A Cigar for Everyone

“…we’re both trying to solve the same problem, that’s all. Just in different ways.”

September 1964

Eventually, Jack Darakji’s face and his saliva soaked cigar became one entity. He was never without it. It could be unlit, smoldering or extinguished, but it was ever present, any time of day, any occasion. He was an energetic man; animated in speech and gesture, as if everything he said and did came with an exclamation point. His face though looked tired. His jet black hair greased up and combed straight back, his little mustache, white short sleeve shirt over a white t-shirt, black pants, his short but strong looking frame combined with his energetic nature and his tired, bittersweet countenance, made him look like an exiled Mediterranean dictator. He wore the same combination of clothes, as if he had decided that if he couldn’t wear his uniform, then he would at least dress as uniformly as possible. His clothes hung loose on him. Clothes to him seemed to be something that didn’t merit his conscious attention, they were merely functional. They were never dirty but they appeared to be well lived in and the smell of his trademark cigar permeated his clothes as well as his very being. His cigar fixation made it quite ironic that Dad—who was against smoking long before anyone admitted that it was poisonous—called him his friend. That irony, coupled with the fact that when Dad yelled at him, he yelled right back with relish and impunity, made Jack Darakji a source of fascination for me and my sister.
He was nice to us; we never realized that when he called us young lady and young man, it was because he didn’t know our names. He was a funny, entertaining character, a little bit off kilter. One day Shamera couldn’t resist asking a question that led a kind of dissertation on life and cigars.
“Mr. Darakji, how come you always smoke those cigars?”
“Well young lady, I’ll tell you. I like cigars. I’ve liked cigars since I was a young man. If I didn’t like cigars, well, I wouldn’t smoke them. You see?”
“But they kind of smell.” She wagged her hand manically in front of her face.
“They might smell bad to you, but to me cigars are wonderful. I think everyone should have a cigar. Every man. And women, too. Everybody! Even you and your brother here. Little babies in a baby carriage, they should have a cigar.”
The image of cigar smoke curling up from a baby carriage was tickling my brain. I couldn’t believe an adult would be so honest and wacky to say such a thing.
“That’s funny,” my sister said, no doubt amused by the same image.
“Nothing funny intended. Everyone should have their own cigar. See?” “But they’re bad for you,” I put in.
“Well, sonny, you’re the son of your dad, all right. You don’t have to smoke a cigar if you don’t want to, but for me, I like cigars, so then, I smoke them, that’s all. It’s like me and your dad. Frank is a fine man. Very intelligent, your father. I’ve known him since before you were born. Since before your brother, even. How is your brother, anyway?”
“Fine,” I answered.
“That’s good. Glad to hear that. He’s a good boy, just like you. Yes, I’ve known your dad going all the way back to Fresno as a matter of fact. And you know, we don’t always agree on everything. I’m sure you’ve heard us arguing over various things.”
“Yeah, that’s for sure,” Shamera said emphatically.
“Now you should know this: I don’t dislike your father and he doesn’t dislike me. When you hear us shouting and the like, well, that’s just like a, like a disagreement. But we both are trying to solve the same problem, that’s all. Just in different ways. Do you see that?”
“I guess,” I said, uncertain.
“You’ll get it a little better when you, when you are a little older. Grown ups just argue sometimes, that’s all. But me and your dad, well, most of it is about the Assyrian Hall, the club, the organization, you know, what’s the future of it and all, and he sees it one way and I see it some other way. And then maybe there’s someone else, maybe your dad’s cousin Lily, or Maljan and they all see it yet again another way. But every one of us wants the same thing, which in this case is to keep club going and keep it strong. Ok? So that there is something there for you, something you can be proud of and you can say this is who I am and meet with people of your own kind. See what I mean? Thirty-eight years, I been a member.” I was studying the cigar carefully to make sure no ashes would fall off; he had been waving it like a baton. Shamera, in the meantime, had been sneaking glances at me because the “Thirty-eight years” line was his signature comment whenever he got wound up, so much so that Glenn, our cousin, included it whenever he did his spot-on Jack Darakji imitation.
“That’s a long time,” my sister said in mock reverence.
“How’s that again, Miss? Lost some hearing in the war. A bomb went off very close to where I was.”
“I said that’s a pretty long time, 38 years,” she nearly shouted.
“It sounds like it, young lady, and I guess it is. But those of us who are your father or your mother’s age, well, I don’t know how all those years got by or came and went or what have you. That’s why everyone should know what they like and want and they should do that because well, even though you aren’t thinking about it right at this moment, and you shouldn’t be thinking about it, we’re all going to be dead at some point or another, you see? So while you’re alive, you should do the things that you like, the things that make you happy or feel good or satisfied as often as you can because you don’t want to get to the end and say to yourself, goddamniit—oh, sorry, young lady—so, I mean you don’t want say to yourself I should have smoked some cigars while I had the chance. A cigar for everyone, that’s what I say. The whole world should have a cigar. Ok? You get it?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I said.
“Ok, good. Very good.”
“They still smell bad, though,” Shamera said.
But Jack Darakji puffed on his cigar, making it glow. He didn’t answer my sister; he was a man who had made his peace with a troubled world.