Object-ives #45: Give Me Sorrow, Give Me Grief, and Give Me Gum
How my substitution ritual became a shrine of compulsion and beautiful trash
Softly running my fingers through the coarse hairs of Kevin’s beard, we lock eyes. “When you’re dead, I’m going to chain smoke all day long. I can’t wait.”
“That’s the good part of me dying first; you get to smoke,” he says. Not that he’s stopping me. He just knows that I’m taking a break. Four years so far, and I don’t plan on starting again. Until he’s dead. That’ll be the right kind of catalyst. Excuses are different from catalysts. Willpower is a helluva drug if you’re stubborn like me. It can also be compulsive. Which is why the blister packs have accumulated. I want to measure success, waste, failure, rhythm. It feels empty and complete all at the same time.
“You want a cigarette?” Kevin shouts as he pours coffee in the kitchen.
I side-eye the pillow my head is lying against, tucking in my knees close to my chest. It’s not a shame reaction. It’s a holding-in-my-excitement reflex as I clench my teeth. “Yes!”
Moments later, he enters the bedroom, two mugs clambering together in his right hand, as he outstretches his left: a fist faced upward only to uncurl like a flower blooming just for me.
This is the ritual every morning. Coffee. Cigarettes. Skin on skin. All the smells.
The cigarette is: a candy-crusted little pillow. A sweet little rectangle with a nip. A distinct burning type of dank spice that unfolds with each bite of peppermint, or spearmint, or wintergreen. The outer shell dissolves quickly as I knead the gum with my molars and then pocket it; in my cheek, under my tongue, in the small den that once occupied the wisdom teeth on the left lower side of my jaw.
Three shoeboxes contain row after row of sharp, silvery blister packs of off-brand nicotine gum. It’s a Rolodex of scents due to the many already-been-chewed pieces stowed away in empty slots—a habit when I can’t find a nearby garbage bin. Dried saliva, my DNA, is in many of these little packets, filed away, marking my ongoing addiction that began as “quitting.” It’s better than smoking, but it’s still habitual and relentless. Without it there’s rage, and that’s what I stave. Pockets and purses are verified before leaving the house. Prophylactic. Mood stabilizing.
Kevin cooks often.
“Taste this.” He guards the spoon as if not to spill, while his left hand is outstretched, waiting. He wants the gum first. ABC. Like a mom asking to give it up. I never spit directly. Rude. Silently, a choreographed dance of sorts, I place it in his palm.
“Damn, that’s kick. It’s good.” I wanna get punched in the face. With fire. Craving the feeling of being alive is the name for this. Give me cowboy coffee and habanero hot sauce. I want to terrorize my body, but only if I’m in charge. Give me sorrow and give me grief and give me gum.
After our first year of dating, I showed Kevin my collection of plastic-y foil bubbles. “It’s like a sculpture,” I said, “but it keeps growing over time.”
“You can make your own gum wall like in Seattle, but…a not-gum, gum wall?” I could see the wheels turning in his head.
Every finished pack goes into a shoebox. There’s no option to recycle these things. They’re trash. I hung onto them one by one, reluctant to throw them away out of guilt. And then I fell in love with some kind of beauty. Aesthetics. Somatic sensations. The growth. It was all so satisfying.
A fixation on cessation breeds unease. It’s many things. Are my teeth going to fall out? Investigating my gums with my tongue, I wonder if they’re receding too fast.
An acquaintance, colleague, or friend watches me pop a little chiclet into my mouth.
“Hey, can I have a piece of gum?”
“Only if you want Nicorette,” I say. “If you don’t smoke, it’ll make you feel sick.” I’ve learned to shrug off the mild discomfort of outing myself.
After all, I spent 20 years loving smoking cigarettes and didn’t care if anyone saw me. I didn’t love smoker’s cough, walking up hills, and knowing that people could smell it on me. At my age, I’m not sure if my wrinkles are from smoking, genetics, or choosing to opt out of injectables. Although I covet the skin of many of my peers, I’ve learned to appreciate my wins and what I do have: three shoeboxes chock-full of empty nicotine gum packets. A man who likes to cook.
Lera Acey (b. 1987, Québec City, Canada; raised in Pittsburgh, PA) is a practical nurse working in acute care. She has a background in filmmaking and new media, with writing for galleries and arts publications. Her work moves between nursing and art, shaped by care, observation, and language.
Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.
Recommended reading on possessions:
“5 summer upcylcing ideas from my closet to yours” by Danielle Urban, Front Porch Threads
“Upcycle Files” by Michelle Norris, Preschool Maximalist
“My Collection of Hot Wheels” by Adam Starr, My Collection Of
“A birthday gift for a partner with dementia brings unexpected joy” by Marc Silver, NPR
“‘Throw it all out’: My parents’ stuff is more than clutter” by Katie Roiphe, The Washington Post
“The Surprising Mental-Health Benefits of Bedazzling” by Angela Haupt, Time
 | A guest post by
|