Quitting

“I started smoking,” he told Scott, “after 12 years.”

“Why?” Scott asked.

Maybe it was having to work again after having been retired for 9 years.  Pension and Social Security hadn’t grown as fast as the cost of living.

“If you don’t quit,” Scott said, “that stuff’ll kill you.”

He felt work was killing him.  He wished he quit both.  Each felt equally deadly.  

“Get back into qi gong,” Scott said.

It did seem that the energy exercises had helped him quit.  For a year, Scott had encouraged him to try it.

“Yeah, yeah,” he’d said, month after month.

One day Scott had said, “Master Hong is lecturing this Sunday.  You should go.”

“Okay,” he’d said, still not believing.

At the lecture he’d sat in the back row, far from where the master, dressed in a white, spoke about the benefits of qi gong.  It was difficult, listening as the interpreter turned Mandarin into English.

“When he speaks,” Scott had said, “the talk goes twice as long than it would if Master spoke English.”

Time had stretched out.  At the end, the interpreter instructed everyone to raise their arms above their heads.

Skeptical, he lifted his arms.

“Master will now send you energy,” the translator had said.

The man in white closed his eyes and stood motionless. Finally, opening his eyes, he raised his arms, palms facing out to the audience looking as though they were being arrested.

Again closing his eyes, he made a motion of pushing out toward them.

The energy had hit him hard.  He could still feel the electric jolt the next morning.

He’d signed up for classes immediately.  A believer.

Scott had said, “This’ll help you quit smoking.”

And he had quit.  For 12 years.

“Start practicing,” Scott said.  “Or that stuff will kill you.”