"Nicotine Shit Rush"., A Short story c/o : Mo Mostowfi.,

“It’s only cold in the winter”
That was Pagguy. He lives on the doorstep of the building I live in.
He once told me as I was trying to fit my key in the lock while balancing plastic bags filled to the rim with frozen food that he came to London from Zambia in 1987, and he hasn’t lived under a roof since 1999.
I come home from work and he’s sitting there, as always, on the doorstep rubbing his hands together telling me “it’s only cold in the winter”.
I’m sitting in my bedsit eating my dinner (microwave lasagne) staring at the radio while listening to the gay couple in the next room watch a Friends marathon- either that or they own the box set.
I don’t really listen to the radio, but my TV got stolen a few weeks ago and I think it might have been Pagguy but I can’t be sure.
I decide to start smoking, as I no longer have a TV. I have never smoked a cigarette before. My Mother smokes and I remember as a kid watching her smoke cigarettes while she said to me: “smoking will kill you, it’s better that you don’t start”
I didn’t want to die. I would lie on my bed at night, wide-awake pleading with God, whoever, that I don’t die. In hindsight, I may have been the only 7-year-old insomniac in the world. I then think about kids…can children suffer from insomnia? And like some supernatural force the voice on the radio says “why not”. The theme tune for Friends bleeds through the wall in my bedsit.
I grab my coat because it’s only cold in the winter, and while looking for change in my pockets (how much do cigarettes cost?) I find a half eaten Pepperami. I pull it out and study the Pepperami, and then I decide to give it to Pagguy, as he’ll appreciate it.
On my way to the front door I find myself instinctively biting the Pepperami and as I open the door and see Pagguy I stuff the whole thing in my mouth.
“It’s so cold” he says to me as I walk past, ignoring him.
**I go to the shop around the corner and once inside I see two Nordic looking women staring at bottles of wine. I walk over to the counter and stare at the vast amounts of cigarettes that are on offer. I’m perplexed as to which brand to buy. For some reason I keep looking at Marlboro reds as I always saw COOL PEOPLE on TV smoke them. I’m totally shocked by the prices though. It’s costs £5 for a box of 20, and £2.70 for 10. There are cheaper ones though, but I want the Marlboro reds, so I decide to buy 20 because I’ve never seen anyone in the movies have a 10 box.
I make my way back and I see Pagguy doing sit ups by my front door. I stop in front of him and look down and he looks up at me while he’s doing the sit ups and gives me a smile and a wink. I wonder if Pagguy smokes.
I’m back in my bed-sit and I can hear the Eastenders theme tune coming from the next room, and I get a sudden feeling of melancholy as I wish I still had a TV.
I’m ready. Fuck it, I’m a grown man, if I want to smoke a cigarette I will. Lets see what the fuss is about.
I take the box of Marlboro reds out of my pocket and unwrap the clear plastic covering. I then open the carton and I have to pull out another bit of paper, but it’s more like thick wrapping paper and I see before me, 20 brilliant looking cigarettes. It looks so perfectly packaged and formed that I almost feel uncomfortable about breaking them up, taking one out. But I spent 5 quid on these so I have to smoke one.
It’s now that I realise I have already made the first schoolboy error of a novice smoker:
I don’t have a lighter. I don’t even have matches, as I never use the cooker. Why should I when I have a microwave?
I curse at myself. It’s so fucking cold, I can’t be bothered to go out again and buy a lighter. I can hear Pauline Fowler blaring from the television in the next room. I could ask those gay guys for a light, but they might think I’m coming on to them. I look out my window and I see Pagguy talking to some other homeless guy who sits by the tube station down the road all day (and probably all night). I bet Pagguy has a light.
I go to the front door and I wait a while until I know Pagguy is alone. The voices have stopped so I open the door and Pagguy is there jogging on the spot.
“Do you have a light?”
Pagguy stops jogging.
“What?”
I’m starting to regret this.
“I said do you have a light?”
“You smoke?”
I feel my face going red.
“Uh…yeah…I quit, but started again”
Pagguy starts to laugh and lifts his arm wanting to give me a high five. I awkwardly and limply give him one.
“I never know you smoke man. You have spare cigarette?”
“Oh, uhm, yeah…I’ll have to go upstairs and get them”
“Please, please…it warms me up you know”
Pagguy has a thick African accent, or Zambian accent. I grew up in Stanmore, how would I know?
I run up the stairs towards my room and for some reason I’m sweating. Inside I grab the packet of cigarettes. I go down and hand over a Marlboro red to Pagguy.
“Do you have fire?”
I stare dumbly at Pagguy. I have no idea what he is talking about.
“Do I have what?”
Pagguy starts imitating lighting a cigarette while saying “fire, fire”
I pause and then the penny drops.
“Oh…fire…you mean a lighter?”
“Yeah, yeah”
“No…I don’t. Do you have one?”
I know it’s a stupid question as he just asked me for a light. It’s freezing and I’m sweating. I wish I had my huge, puffed out bright orange winter coat with me, which makes me look like a fat, bruised fruit. I got it for Christmas about 6 years ago from my Mother. She always gives practical gifts.
“Don’t worry I find fire”
Pagguy rushes off and asks a kid who looked about 10 years old for a light. He jogs back to me with a lit cigarette and he then lights mine with his, and I’m genuinely impressed.
I feel obliged to stand in the freezing cold and smoke a cigarette- my first cigarette- at my doorstep with Pagguy. I watch Pagguy take long drags and breathe smoke through his nose. I think I want to smoke like that and I put the cigarette to my lips and as I do I’m suddenly gripped with nerves and I take a tiny puff and hold the smoke in my mouth for about 5 or 6 seconds, and let out the smoke. It’s not so hard, I mean they taste a bit nasty, but I don’t see what the fuss is about. I have seen on TV when kids, half my age, are smoking their first cigarette and they start to cough until their eyes water, but I’m all right. Maybe I’m built for smoking.
I stand with Pagguy in silence smoking, and I really want to go inside but I feel I have to stay out with Pagguy and I can’t think of anything to say. Pagguy starts to speak and I can hardly understand a word, I can get little snippets of things, but everything sounds like:
“In my country you can no longer disuntabra un graroonja”
I’m sure every sentence starts with “in my country…” that I’m sure of.
And I don’t want to seem like an idiot, so I stand there taking tiny puffs of my first cigarette, which is gradually making me feel more and more nauseous, nodding my head in agreement with anything Pagguy is saying. And he could be saying anything to me, but I still nod my head like a moron. My stomach feels awful. I want to throw my cigarette away but I take another drag instead. Again, I take a puff, and I take a bigger puff as I feel more confident, and I hold the smoke in my mouth for longer this time, maybe 10 seconds and let out the smoke and my mouth feels like shit, and I need to take a shit, then I start thinking about the Pepperami and now I think I’m going to vomit.
“You have to breathe in”
Finally I understand what Pagguy is telling me, but I still say “what?”
“You have to breathe in,” he said and then he demonstrates by taking a drag of his cigarette and then inhaling emphatically before exhaling.
It dawns on me that you have to inhale the cigarettes. I let out a shrill laugh and then nervously put the cigarette to my lips. Pagguy is watching me and I feel self conscience and nauseous at the same time and because he’s watching me I take a ridiculously long drag and inhale so quickly that I choke and simultaneously fart, and I coughed so loudly that I doubt Pagguy heard me fart and even if he did, so what.
Pagguy starts clapping and laughing as if I just accomplished something, and I get the impression that I have shared a moment with Pagguy, and I suddenly think to myself what are you doing? And I need to shit really badly.
Suddenly, one of the faggots who live in the next room to me comes out.
“Erm, excuse me do you mind shutting the door? It’s letting in a horrible draught”
I have lived in this building; my bed-sit for ten months now and this is my first real contact with my neighbours, or one half of my neighbours I should say, but I’ve seen them go in and out on weekends and once I saw them with their tongues in each others mouths.
He’s tall and slim and has spiked blonde hair with dark roots. He has rat like features and looks like a children’s Saturday morning TV show presenter. (Maybe he is?) He’s wearing a tight white T-shirt with an image of chopped cucumbers printed in a narrow rectangular shaped grid that goes across his chest. He’s wearing faded blue ripped jeans (the kind you buy from a high street shop and it’s already ripped and faded) with thick fluorescent green socks. For some reason he makes me feel inadequate. I still need to have a shit. And my cigarette is almost burning at the filter.
“Yes, of course”, I say. “Sorry”
I then turn around to make my way back inside while my neighbour hurriedly walks back to his room after I give a lame wave to Pagguy.
“Sorry, excuse me, excuse me”
“Yes?”
“Can I have one more cigarette? Please, please”
“Sure”
I take one out and give Pagguy a cigarette, and I notice his hands are filthy.
“Please, just one more, please, it keeps me warm”
I sigh and give him another. I think to myself if I’m going to smoke I can’t be a pushover.
I go back to my room and I throw the Marlboro reds on my desk, which is a desk that consists of nothing on it. Relieved as I can finally have a shit, I grab the Evening Standard from my bag and make my way to the toilet. I can hear the theme tune to Wife Swap coming from the gay couple’s room.
Wishing I had a TV I glance at the front page of the Evening Standard, which in bold black capital letters states: TEMPERATURES DROP TO MINUS 10.