September 26th, 2007
A Burning Desire
“I don’t have enough eccentric hobbies.”
I suppose this is what I was thinking as I graced the door of “Pipes by George” last Friday.
Sure, recently I’ve both: a) taken up ukulele and b) acquired a set of mutton-chops (which, contrary to popular belief, require almost daily care and maintenance), but I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more out there. What else to try? Surfing? Too commonplace. Bonsai-trimming? Too nerdy. Alligator-wrestling? Too likely to result in an untimely death….
I should probably note that “Pipes by George” is one of the coolest retail establishments…ever. Bar-none. It’s tucked in a run-down little “shopping center” just west of the Raleigh capital under two stories of apartments and between a mediocre chinese restaurant and a tattoo parlor. The whole place has that “some of this stuff has been sitting on the shelves since 1962”/“grandma’s attic” vibe, while simultaneously feeling like it gets new inventory regularly and maintains a small, but loyal clientele of tobacco connoisseurs…who are completely unaware of the advances in smoking that have been made since the late 1800s.
I’ve patronized “Pipes by George” once before, when I bought an old Zippo at an antique store, and I needed to get it up and running. It wasn’t holding a flame and required a new wick. Before I continue, you should know this lighter is sort of sissy. It bears a floral pattern and it’s one of those smaller, mini-sized ones, but I like it and I’ll stick up for my purchase by saying: a) it’s a for-real, brand-name Zippo, b) it has kind of a manly-looking floral pattern (Which I know is kind of an oxymoron, but ya’ll know what I mean, right? Right?), c) it has the initials “BAB” engraved on it, which is a possible phonetic spelling of my name and d) the person running the place only wanted $4 for it. Anyway, back at “Pipes by George,” I had came face-to-face with the man himself. George is probably about 60 and is relatively slight in stature, but quite scrappy and grizzled in appearance. One would not have trouble imagining him as an old sea captain. I guess what I’m getting at here is, if I had to venture a guess, I’d say the only thing that could cut George is George; George only has two speeds: walk and kill; when George goes swimming, he doesn’t get wet, the water gets George; etc. So I had to show George my sissy Zippo. I was half expecting him, upon seeing it, to: a) pummel my pansy ass and b) throw me out of his store, causing me to sprawl out onto the street and fling it onto the pavement, where it would skid to a stop in front of the bikers who hang out by the tattoo parlor, and who would then finish me off.
The actual transaction was nothing like that. “Nice little lighter,” he said warmly. He looked it over as if it was the first time he’d ever laid eyes on a Zippo such as this — which there was no way it was — and somehow managed to do it without a hint of sarcasm or insincerity. From behind the counter, he inspected it and determined the correct wick. He put on his old-fashioned reading glasses, dug into his rusty toolbox, selected a well-worn flathead screwdriver, and disassembled ol’ BAB in a few seconds. At one point, he consulted a dusty, vaguely-biblical Zippo manual, which was the size of a phone book, and informed me that, according to the markings on the bottom, the lighter was manufactured in 1977.
During our time together I noted a few things about George: a) he clearly loved what he did, b) he had been doing it for a very long time and knew everything there was to know about his field, and c) he didn’t mind taking a minute to relay to a complete stranger who was spending no more than $1.50 in his store, a few bits of superfluous information that only someone like him would possess. How can you not take a liking to someone like this?
As he was ringing me up, George said, verbatim, “Is there anything else we can set you up with?” This was just a way of saying “Is that all you need?” but he was so damned amiable, I came very close to saying “You know what, George? Set me up with a starter kit! I need to start smoking a pipe!” I didn’t. Then.
That encounter stayed with me (obviously) and last weekend, over a year later, I returned, looked George in the eye, and said, “You know what, George? Set me up with a starter kit! I need to start smoking a pipe!”
Why now? Well I was mostly motivated by an idea I have for a costume for Halloween, which demands a pipe and which I will not be telling you any more about. You will just have to wait.
What I will give you is this:
This is all your fault, George.
The fact that it’s a corncob is winning me over, despite my original determination that wood was the way to go. My plan was to get one of the less-expensive wooden types, but it turns out the “less-expensive” wooden types start at $35 — way too much for something I’m basically just attempting for a larf. The corncob and some standard pipe tobacco only added up to $6, which is much more tolerable.
And right now I’m glad I didn’t shell out any more than that, because I’m finding smoking a pipe to be very difficult. I don’t know how all those sitcom dads in the ’50s did it. No matter how I pack the tobacco or how frequently I take a draw, I can’t seem to keep the thing lit for a full minute. George warned me about this, of course. In his laid-back manner, he explained to me that it I’d probably have this problem at first and that I could come back and see him any time and he’d check out my technique and give me pointers. Stupid, kindly shop-owner. “It just takes practice,” he shrugged. That phrasing caught me off guard, as the idea of “practicing” — concentrating and honing a skill set — that a) contributes less to society than anything else I can think of at the moment and b) is really bad for your health, seems quite perverse. I immediately envisioned a smoke-engulfed living room filled with aspiring pipe-smokers in gray sweatsuits, lighting their bowls to “Eye of the Tiger.”
All I wanted was to be able to sit down on a given evening, in my man-chair, and calmly and serenely puff for a good 15–20 minutes, thus allowing me to have epiphanies about life, etc. Yet I can now tell, to get to the point where I don’t have to fumble with a tamper and a box of matches every 20 seconds, this endeavor truly is going to require serious dedication.
Perhaps the pipe isn’t for me. Perhaps it’s time to locate a bonsai…or even some alligators.
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