Smokeroom Diplomacy: A Layover with Lex Luger

 In 1993, I was flying to Washington, D.C., when a snowstorm rerouted us to Pittsburgh. The airport was packed, and the smoke room—back when airports still had those—was standing-room only. I stepped in, lit a cigarette, and scanned the crowd. At 6'4", I was used to seeing over people. But across the room, about 20 feet away, I spotted someone else who matched my height.

It was Lex Luger.

Yes, that Lex Luger—the pro wrestler known as “The Total Package.” At the time, he was everywhere. Fresh off his body slam of Yokozuna on the USS Intrepid, touring the country in the Lex Express, being positioned as the next face of American wrestling. And there he was, in a smoke-filled glass box, lighting a cigarette with the kind of focus you’d expect from a man walking toward a championship match..

As he smoked, he squeezed his empty pack shut and began scanning the room for a trash bin. He looked left, right, behind him—nothing. The place was wall-to-wall with travelers, and the only bin in sight was near me, half-hidden behind a row of hunched shoulders and winter coats. Lex stood there for a moment, holding the pack like it was radioactive, clearly not keen on just dropping it to the floor.

Then he spotted me.

I gave a nod toward the bin. He tossed the crumpled pack my way—right over the heads of everyone shorter than us, which was most of the room. I caught it. Then I tossed it back. He caught it. No words. Just a quiet exchange between two tall men in transit.

We passed the pack back and forth a few times, like bored giants in a crowded terrarium. No autographs. No introductions. Just a surreal moment suspended in cigarette smoke and fluorescent light.

I don’t know if Lex remembers it. But I do—clear as the smoke that hung between us. And that’s enough for the story to live.