Graduation Night and the Pursuit of the Perfect Smoke Ring

For Rob Pounding

Graduation Night and the Search for the Perfect Smoke Ring

November 15, 2016

The night of graduation was pretty much an exercise in the ironic for Rob and me. Living a few houses away during the last two years of our high school experience we got to know each other well, shared in some victories and a few defeats. Mostly, we shared a love for the music of the day and ways to improve upon it using strong weed, trips to the grocery to buy cigarettes, a few bottles of cheap whiskey bought for us by felonious adults and time at our favorite hangout, The Cellar, a teen club in downtown Arlington Heights that produced some of the best music groups to come out of the Chicago area. It was not so much in the way of dissipation for us as it was the need to explore our burgeoning manhood while we sat idly on the steps of our maturity. We didn’t understand fully what was expected of us since we didn’t fit the mold of so many others in our graduating class. We were not popular, though many knew us. We were not influential to anyone other than our small circle of friends that in some cases were just as odd, unpopular and out of the ordinary as we were.

While that last year of high school quickly resolved itself it also gave me a few skills that I use to this day and Rob certainly helped. An important skill, but one that lies below the everyday surface developed with his help was the smoke ring, a weapon of dominance over adversaries in the pack. When struggling to gain, and maintain status within the ranks of young teenage peers an advanced skillset is always of benefit. Those who could pull them off with any modicum of success were looked upon with a sense of admiration and increased respect by those who couldn’t possibly manage it. It was the others, who consistently failed, who were remembered by their fish-like puckered mouth and usually looked upon with pity and general disregard. It was a hard life in the trenches of adolescent and one had to find a uniqueness to be set apart from the rest of the herd. He was a more experienced smoker and I was lucky enough to be in attendance when he moved past the development stage and into expertise. One momentous day he began to fire off smoke rings with authority and regularity and his course was set. It’s a simple operation, but it takes a certain nuance and subtlety to pull it off. You can be shown the basics by a mentor, but it is entirely up to you to develop the correct mouth shape and the right amount of air to pull off good execution. With a bit of hard work and determination you can become adept in your art to improvise and create new forms. For example, it is possible to blow a steam ring with your breath on the front steps at the door of your house on a cold and windless nights in the dead zone of a Chicago winter. A dry atmosphere combined with a healthy amount of internal warmth, a good jaw snap and just a puff of exhalation can produce a steam ring that will carry abut 6 or 7 inches and last about a half a second in a well-lit environment. If pulled off properly your parents might think they saw you do something questionable, but shake it off in denial since they knew their young teenage son didn’t smoke. It couldn’t have possibly be a smoke ring. It was later in the year after winter melted into spring that I perfected my technique. Rob was still in a class by himself with his ability, but I was quick in my learning with his inspired motivation.

It was at a friend’s home in a still and darkened room that I believe was home to his greatest achievement. Rob and I sat facing a pretty, young girl sitting alone on a couch that sat directly opposite another couch facing her. It was a curious and odd arrangement, but something we didn’t question or ask about. Except for the presence of a flat yarn rug we were separated by approximately six feet of empty space. We were making small talk waiting for her brother, Rob’s friend, to appear from his room or wherever he was at the time. A low level of light filtered through darkened curtains in the corner that barricaded the rest of the room from the bright day. Enough light managed to somehow filter through illuminating our faces and bodies as well as the dust in the air lazily floating like miniature snowflakes like those that might signal the start of a mild snow. Rob lit a Marlboro and exhaled a lung full of smoke into the still air. It hung like a cloud for a what seemed like an eternity. All talk ceased as we watched it dissipate from a swirling thick smoking phenomena into nothingness. I sat in silence fascinated and thinking of where smoke goes once it hits the atmosphere It was nothing more than passing entertainment. Once degenerated in the still air conversation eventually picked up. I sat in the vacuous stillness watching in anticipation for something more to happen, but didn’t know what to expect. Rob’s quick mind was already at work analyzing the conditions of the room and he prepared his next feat. Taking in a deep drag he exhaled a bit of smoke and then popped off a series of three smoke rings that were thick in body and looked as if they had enough structure and velocity to carry them across the room. They were magnificent. Conversation stopped again as we beheld the exquisiteness of these airy constructs slowly silently making their way across the span that separated us. Conditions were perfect. The rings floated directly and steadily toward this young girl’s chest as if dialed in by a long-range artillery view finder. All three collided and broke in succession, bam! bam! bam!, after encircling one of her pert breasts. This elicited a small squeal of both surprise and embarrassment buried in her throat as we reacted with typical adolescent delight. Somewhere in her mind I’m certain she felt more violated by our laughter rather than being touched by a stranger’s proxy from across the room. She covered herself briefly and then quickly left. Rob’s eyes met mine and we again shared the hilarity of the moment and this impromptu prank with snickers and giggles. It was but a singular moment in our lives, but such a moment as this cemented our friendship even further. He will read this, today, and claim he doesn’t remember the incident, but that’s okay. I do and that is enough.

But it was this one evening, in the middle of June that marked the end of our high school careers and put us another step closer to our developing adulthood. The senior class stood in line outside the school talking excitedly and suddenly casual in our dress since it was longer necessary to abide by the school dress code. We were soon to graduate and we wore shorts and t-shirts under our rented cap and gowns for the march across the stage to our diplomas. There was excitement in the ranks and talk of a huge bonfire celebration that was going to be hosted in one of the Gold Coast communities along Chicago’s lakefront filtered through the ranks. Rob and I were separated alphabetically so neither of us knew precisely when or where this was going to happen, but I got the idea in my head that this was something we should attend. We were not of their kind, though. We were not popular nor were we ever considered as someone to invite to such gatherings. However, I felt that our presence would bring about some sort of resolve to the end of the year and our last days as members of this graduating class. I didn’t know if he would show up for graduation since he didn’t make the school photo session for our senior pictures. Then, I looked up ahead in the line and saw a brief puff of smoke followed by a series of smoke rings signaling his presence. I knew it was time go for it.

Once my parents and I came home from the ceremony I told them about the bonfire party and the anticipated huge crowd of kids that would be attending. It was to be the last party for the senior class and since I was heading to college in just a few months it seemed harmless enough. I was given the green light to go. I called Rob on the phone and explained the plan. He was at my house in an instant and off we went into the night looking for a party at an unknown destination and at an unknown time. It didn’t occur to us that this might be nothing more than rumor. With faith in our hearts and knowing classmates to be true to their word we drove off into the night in my red Volkswagen beetle, a legendary car that held many stories and secrets that would never be brought to bear by our parents.

We rolled through the Chicago suburbs playing music on my small tinny radio that played just a few of the stronger signaled AM stations. Top 40 radio was still king, but changed after the sun went down. Psychedelia was starting to creep onto the charts as groups like the Troggs, Music Machine and The Thirteenth Floor Elevators became mainstream. We particularly enjoyed powerful voices filled with angst and desperation and spoke of these singers and celebrated them with impersonation and admiration. We loved loud raucous music. A most notable aspect of this era was the morning ritual a girl on our block would perform every morning waiting for the school bus to pick us up during the year. She would open the front door of her parents’ house and play “White Rabbit” by the Jefferson Airplane at impressive levels. I had to admit, their stereo system was impressive since it handled that masterpiece easily without a hint of distortion. I would have loved to have had something like that in the dashboard of my little car.

Rob pulled a tightly rolled joint from behind his ear hidden by his long hair and lit it up. He sucked in a large hit while a few seeds snapped and sparked their way into the car and his shirt. He held it in for a bit and then handed it to me after exhaling and coughing from the roughness of the smoke. It wasn’t particularly strong weed, but it was enough to get us reasonably stoned for about twenty minutes or so. Stronger weed had a habit of making me space out while I drove and somewhat paranoid as well. If I was stoned enough my legendary driving skills would suddenly wimp out as if I was carrying a neon sign on my roof announcing “Hey, everybody! The driver was ripped to the gills!” I just knew that every cop car I passed would eventually get me into its sights and ruin not only my evening, but my life if I was ever caught. Did that stop me? Not until many years later.

Once we were reasonably stoned it was time to eat. We cruised through the local McDonalds to see if anyone knew when and where this bonfire was supposed to happen. No one seemed to know directly, but I believe we started a rumor or two about it. The both of us were still committed to finding its location after a few burgers, fries and cokes. Cigarettes lit and after entertaining a few friends with another joint it was time to get back on the road. Rob sat in the passenger seat enjoying his smoke pumping perfect smoke rings into the dashboard of my car and singing along with the song on the radio. He wasn’t a bad singer and had the best yell of any kid I knew. I always thought he was good at it. He wasn’t as good as Little Richard or Paul McCartney, but he was close. It had just the right amount of break up to it that gave his laugh a good underscoring and infectiousness. 

We arrived in the town of Wilmette, a bedroom community along the Lake Michigan shore. Logically, the only direction to go once inside the city limits was east toward the lake. There is a road that rims the lake, but is broken up from time to time by homes built on the beach. Those houses blocked our search and generally grew to be a cause of frustration in our search for this mythological bonfire that had to be going on somewhere along the shore. Dammit, it was graduation night and we were looking for our last rite of passage at an unknown location hosting an inferno that we should instantly see. Instead, we saw black water that melded directly into a black sky bereft of stars from the ambient light of the city. The moon was nothing more than a sliver and added nothing.

We crawled through the empty streets guessing where to go after the road ran out and became another rich man’s home blocking our view. The mood was getting dismal and our mutual level of excitement was rapidly waned. We passed little in the way of traffic and saw no one on the sidewalks. Some neighborhoods had good lighting while others seemed to be left out of the city’s plan. I was about to give it up when I saw a lone walking figure illuminated by a street lamp. He looked young and hopefully knowledgeable of such things as large bonfires attended by a senior graduation class from a high school forty miles away in the northwest suburbs of Chicago. I yelled, “Hey, Jack! C’mere a second!” Surprised and panicked he looked back in our direction wanting no part of any sort of confrontation either friendly or hostile.

“I gotta go home,” he yelled back and sprinted off into the night.

“Jeez, all I wanted to ask him was if he knew where the party was.”

Rob looked at me and said flatly, “I’m not surprised at that. How would you react if some big asshole was yelling at you?”

“Good point. Let’s go home.” I headed back though a neighborhood we had just searched as I rolled through a stop sign intersection. A Wilmette cop was waiting for just such an infraction along the side of the street further down from my view. His lights went on and I reacted with an “Oh shit!” The race was on as I put the VW through its gears asking for every bit of power it could muster from its 68 horses hiding under the rear deck lid. The cop’s car was slow in getting up to speed and had to climb up a large hill to intercept us. I blew through another stop sign and used gravity to develop speed down another steep hill. I was momentarily out of his sight and used it to park in someone’s empty garage. I pulled in, killed the lights and we both hunkered down in the seats. The cop car slowly cruised the neighborhood using his searchlight to illuminate the houses along the block. For some reason, he turned it off just before shining it into the garage where we sat. If he had lit us up he would have seen my red VW and arrested us for sure. We sat quietly until he left. Once I was sure he was far away I released the emergency brake and rolled the car silently out of the garage and onto the street where I turned the ignition and started. We laughed for a while about the incident, but that soon turned to silence broken only by the soft music on the radio and the hum of the engine. It was getting late and we didn’t find the party. We managed to scare a kid in Wilmette and lost a cop through some lucky driving and fast thinking. There was nothing left to do, but go home and start our summer.

Once we arrived at my house we stepped out of the car and again lit up. The night was calm and the crickets were loud in their serenade. Houses still hadn’t been built across the street from my house and the fields that faced us remained a host for many animals of the night. Rob and I smoked for a while popping smoke rings into the night air. A slight breeze affected them to the point where it just wasn’t fun anymore. It was time to go to bed. We said our good nights and wondered in part where the evening had gone. It seemed uneventful since the bonfire turned out to be a bust while the other events seemed distant and inconsequential. It was like the years we spent in high school. Some things happened along the way causing a little excitement and we had a little fun and managed to escape some very real danger. All in all, I guess it was a good night. High School with all its horrors of maintaining the social strata through popularity and other status wars was over. New schools were waiting along with new adventures and challenges. Life and all its uncertainty would not be kept waiting long.

Rob and I didn’t spend too much time together that summer after that night. Why, I don’t know. He eventually went to work for a pizza place in the next town as a cook and eventually went off to the Army and then cooking school. Today, he is a successful restauranteur and head chef earning high praise from his clientele and peers. I went on to become a world class drunk and immediately flunked out of college to start a meandering and often checkered career of dead end jobs with poor pay. Eventually, I found a path to a career, made a good living, bought land, had a big truck, but it was cut short by the events of 9/11 taking away many of my possessions, but relieving me of their responsibility and worry. Both of us got married and had kids. I went into recovery for alcoholism and Rob managed to make it alive out of the New York restaurant scene without OD’ing. I no longer smoke or do drugs and I am sure he is in abstinence as well. I am intensely proud of him for him righting his course and becoming a success. For me, I am still sober after 21 years and gratified of this achievement. There are times I wish we could have done things differently, but I suppose this was all meant to be in the grand scheme of things. I am in a good place, now, and it sounds as if he is as well. I’ve been trying this writing thing since I moved back to my home town area and married my childhood sweetheart. I told I’m not bad. I’d like to be published sometime before I pass through this life, but I know to do so means constantly writing and regularly refining my craft. I’m not afraid of the work, but I could use a break or two in the business. I’m sure he can still blow a good smoke ring if challenged to do so. I tried it over the summer when a friend handed me an expensive cigar at a party. I hadn’t smoke anything for at least 22 years prior, but for some reason I lit this one up and produced a string of rings that would put a smile on his face enough to say, “Hey man, hand me that. Let me try”