size of a small republic. And very chic. At the entrance, the guard gingerly rummaged through my Habagat backpack before stamping my passport. Jerome, a naturalized citizen, headed straight for the nearest smoking area.

If you ever find yourself at Greenbelt in need of a nicotine fix, simply head for any of the open-air concourses connecting the buildings. Look for the refuse bins, specifically the one at the farthest end. You might miss it, though (the bin, not the smoke cloud), because it’s likely to be obscured by a small crowd. On this particular day I saw society ladies standing shoulder to shoulder with blue-collar workers, everyone avidly nursing his or her brand of poison. My people!, I wanted to shout. I felt like Fr. Damien setting foot on Moloka’i, such was my feeling of kinship with these disenfranchised souls. And they weren’t even contagious!

Am I bitter? Hardly. Smoking is a filthy, dangerous habit. If I had any sense at all (and enough willpower), I’d quit. But I'm lacking, see. So it is with my best friend, although he can speak for himself. Instead we quietly join our brethren to light up at our designated waste bin, enjoy the rush of nicotine to our starved systems — and, in that momentary state of blessed communion, forget about the world that has consigned us to our aromatic little island.

Photo: NY Daily News