Gumhead Confidential : Kicking the Nicorette Gum Habit Can Put You Out of Your Right Mind

AFTER two days of suffering, I thought of a solution: Kill Moe. It wasn’t that I disliked him--quite the contrary, but he was the only barrier between me and a supply of my beloved Nicorette, the prescription chewing gum with nicotine that helped me quit smoking.

Frankly, I liked Miss Nicky (the gum character in Doonesbury) much better than I ever liked Mr. Butts. When I smoked, I had to brush my teeth every 20 minutes. And every time I inhaled a cigarette, I felt guilty about endangering my health.

But I never felt guilty chewing (actually you don’t chew, you park it on your gums); instead I enjoyed a mild nicotine rush and the keen sense of moral superiority and relief that goes with becoming a nonsmoker. I was very grateful the gum was there for me.

And it would still be there for me if Moe, my pharmacist, hadn’t opened his big mouth. “You’ve got to stop chewing this,” he exclaimed when I went to pick up my weekly supply. “It’s pretty obvious when someone’s hooked,” he chided, adding that most people manage to give up the gum in a few months. I stammered something about not really being a gum junkie. But Moe wouldn’t let it drop. “You don’t go around shaking and dribbling at the mouth,” he said. “And you’re not selling your body on the street. Still, it’s not that difficult to spot a problem.” How? “Forty-eight refills is a clue,” he said with a superior smile.

“I can stop whenever I want,” I said defensively. But why would I want to stop? I loved my wonderful gum. With cigarettes I faced public humiliation and social ostracism. But not with Miss Nicky. There were no “Chewing” and “No Chewing” sections in restaurants and airplanes. Strangers didn’t lecture me on the dangers of second-hand gum fumes. I wasn’t ordered outside in the middle of a dinner party if I wanted a chew.

Hardly anyone knew I was chewing. And who cared? There were no ashes, no overflowing ashtrays, no foul odor clinging to my breath, clothes and hair. There was no danger of starting a fire with gum. I wasn’t going to accidentally burn down a forest or a bed, or even singe a sofa. Once in a while, a piece might get stuck to a sofa cushion, but a little ice would take it off.

It was no big deal, except to Moe. If it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t have casually suggested to my husband, “Hey, honey. Let’s drive to Tijuana.” Duke looked at me with alarm. I loathe Tijuana, but it’s the only place on the planet I know where they have flyers for the farmacia (“We have Retin-A!”) in the government tourist office. And in Mexico they sell Nicorette over the counter.

“Have the doctor call the prescription in to another pharmacy,” Duke said. I considered it, but I knew I’d still imagine Moe’s accusing voice saying, “Gumhead, gumhead!”

So there I was, crazed, frantically rummaging through the wastebasket, hunting for scraps of Nicorette; gnawing four packs of Chiclets a day. Chiclets wouldn’t do. Finally, I hit on the solution: Kill Moe.

It would be really easy.

He and my husband are longtime acquaintances, and we often run into each other at social gatherings. In fact, we expected to see him that night at a benefit on the Santa Monica Pier. I’d lure him over to the end of the wharf, on the premise of discussing my addiction. And then a quick shove would do the rest.

But Moe didn’t come. I didn’t see him for three weeks. And by then, I was already over the worst withdrawal symptoms. It wasn’t just physical, oh no--that discomfort lasted only a few days. What really rankled was the utter lack of social cachet involved in my noble sacrifice. When I told my friends that I was quitting smoking, I got compassion, I got admiration, I got useful tips. But when I said that I was giving up Nicorette, eyes glazed, subjects changed, people remembered urgent previous engagements.

Later, I called an expert to find out what diseases I’d managed to avoid. “There’s no disease caused by Nicorette gum,” said Nina Schneider, associate research psychologist at UCLA and the first American to study Nicorette. “There’s no evidence that it’s unsafe. Even if you’re on gum for five years, you’re not going to get emphysema, lung cancer or even heart disease.”

Still, I guess I’m glad I quit. Duke’s proud of me. And so is Moe. Recently, I confessed I’d planned his murder. “Nobody’s ever told me that,” he said. “It’s a pharmaceutical first.” I was about to tell him I appreciated his concern. But Moe said, “You know, I would have given you another box. I’m not stupid. You may have been addicted to the nicotine, but at least you weren’t smoking.”

I think I’m going to kill Moe.