I had just enough time for a 15-minute speed walk before dinner. Dusk neared, throwing an extra shade of murk on the already-overcast atmosphere, but as long as the sky is not gushing wrathful runnels of water, then it’s fine outside. Just fine.

My mile-long loop took me into the town center. I passed H&R Block, which was hopping. Four mid-teen girls in too-short shorts sauntered out of Starbucks, sipping on tawny iced concoctions as they giggle-murmurred in a cluster of confidence. Joggers darted past me on the sidewalk with heaving breath and heavy cadence. An assemblage of people at the bus stop stared into the oncoming traffic, waiting to catch a glimpse of the 77 bus.

Soon I rounded the corner back onto my street. Further down I saw the neighborhood McCainiac, so nicknamed because he was the sole person to stick a McCain sign on his lawn during the last Presidential election. He is in his mid-forties, single, with a ponderous wheat belly and the appearance of being ex-military. Whenever I see him, he is either smoking a cigarette on his porch or standing on the sidewalk ten feet in front of his house with his dog, staring at the hefty mutt with an expectant look on his face and a Marlboro in his mouth.

So there’s McCainiac “walking” his dog, standing and smoking and staring at the dog as it sniffs around the patch of grass that buffers the sidewalk from the curb. He looks up as I approach, and I give a subdued “How ya doing?” Because though I might not agree with his politics, he’s probably a good man to have on my side should some sort of cataclysmic event ever befall Earth, because dollars to doughnuts he has a cache of weaponry — loaded and holstered — as well as several tons of canned food, cigarettes, and bourbon.

When the apocalypse comes, you better believe that I’ll be there to greet extinction with a ma deuce gunner cradled in my arms, a cigarette ‘tween my whiskey-coated lips, and a stomach full of canned creamed corn.

McCainiac blows out a plume of smoke and says “Not bad,” his eyes boring a hole into my skull. My pace involuntarily quickens and I catch a nostrilful of his smoke. Damn if this didn’t stir instant cigarette cravings… it’s been years, but the cravings never do stop, especially when piqued, especially in warm weather. I suddenly have the feeling that I just washed down a plate of chocolate-chip pancakes with a cup of hot, black coffee, and I need that cancerous cherry on top to make me feel whole. The nicotine receptors in my mind start to ravenously strategize how to get their dose: go home, grab wallet, duck out to the corner store/glorified Keno parlor and buy a pack of Camels and a roll of Certs. Stroll around the neighborhood, smoking 3-4 until you stop gagging and the smoke goes down like butter. Then… after dinner you can take your cell phone onto the porch “for better reception” and sneak a smoke… tomorrow morning you can grab a ciggie in the gym parking lot… you can totally resume smoking again without Mr. P finding out. It’ll be great!

But as I near home, the craving loses its steely grip, and I breath the early-spring air, replete with organic budding blooming life and possibilities and the tranquility of a short evening walk before dinner, my pink lungs fresh and quivering.