The Commune

by

Becky Sellers

Ariel* and I are sitting on her couch in her living room. It is an odd mix of the familiar and the unfamiliar. Her possessions are mostly ones I have seen many times, although not in this apartment. John Lennon seems to be everywhere, almost omnipresent. The predominant color is orange. She is describing the night she smoked her first cigarette.

"Actually it was in front of Sean’s door (laughs). I'd had this strong-ass margarita, and Jill and Ally were smoking, so I had one too. All my buds smoke; it just looks cool, I guess. Now whenever I'm hammered and I see Ally, I'm like, 'Ally, come here!'" She smokes a pantomimed cigarette. "Ally's always like, 'No, I feel so guilty!'" She goes on. "Well, you have to understand, with Fabbies, it just brings us together. After every class, you go outside to smoke. Even if you don't smoke, you go outside to smoke. I mean, you're with the same people you were with five seconds ago, but having a cigarette in your hand brings you together."

I should clarify what, exactly, a "Fabbie" is: one who is majoring in either theatre, music, art, or a combination of the three; one who spends at least 75 percent of his/her time in or around the Fine Arts Building; or one who spends at least 75 percent of his/her time with Fabbies. I am a "Pseudo-Fabbie," i.e., I only have one class (not in my major) in the FAB, and I only spend about 60 percent of my time with Fabbies.

Ariel is quiet for a moment. "I haven't smoked in a long time. But I smoked on Monday."

"Would you say you're a smoker?" I ask.

"No, I'm a social smoker," she clarifies. I ask her to define what that means to her. "Well, I've never bought a pack, I just bum. And I never smoke alone. That's key."

*****

Alice* is sitting on the floor playing Super Mario Brothers on an old-school Nintendo. She is oblivious to her surroundings, which are sparse at best.

"Temporary summer housing is a pain," she explains. Luigi takes a dive off of a brick wall, and "GAME OVER" flashes on the screen. "Man, I need a cigarette," she announces, reaching for a pack of Camel Lights that is sitting on a nearby table. I follow her outside.

"Are you trying to quit?" I ask.

"Hell no." She lights up with a blue Bic lighter, and takes a long drag. She exhales with a satisfied sigh.

"Why not?" I ask.

"Oh man, I have too much stress in my life as it is to add trying to quit smoking to the list. Besides, I love to smoke. I don't want to quit. And it helps me control what I eat." I grill her about when she started and why she started. "Well, it was freshman year, so I guess I was eighteen. It started when I was waiting tables, and I was a social smoker for a while. Then here, with the theatre thing, and I was stage manager. If you're stage manager and you go outside to smoke, people leave you the fuck alone. But if you just want to sit down, everyone starts yelling at you. In theatre, if you're smoking, it's like, 'hey, I'm having a nic-fit time.' Even if I don't want one, I'll just go outside and let one burn."

"So when did you graduate from social to full time?"

"Well, you know, it fosters conversation. A lot of it is just that you're chilling. It forces you to sit down and not do anything. I didn't feel like I fit in when I didn't smoke. If you don't smoke, people (around the FAB) are like 'Why are you out here?' And then it, like, transfers to parties. As soon as I start to drink, man I want one so bad! So you go outside, and hang out with the smokers. You can only deny it for so long. I bummed for a good month, and I'd buy packs to pay people back, 'cause buying one for me was, like, admitting that I'm a smoker."

"And now you've admitted it?" She nods.

"Oh yeah. I mean, we'll go outside, me and my roommate who's quitting, to have one, and we'll talk for three hours and have half a pack. We bond, ya know?" I nod. I've had the same bonding experience many times.

*****

Brandy* and I sit outside her Lord Center apartment. Folding chairs face each other with a small table in between. On the table is a kitschy ashtray reading "Brandy's Butts" on the side; the famous Hollywood sign emblazoned on the bottom peeks out from under a pile of ashes. She reluctantly reaches for her pack of Kamel Reds, removes one, and lights up. "Man, quitting is so God damn hard." She takes a drag, and unwillingly and visibly enjoys it; she relaxes into the feeling.

"Why are you trying to quit?"

"Oh, hell, I dunno. I guess I just think I should, being a singer and all that."

"Are you a Fabbie?"

"Well, not really, but so many of my friends smoke; I'm kind of a Pseudo-Fabbie, like you, and it's just so hard. There's always someone to bum off of, and here we have this Smokers Commune. We share lighters, cigs, drags, whatever. It's damn near impossible to get away. You have to really want to be non-smoker to do it here." She takes a long, gratifying drag, and looks back at me. "Have you found someone who has actually quit?" She queries.

"Actually, no. I've found tons of people, myself included, who quit for a few months, but they all start up again, still trying to quit. Like you said, it's so hard to get away from it."

"Well, I don't plan on smoking all my life. When I graduate maybe I'll quit. But now, even though I want to quit, I'm really only pretending to try. The truth is, the culture here just seems to include it, naturally. It makes you crave it, with this weird combination of physical need and social want. Or have to. I dunno, it's hard to explain."

*****

Annie* and I are sitting on the hard concrete outside my apartment. I had thought that perhaps taking in my chairs would aid in my quest to kick the habit, but the plan was failing miserably. "How come you don't smoke?" I ask her.

"Too expensive. And bad for you."

"Do you ever wish you did?"

"Yeah, sometimes. Like if I'm outside with you, and there's tons of smokers around, I feel funny. Like they're all wondering why I'm there. I've had people offer them to me, wondering if I'm just out or something. I get jealous at parties too sometimes, when everyone else heads for the porch to smoke, and it's such a conversation starter. If you don't know someone, or you see a cute guy or something, you can always go bum a cigarette, or at least a light. It's an in, something you already know you have in common. And there are just so damn many (smokers) here!"

*****

The Smokers Commune here at Southwestern is a major subculture of our little community. The scene outside the Olin Building (or any other building, for that matter) is common: people sitting on the bench, puffing away, bumming lights off of each other, blocking the wind for a fellow Commune member. Non-members walk by without stopping, providing a time reference for when which classes are about to commence. People take last drags and flick the butts into the grass, or mash them out in the ashtray, and quickly scamper off to class. Approximately 50 minutes later, the same scene plays out again. And let's face it: if you don't smoke, you miss out. There may be a person you only see after your 9:00 Spanish class, working the Commune when one of you is out of cigarettes or has misplaced the lighter of the week. One night you may run into this person at a party, and the Commune works its magic. "Hey! It's my Spanish smoking buddy!" It's an instant friend.

The Smokers Commune is a stress reliever, friendship fosterer, study break, and conversation starter. Are cigarettes bad for us? Of course. Are we aware of this? Yes. Are we of the generation who recognizes Joe Camel above Mickey Mouse? I'd say so. But whether you are a social smoker, a pretending-to-quit smoker, or have no immediate plans to even think of quitting, you are a member of the commune, and you are never alone. You are never out of cigarettes. It is a culture that those who are on the outside of are aware of, and often jealous of. This is why so many students become social smokers while here. It is a club that is easy to become a member of, and there is always a meeting going on somewhere, any time of the day or night, if you need a consultation. Our lungs may burn in the mornings, and our voices may sound husky, but we are never far from a fellow Commune member, ready to provide a fix, stress relief, or a late night heart-to-heart. How comforting.

*Some of the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Author's Afterword

My first thought when thinking about writing this piece was, "Who do I have access to?" It was over the Fourth of July holiday, and so I knew many students would be away. I went outside my apartment and sat on the steps to have a cigarette, saw several others doing the same, and the idea hit me.

The interview process was a lot of fun, mostly because I am a smoker myself, and the shared experiences are fun to look back on. I hadn’t, however, heard many people’s "first drag" stories. Most people are aware of the Commune, but rarely talk about it specifically, and I think all of my subjects got something out of this piece as well.

The Commune actually worked its magic during the interviews too. Most of the conversations happened late at night, over a beer and a smoke, and it was a bonding experience. There was much laughter and reminiscing as we talked, and I think that shows in the end result.