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Out of the Humidor

CA Readers
From the Print Edition:
James Woods, May/Jun 97

Dear Marvin,

In 28 years of smoking cigars, I have had manygood times. I am proud to have followed the ups and downs of a great American industry. I have smoked cigars to commemorate the birth of new life and lament the death of a loved one, have shared a robust smoke with many a stranger, our only link being this hallowed tradition symbolizing fellowship.

Perhaps the most unique occurrence I have ever had involving cigars came some years back in Manhattan. My beloved wife, Elena, and I were walking back from a soiree given by my firm at Delmonico's, celebrating my retirement from many years as an attorney. We had enjoyed consummate food in the company of close, genial brethren. I had topped the evening off with a Cohiba and a glass of Krug. My firm had been kind enough to bestow on me two lovely gifts: a beautiful Patek Philippe watch as a token of its admiration and a vintage box of Romeo y Julietas. The night air was cool and crisp that evening, so Elena and I decided to take a stroll through Central Park, in lieu of a digestif.

I was walking along with my ravishing wife (26 years of marriage and she still has her figure, a figure I notice many other men admire), carrying the precious Cuban cargo under one arm and gazing at the pretty 23-jewel baby on my wrist, when suddenly I saw a dark figure looming before us.

"That looks like a pretty nice watch there, mister," said the voice from the darkness. It was a young tough trying to relieve us of our precious belongings and avail himself of a little easy cash. As I moved a little closer I could see the glint of a revolver in his hand. "Hand it over," he demanded.

"I will do no such thing," I replied firmly.

"Hand it over, if you want the dame to live," he asserted.

Now Marvin, I don't have to tell you, I treasured my Patek Philippe, but I cherished my wife even more. I complied with the young ruffian's demand.

"Now the wallet," he said.

Once again I had no choice but to hand over my brown Coach wallet and its contents to this scoundrel. Then, what I feared most transpired.


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