The Matador's Humidor

His old arms ached more than usual. It was his last and final bullfight. The cheers of his adoring fans still roared in his ears as he slowly lowered his aging bruised body into a thread bare, blood red recliner.

Next to the recliner, within arm’s reach, stood a small, dark wooden table. It had belonged to his late mother. He would rest his bruised sword hand upon the top and remember how she would meticulously dust all the curves of its antique carvings. Though he treasured the frail wooden table, with it’s precarious tilt, it was the polished wooden humidor in the center that always held his gaze and his reward. His arms felt like lead as he tried to open his clenched fists. Of all the bulls he had fought and killed, tonight’s sacrificial lamb was the mightiest of them all. It was the perfect end to a perfect career in the ring.

Reaching for the humidor sent searing pain in all directions down his back and into his side. He knew, to pass on his ceremonial cigar ritual, would change everything! Since he was just a young man, some fifty years ago, lighting and smoking a cigar from the wooden box after a bullfight, was second only to cutting off the bull’s ears to wear as a hat. The cigar was his private way of laughing at the foolish bovines who would challenge his skill and agility.

Relaxing with the spiraling smoke over head gave him pause and time to talk to his dead father. The man who always doubted his son. Who mocked him as he practiced, and never saw one of his fights. He would remind his son, every chance he could, that fighting the bulls takes courage, strength and a touch of madness. None of which his father claimed he possessed, except the madness. He hated his father when he would laugh and say he was doomed to be another sad statistic in the annals of Bullfighting. He knew he was the bravest and the strongest of them all, but tonight was different. Tonight, he felt the madness lead his final dance with the bull. His humble bow to the wounded, dying bull brought tears he could not hide from the cheering crowd and his fellow matadors.

Sitting in the darkened room, alone, made the victory cigar taste sweeter, warmer, and ever so familiar. The deep drawing sounds of his breath fills the room as he remembers his first and most frightening fight. As if pushed by a phantom hand, the lid of the humidor slams shut. Startled, the weary matador hisses his father’s name, and his reverie is broken.

As the weary old man rubs his watery eyes, he whispers “perhaps you were right father.” He can still feel the weakness in his knees. The same weakness he feared would betray him, as he dodged the great angry bull who repeatedly charged. The false smile he wore in the ring returns to his face as he traces the deep lines around his sad eyes with the chewed soggy tip of the cigar. He knew he was wise to leave the sport, his sport, when he did. Within the roar of the cheers tonight, he was sure he could hear mocking laughter. Not unlike the laughter of his father.

Puffing deeply and quickly, he grasps the arms of the comforting old chair. He grabs the edge of his mother’s table, but briefly teeters backward. After several unsuccessful attempts to get to his feet, he settles down to finish his cigar. His last cigar, the cigar that assures him, he is brave, he is strong, and he is mad! With every draw of the tobacco the room grows brighter. Its red ember tip blends in with all the red that flows around the weary hero of the night.

Reaching down, he presses his long weary fingers against his open ribcage and leaves his bloody handprint on the closed wooden humidor lid.

Ole’!