One teenage reporter finds scoring smokes surprisingly easy
By EMILY SKEHAN I Special to the Daily Press
DOWNTOWN Being one of those kids who always looked considerably younger than my age, I’ve grown accustomed to the humiliation of being talked down to by middle schoolers, snickered at by club bouncers, even booted from the diving board at the UCLA pool. Understandably, I was a bit hesitant when I set out to affirm my right — as a barely legal adult— to give myself lung cancer, and maybe even crack down on some irresponsible businesses.
The plan: Venture out into Santa Monica — sans California state ID — and see what random liquor stores, supermarkets and tobacco suppliers would let me buy a pack of smokes without carding me.
At 18, I’m just past the point of being legally able to purchase tobacco, and a good seven years younger than those official-looking little stickers on store windows threaten to have someone carded.
Originally, I was under the impression that this would be a covert, sneaky operation that could potentially get some vendors in trouble, because those pesky stickers seem to imply that it’s a crime not to card anyone who’s lived less than a quarter century.
However, my hopes of a sting operation were quickly dashed by SMPD Lt. P.J. Guido.
“While we suggest to card everyone, each establishments can set up their own system for determining how to not sell tobacco to minors” said Lt. Guido.“It’s not technically illegal not to card an 19-year-old.”
Turns out that none of the targeted stores was commit-ting an offense by hooking me up with my tobacco fix. Still, it’s pretty gray territory.
“It’s definitely a difficult issue,” he said, “if you’re even a day younger than 18, it’s illegal.”
I have plenty of friends who smoked in high school, none of whom ever seemed to have a problem acquiring their nicotine. And let’s face it, I look about 16, so if I’m not getting carded chances are some hairy-lipped eighth graders aren’t either.
“It’s not that it’s easy to buy cigarettes,” said one Samohi sophomore, who says she picks up a pack a week,“but if you try a couple places, usually someone will be chill about it.
“Once they know your face, they don’t bother asking how old you are.”
THE QUEST Armed with a student day pass on the Big Blue Bus and the excuse, “I left my wallet in the car,” I targeted nine stores across the city, to test just how hard it is for a teenager to get some cancer sticks.
Though Santa Monica is known as a relatively health-conscious — smoking unfriendly city — the undeniable “cool” factor of lighting up doesn’t go unnoticed in Los Angeles. We may eat organic food and do yoga on weekends, but Santa Monica’s teenagers are still willing to blacken our lungs, especially if it makes us thinner and hipper.
“Santa Monica has always been on the leading edge of promoting a smoke-free environment,” said Robert Berger, who works for the Santa Monica-based Healthier Solutions, a health advocacy organization that worked with the city to implement recent smoking bans, “but I still think that teens — even here in Santa Monica — are still vulnerable to media influences and peer pressure.”
Over two days, I hit nine tobacco providers and scored cigarettes from four of them. I was asked for my ID card five times, but never took it out — if a store refused to buy my contrived excuse, I walked out.
My first stop was a grocery store on Ocean Park Boulevard, near John Adams Middle School, that boasted foreboding signs like “Under 18, no tobacco” and “Buying for minors could cost you.” Although my checker asked for my ID, he seemed unfazed by the fact that I “didn’t have it on me.” After asking me if I was 18, he handed over a pack of Parliament Lights without further ado. Trusting guy.
Buoyed by my immediate success, I strode out of the sliding glass doors with a surprised, newly confident air. For once, someone hadn’t questioned my age. He even asked if I wanted to take some matches for my smoking enjoyment.
My next two stops were liquor stores on Main Street, where I wasn’t even asked my age. One store owner gave me a bit of a hard time about my pretend smoking habit, but neglected to check that I was legal.
“Hi, can I grab a pack of Parliament Lights?” I asked. “Are you sure?” he quipped. “They’re bad for you.” I laughed and nodded. “What do you think?” he said, turning to his co-worker. “Should I sell them to her?”
“Yeah, but I’d tell her they’re gross.” He turned back to me and bagged the pack with a grin. “Now you know what kind of a store we are,” he said. “The kind that gives you a lot of grief.”
But not the kind that asks you how old you are. I took the bag and walked out of the store, ID still untouched in my wallet.
NO BUTTS ABOUT IT By this point, I’d become a little cocky. Never before had my age been accepted so easily. I decided to test my luck with a formidable obstacle — the AM/PM on Pico Boulevard and Fourth Street — a store with both corporate policies and employees who had surely grown wary while working across the street from a high school.
The cashier, a middle aged woman who stood her ground firmly in front of the shelves of Marlboros, Mistys and Camels, looked me up and down when I asked for a pack.
“You got ID?” she asked. “Um, I left it in the car.” “Uh huh.” she rolled her eyes, “No ID, no cigarettes.” I bought a packet of gum to cover my shame and walked out with my head hung. The familiar feeling of rejection rushed back into my stomach and tinted my cheeks pink. My only comfort was that I hadn’t decided to affirm my right as an adult to buy, say, pornography.
Perhaps it was my new unsure attitude, but I hit a losing streak for the rest of that day. I was rejected once I failed to show identification at liquor stores on Montana Avenue and Second Street, a Vons supermarket and a cigar shop near the Santa Monica Place mall. My only consolation came from a friendly, homeless transvestite who offered to buy a pack for me.
“Sweetie,” he whispered, batting his glitter-bedecked eyelashes at me while leaning out the door of a liquor store.“Do you want me to get those for you?”
I declined gratefully, and walked away. Like a gambling addict on a losing streak, I just couldn’t give up until lady luck (or lady I don’t card minors) glanced my way. Just one more store, I kept telling myself. For a non-smoker, I was getting a pretty bad case of tobacco withdrawal.
Finally, I got my fix again at a convenience store right near SMC. The checker didn’t even look me over as he slipped the $5 bill from out of my hand and pushed a plastic-encased box across the counter. This time, I took the matches as well.
With a 44 percent success rate, I decided to call it quits — comforted that I appear my age, but also a little cynical of local store policy. My ability to buy tobacco without much hassle might have boosted my ego a little, but it also made me wonder: Will stores sell cigarettes to any teenager just to make a buck?
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on August 7, 2007. Read the original PDF.