The day I started and quit smoking

It’s a gloriously sunny afternoon sometime in the mid-‘80s. The front door of the four story house is wide open. I sneak out when the coast seems clear and enter the front porch. There isn't a soul in sight. I roll my chair close to the table, on which an ash-tray, a lighter, and a pack of cigarettes lay. Both my father and one of grandfathers smoked quite a bit (interestingly, none of the women in my family did). For a long time I had wanted to try too and here was finally my chance.  

My feeling of thrill mounting, I furtively pull out a cigarette and grab the lighter, trying to be as quiet and fast as I could. I wheel myself over to enter the outdoor elevator and nervously press and hold the button to go down to ground level. I go around the house to the back yard. I hide behind the hut made of a crate.  

With great excitement I light the cigarette and take a few puffs. I cough for a while. After several more puffs I begin coughing uncontrollably and throw the barely smoked cigarette into the ground. It takes almost a whole minute to completely cease coughing. I never smoked again after that, I broke the pattern of the men in the house.