Lodi NJ. The place where I lived. Perhaps even the place where I grew up. I have almost no ties to that borough though. My family lived on Riverview Avenue, closer to Rochelle Park and Saddle Brook. My father was a member of the Saddle Brook VFW Post 3484 as well as the Saddle Brook American Legion.
The VFW was where I learned how to smoke and watched the veterans get drunk and smoke cigars, which can explain a lot about me. Not so much the drinking but rather the smoking aspect. Initially it was cigarettes about for the past 25 years or so it’s been cigars more and more. If Gauloises were still manufactured, I’d probably be smoking those roll ups.
I do recall hanging around some bad boys at the Boys’ Club in Lodi, trying to bum a cigarette, maybe around 1972. I certainly remember being at the VFW with some other bad boys who actually taught me how to smoke and flick a cigarette to the curb.
And then there was Johnny Serpone, with whom I planned to get some cigarettes from his father and go to Industrial Lane on a weekend and smoke some Salem cigarettes. One cigarette was all it took, I got high and promptly rode my bike home furiously pedalling my bike home, trying to gulp as much air as possible so that my parents or my siblings would not smell the cigarettes on me. It was not until sometime later that I realized there was no way they could smell the cigarettes on me since just about everything smelled of cigarettes back then.
Cigars always got my attention though. Something about them appealed to me. The smell, the look of a man smoking one. Not every man, but there is a type. And of course, there is an erotic connection for me, which brought Mike into my life.
But where I smoke cigars whenever possible, Mike only smokes if he is in front of a camera. It was that look that got me on the hook. He recognizes me as a cigar man and I suppose I am.
I worked as you know at Davidoff in Columbus Circle, the Time Warner Mall. I wrote about it as the cigar shack, and I made friends with some of the customers and two or three staff members, I did not find any of the customers to be sexy.
There were the two guys from Delaware, in town for a car show. They let me know they were coming and we hit it off but it never went any further than the walk in humidor. One of the couple did post a tasty erotic video that has provided some enjoyment before bedtime.
This was supposed to be about Lodi NJ but here I am writing about my history with nicotine. I admit that I am happy with Bill enjoying cigars though not with the passion I have. He smokes in a manner I would call theatrical. Lots of flourish and exaggeration.
I am a daily smoker and I ain’t got no time for that. Is it something to be proud of? I can’t say. I know other people would put me down for this vice, and there is always the chance this vice will kill me one way or another but that makes me tense, and to relieve tension, I will smoke…
Here is a rewrite of your reflections, elevated into a sophisticated, evocative essay that celebrates the culture, history, and deeply personal allure of cigar smoking.
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# The Alchemy of Smoke: A Journey from Lodi to the Humidor
Lodi, New Jersey. It was the backdrop of my youth, perhaps even the place where I grew up, though I confess I hold few true ties to the borough itself. Our family home sat on Riverview Avenue, geographically clinging closer to the borders of Rochelle Park and Saddle Brook. It was in Saddle Brook that my father held court, a member of both the American Legion and the VFW Post 3484.
It was within the wood-paneled sanctuary of that VFW that my true education began.
There, under the dim lights, I watched the veterans drink and dissolve into clouds of rich cigar smoke. Looking back, that room explains a great deal about the trajectory of my life—not so much the drinking, but the absolute captivation with the smoke. It began, as it so often did for boys of that era, with cigarettes. If Gauloises were still manufactured today, I’d likely still be rolling them.
My introduction to the vice was a series of small, rebellious vignettes. I vividly recall lingering around the “bad boys” at the Lodi Boys’ Club around 1972, trying to bum a smoke. Later, it was the older crowd at the VFW who formally initiated me, teaching me not just how to inhale, but how to expertly flick a spent butt into the curb with a practiced, nonchalant gravity.
Then came Johnny Serpone. We hatched a grand plan to swipe a few of his father’s Salems and sneak off to Industrial Lane over the weekend. A single cigarette was all it took to send my head spinning. Panicked and profoundly high on nicotine, I pedaled my bicycle home furiously, gulping down massive lungfuls of fresh air in a desperate attempt to wash the evidence from my breath before my parents or siblings noticed. It was only years later that the irony struck me: in the 1970s, *everything* and everyone smelled like tobacco. There was nothing to hide because the world was already bathed in it.
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### The Evolution of a Cigar Man
Yet, while cigarettes were a youthful rebellion, cigars were an awakening. They always held my attention. There is an undeniable, timeless aesthetic to them—the rich, earthy aroma, the tactile weight, the commanding look of a man who knows how to hold one. Not just any man, mind you. It takes a certain type.
For me, that aesthetic carries a deeply rooted erotic connection. It is the very thread that pulled Mike into my life.
> Our relationship with the leaf defines us differently. Where I am a purist who smokes for the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of the experience, Mike’s relationship with tobacco is performative—he smokes almost exclusively when a camera is rolling. But it was that precise visual, that cinematic look, that hooked me. He recognizes me as a true cigar man. And I suppose, inherently, I am.
“`
[ The Cigar Man’s Spectrum ]
┌────────────────────────┬────────────────────────┐
│ The Purist │ The Performer │
├────────────────────────┼────────────────────────┤
│ • Daily ritual │ • Theatrical flourish │
│ • Intimate connection │ • Visual aesthetic │
│ • Driven by passion │ • Driven by impact │
└────────────────────────┴────────────────────────┘
“`
This passion eventually led me to a temple of the craft: the Davidoff boutique at Columbus Circle, nestled within the Time Warner Mall. I often referred to it affectionately as the “cigar shack.” There, surrounded by premium wrappers and aged fillers, I forged genuine connections with a few staff members and select patrons.
I didn’t find the regular clientele particularly sexy, save for a memorable encounter with two gentlemen from Delaware who were in town for a car show. They had messaged me ahead of their arrival, and our chemistry was instant—though our physical interaction never progressed past the aromatic cedar walls of the walk-in humidor. (One half of that couple did, however, later share a deliciously erotic video that has provided some wonderful late-night entertainment since).
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### A Daily Ritual, A Defiant Pleasure
I set out to write a reminiscence of Lodi, New Jersey, but tobacco has a way of drifting across the pages of memory, rewriting the narrative. Today, I find a quiet satisfaction in sharing my life with Bill, who enjoys his cigars alongside me. His style is entirely theatrical—all flourish, exaggeration, and dramatic clouds.
I, on the other hand, am a daily smoker. I have no time for the theater of it; for me, it is a lifestyle, a constant companion.
Is it something to be proud of? I cannot say for certain. I am well aware that polite society looks down upon this vice. There is a quiet, lingering understanding that this habit carries a cost, that it might very well kill me one way or another. But dwelling on that only breeds tension. And when I am tense?
Well. I reach for a cigar, strike a match, and let the world fade into the smoke.