The Legend of the Smoke Shop Regular — A Short Story

Chapter 1: The Bell

The bell above the door was cheap brass. It had been there since before the current owner, before the sign out front got replaced, before the display cases went from wood to glass. It made a sound that wasn't quite a ring and wasn't quite a clang — something in between that told you, without looking up, that someone had walked in.

Marcus heard it fourteen times on a slow Tuesday. Forty-plus on a Saturday. He'd stopped counting years ago, but he always heard it. That was the job. The bell rings, you look up, you greet whoever walks through.

"Afternoon," he said, without checking the clock. He didn't need to. Mr. Tom was his 2:15.

Chapter 2: Mr. Tom

Thomas Whitfield — Mr. Tom to everyone in the shop — had been coming in every Tuesday and Thursday at exactly 2:15 for six years. He was retired military. Seventy-one years old. Drove a truck that was older than Marcus but somehow still ran perfectly.

He always bought the same thing: two Padron 3000 Maduros. Never the Natural. He'd been asked once if he wanted to try the Natural and had looked at the cashier like they'd suggested he wear sandals with socks.

"Two of the usual," Mr. Tom said, settling onto the stool by the counter like it was his personal property. It sort of was.

Marcus already had them on the counter.

"How's the knee?" Marcus asked.

"Still attached. That's about all I can say for it."

This was their script. Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. The words changed slightly, but the rhythm never did. Marcus had come to rely on it the way you rely on your morning coffee — not because it was exciting, but because the absence of it would feel wrong.

Chapter 3: The Kid

The bell clanged at 2:22. A young man — early twenties, nervous energy, wearing a hoodie that was too warm for the weather — stepped in and made a direct line for the humidor.

Marcus watched him through the glass. The kid picked up a cigar, looked at it, put it back. Picked up another one. Read the band like it was written in a foreign language. Turned it over. Put it back.

"First time?" Marcus called.

The kid looked caught. "That obvious?"

"Only because you're holding them like they bite."

Mr. Tom chuckled from his stool without looking up from his phone. "We've all been there, son."

The kid walked over to the counter. "I'm, uh... my dad's birthday is this weekend. He smokes cigars. I wanted to get him something nice but I literally don't know anything."

Marcus smiled. This was his favorite part of the job. Not the transactions, not the inventory counts, not the ordering — but the moment when someone walks in needing help and you get to be the person who actually helps them.

"What does your dad usually smoke? Any idea?"

"Something... brown? Medium sized?" The kid shrugged. "He keeps them in a wooden box in his office."

"Does he like bold flavors or smooth flavors? Coffee drinker or sweet tea guy?"

"Oh, he's definitely a black coffee, no sugar kind of person."

Marcus walked into the humidor and came back with two cigars. "Padron 1964 Anniversary. Rich, complex, not too aggressive. If your dad drinks his coffee black, he'll love this. And this" — he set down a second cigar — "is an Oliva Serie V Melanio. Little more sweetness, lots of depth. It's an award winner."

The kid looked at both cigars like Marcus had just performed a magic trick. "How did you know that from 'coffee, no sugar'?"

"Six years of matching cigars to people. You start seeing patterns."

Mr. Tom finally looked up from his phone. "He matched me on my first day in here. I told him I'd been smoking the same grocery store cigar for twenty years and he handed me a Padron 3000 and said, 'Try this.' Haven't smoked anything else since."

"I didn't say stop trying new things," Marcus said.

"You handed me perfection. What am I supposed to do, downgrade?"

Chapter 4: The Afternoon Crowd

By 3 PM, the shop had its usual texture. A UPS driver came in for his daily vape pods — always the mint, always in a rush, always friendly despite the rush. A couple browsed the hookah shisha, debating between watermelon mint and blueberry. A woman picked up a CBD tincture and asked careful, specific questions that Marcus answered patiently.

The smoke shop wasn't a bar, but it functioned like one in some ways. People came for a product and stayed for a minute of human contact. In a world of online ordering and self-checkout, there was something about walking into a shop where someone knew your name — or at least your brand.

Marcus had regulars who came in not because they were out of anything, but because it was Thursday, and that's when they come in. The purchase was almost an afterthought. A reason to stop by.

Chapter 5: Closing Time

At 7:45 PM, Marcus started the closing routine. Wipe down the glass cases. Restock the front display. Check the humidor temperature — 68 degrees, perfect, always. Count the register.

Mr. Tom had left at 2:40, same as always. The kid had left with the Padron 1964, a gift bag, and a look on his face like he'd accomplished something important. He probably had.

The bell rang one last time. Marcus looked up.

A woman he didn't recognize — mid-thirties, professional clothes, looking tired in the way that meant a long day, not a long life.

"Are you still open?"

"For a few more minutes."

She looked around the shop. "I used to come to a place like this with my dad when I was little. He'd pick out a cigar and I'd spin the lighter display. Hadn't thought about that in years." She paused. "Do you have anything mild? I want to sit on my porch tonight and just... not think for a while."

Marcus reached into the humidor and pulled out a Macanudo Café. "This one's about thirty minutes. Smooth, no harshness, nothing complicated. Just a nice smoke."

She looked at it, nodded, and smiled. "Perfect."

The bell clanged as she left. Marcus locked the door behind her, flipped the sign, and stood in the quiet shop for a moment. The humidor hummed. The display cases gleamed. The stool where Mr. Tom sat was slightly crooked, the way he always left it.

Tomorrow the bell would ring again. The regulars would come back. Someone new would walk in nervous. Marcus would be behind the counter, matching people with the thing they didn't know they were looking for.

It was, he thought, a pretty good job.

More Than a Store

At Cigar and Smoke Shop, we believe a smoke shop should be more than a place to buy products. It should be a place where you're recognized, where your preferences are remembered, and where the staff genuinely cares about matching you with something you'll enjoy.

Come be a regular. We'd love to meet you.

Cigar and Smoke Shop · Arundel Mills Mall · 443-755-5141