rather, a stinking old tree trunk that made the entire room smell like a trough. It was clear from the way the audience applauded that Charlie was a tremendously popular fellow, probably more because of his political connections and the cash he could spread around on Election Day than because of his musicianship or taste in cigars.
I got to see my uncle perform several times when I was young and was impressed by his stage presence, if not his craft. Warbling “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” or “Beyond the Blue Horizon” while puffing on a stinking cigar was an amazing feat, yet somehow he was equal to the task. “Puffing” is probably not the accurate term to describe the procedure; like most serious cigar smokers of that era, he would physically munch on his cigar the whole time it was entrenched in his mouth. I now believe that one of the reasons men chewed on their cigars that way, ripping them to shreds and drowning them in saliva, was to prevent other men from stealing them. My uncle Charlie was the first man I ever met who was invested with the undeniable moral authority to smoke a cigar. When I grew up, when imported cigars became ludicrously fashionable among men of suspect manliness, the act of smoking a cigar took on a ritualistic, fetishistic aura. Preposterous striplings would gather furtively in fancy tobacco shoppes, check the inventory in their padlocked humidors, and discuss Nicaraguan wrapper quality with similarly silly men, who themselves would wax poetic about long-dead masters of the hand-rolled Cohiba, men whose remains were now interred in unmarked graves in Havana or Managua. These sigaristas had somehow confused tobacconists with notary publics, vainly hoping that the establishments themselves would certify a virility no one would otherwise believe they possessed.
Uncle Charlie, by contrast, simply smoked his stogie; and then when he was done, he started smoking another one. Fortunate to live in an era when cigar smoking was still viewed as a vice rather than a symbol of eccentricity, he didn’t need to go to any fancy emporium to enjoy his cigar, and he certainly didn’t need any company while he was demolishing his lungs. He could sit there and wreck them all by himself.
Early on, Uncle Charlie had taken a liking to me. This may have been because he was not on the same wavelength as his own son, a good-looking hotshot who drove a shiny red convertible and would one day carve out a fine career for himself as a banker. Cousin Bobby had a snazzy crew cut, a seraglio of ravishing girlfriends, and a passion for Johnny Mathis records—at the time, the very height of sophistication, particularly in our down-at-the-heels environment. Bobby had almost certainly patterned his personality after Ricky Nelson, the charismatic star of Ozzie and Harriet, and we all worshipped him. He gave us money for treats, sometimes took us for a spin around the block with the hood of his convertible down, and always acted pleased to see us. But he didn’t usually hang around that long; whenever we came to visit, he would abruptly vaporize into the night for an assignation with one of his fetching inamoratas. He was a high-powered go-getter who was going places his father had never been, and his father knew it.
This being the case, it was not surprising that Uncle Charlie liked having me around. He could see that I was fascinated by his ability to generate cash without having to report to a place of business or punch a clock or inform anyone of his movements. To say nothing of the fact that he took no guff—it was not in his nature. My father did take guff, quite a bit of it. One day when we returned from a foray on his pretzel truck, his boss, a short, wiry grump who was more than a few years his senior, stalked out of his office and excoriated him right in front of me. I am not sure what my father’s offense was that day, but I could see that he was ashamed to be chastised in front of his son by a middle-aged
I got to see my uncle perform several times when I was young and was impressed by his stage presence, if not his craft. Warbling “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” or “Beyond the Blue Horizon” while puffing on a stinking cigar was an amazing feat, yet somehow he was equal to the task. “Puffing” is probably not the accurate term to describe the procedure; like most serious cigar smokers of that era, he would physically munch on his cigar the whole time it was entrenched in his mouth. I now believe that one of the reasons men chewed on their cigars that way, ripping them to shreds and drowning them in saliva, was to prevent other men from stealing them. My uncle Charlie was the first man I ever met who was invested with the undeniable moral authority to smoke a cigar. When I grew up, when imported cigars became ludicrously fashionable among men of suspect manliness, the act of smoking a cigar took on a ritualistic, fetishistic aura. Preposterous striplings would gather furtively in fancy tobacco shoppes, check the inventory in their padlocked humidors, and discuss Nicaraguan wrapper quality with similarly silly men, who themselves would wax poetic about long-dead masters of the hand-rolled Cohiba, men whose remains were now interred in unmarked graves in Havana or Managua. These sigaristas had somehow confused tobacconists with notary publics, vainly hoping that the establishments themselves would certify a virility no one would otherwise believe they possessed.
Uncle Charlie, by contrast, simply smoked his stogie; and then when he was done, he started smoking another one. Fortunate to live in an era when cigar smoking was still viewed as a vice rather than a symbol of eccentricity, he didn’t need to go to any fancy emporium to enjoy his cigar, and he certainly didn’t need any company while he was demolishing his lungs. He could sit there and wreck them all by himself.
Early on, Uncle Charlie had taken a liking to me. This may have been because he was not on the same wavelength as his own son, a good-looking hotshot who drove a shiny red convertible and would one day carve out a fine career for himself as a banker. Cousin Bobby had a snazzy crew cut, a seraglio of ravishing girlfriends, and a passion for Johnny Mathis records—at the time, the very height of sophistication, particularly in our down-at-the-heels environment. Bobby had almost certainly patterned his personality after Ricky Nelson, the charismatic star of Ozzie and Harriet, and we all worshipped him. He gave us money for treats, sometimes took us for a spin around the block with the hood of his convertible down, and always acted pleased to see us. But he didn’t usually hang around that long; whenever we came to visit, he would abruptly vaporize into the night for an assignation with one of his fetching inamoratas. He was a high-powered go-getter who was going places his father had never been, and his father knew it.
This being the case, it was not surprising that Uncle Charlie liked having me around. He could see that I was fascinated by his ability to generate cash without having to report to a place of business or punch a clock or inform anyone of his movements. To say nothing of the fact that he took no guff—it was not in his nature. My father did take guff, quite a bit of it. One day when we returned from a foray on his pretzel truck, his boss, a short, wiry grump who was more than a few years his senior, stalked out of his office and excoriated him right in front of me. I am not sure what my father’s offense was that day, but I could see that he was ashamed to be chastised in front of his son by a middle-aged
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