For more than a decade, I’ve worked at a cigar shop in Montgomery. It started as a favor. The owner hired me so he could take time away while his wife battled cancer. She passed, and the shop became a second home, a place where people came to slow down, talk, and remember that life is better when shared over good tobacco and honest conversation.
But somewhere along the line, that peace faded. The job turned nearly full time, and the rhythm of the place shifted. In 2021, I lost my father to COVID-19. Around that same time, small cracks began to show inside the shop. What once felt like fellowship slowly became friction. Disagreements over simple things grew into regular arguments that left the air heavy and my spirit worn down.
The tension doesn’t always show to others, but it lingers. Some days, the silence says more than words ever could. I find myself counting the minutes until closing time, not because I dislike the work but because the peace I once found there feels harder to reach.
Cigar shops used to be sanctuaries. In towns like Montgomery, they were places where people gathered to swap stories about football, family, and faith. They were the home away from home. But even those spaces are not safe from the strain of modern life. Folks bring their stress and anger with them, and it hangs in the air longer than the smoke.
Near Cloverdale sits a small cigar shop where, long before my current job, I was a regular. I’d stop by often to play Cuban-style dominoes and unwind after work. Recently, I was banned from that shop after the manager was told by another employee that I was conducting business on their property. The truth was far less dramatic. Earlier that day, a friend had purchased some cigars from my shop but couldn’t make it in until later, so he asked me to bring them to him. I handed them over, we talked for a few minutes, and that was it. But to the manager, who has never cared much for me and has carried grudges for years, it looked like a transaction. Before I could explain, I was told I wasn’t welcome back. No warning, no conversation, just banned.
It stung more than I expected. That shop had been one of the few places I could go to unwind, play a round of dominoes, and enjoy good company. Losing it over something so small felt like the final door closing on what little calm I had left. So now, what was once a pastime, lighting one up and relaxing among friends, has turned into isolation. I’ve found myself keeping to my home or driving around town, trying to find a quiet corner where I can think and breathe.
Maybe that’s the lesson. Our culture has forgotten how to pause. Everyone wants to win the argument, not understand the person. We move too fast to appreciate stillness. We’ve lost the habit of sitting with silence, the same way you let a cigar rest between draws.
Every person needs a place of peace. For some, it’s a church pew. For others, a fishing boat, a garage, or a back porch. For me, it used to be that shop on the edge of Montgomery. Maybe one day it will be again. Until then, I’ll keep looking for that quiet kind of peace, the kind that doesn’t come from smoke but from finally exhaling the weight we carry.
Jason Davenport is a seasoned media professional with over two decades of experience in the fields of broadcasting, audio/video production, and media consulting. Based in Montgomery, Alabama, Jason is the owner of Pulse Media Montgomery, where he specializes in providing innovative solutions for clients, including podcasting, blogging, web design, and social media management.