YEARS AGO IN MY APARTMENT BUILDING there were fancy ashtrays on the wall by the elevators. With a touch of a fingertip, the cigarette butts fell into a lower chamber and the two halves of metal joined back together. Fancy or not, the ashtrays still stunk. Seeing smokers waiting for our painfully slow elevators often made taking the stairs the preferred option. And I lived on the 15th floor.
In case you hadn’t guessed, I’m not fond of cigarettes. In fact, I hate them. They smell and cause cancer. Otherwise, I have no opinion. Some people aren’t convinced about the danger of second hand smoke. Then again, some aren’t convinced about global warming (While glaciers are melting and polar bears are putting on sunscreen). When somebody smokes near me it gets on my clothes, in my hair and up my nose. I can have my clothes dry-cleaned but dirty lungs are slightly more serious.
My late mother was a smoker all her adult life so I know how powerful the addiction is. In 1994 tobacco CEO’s lied before Congress stating that nicotine wasn’t addictive when they were actually researching ways to make it even more so. Those CEOs should have been frog-marched out of the halls of Congress and escorted to jail. But the Republicans were in power and felt that the poor CEO’s had suffered enough embarrassment. Lung cancer versus embarrassment, I suppose it’s kind of a toss up.
In recent years Santa Monica has banned smoking from public parks, the beach, and within 20 feet of doors and windows on commercial streets. But if you take a walk on Main Street on a Saturday night you’ll see, in front of bars and restaurants, groups of smokers blocking the sidewalk as they send up white plumes, like modern day smoke signals. As I scurry past I usually hold my breath.
If I sound a tad annoyed, it’s because the tenants below me either have house guests, or have taken up smoking. I pray it’s the former. During this warm weather they sit on their patio and smoke and moments later my apartment smells like a pool hall. I shut all the windows but with the heat, that’s almost worse. Even if I do, somehow cigarette smoke gets through the cracks while cigar smoke apparently penetrates drywall. It’s mind boggling. Plan B is moving to the bedroom, assuming my neighbors don’t smoke in their bedroom. Plan C is going on e-Bay and buying a HAZMAT suit.
To escape the smoke, sometimes I go down to the Jacuzzi. But often I’ve been joined by cigar smokers. They love to relax in the bubbly water and fill the air with the fragrant scent of a dead skunk. I’ve asked politely if they could hold off for a few minutes but to no avail. Once I was told, “It’s a free country. If you don’t like cigar smoke you should move to Russia.”To this day I still don’t get the logic. I suppose I could sit in the Jacuzzi in my HAZMAT, although I can’t imagine it would be terribly relaxing.
Help is on the way. Maybe. At a recent meeting the City Council asked staff to draft an ordinance banning outdoor smoking in apartment building common areas, including pools. But get ready this battle could get nasty. Many smokers equate the right to puff in public with the Second Amendment. Instead of “You can have my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead hand,” it would be, “You can have my cigar when you pry it from my cold, dead lips.”
A fellow tenant, Michael, a non-smoking libertarian, (and friend for 30 years) calls me an “anti-smoking fascist.” I’m not antismoking, I’m anti breathing it. He’s furious that I support the council’s action. Hitting below the belt, he says the only people who find my writing amusing are over 60 (I don’t know which remark stings more but I probably could live with being a funny fascist).
Surprisingly Michael’s not that upset that the government taps our phones and spies on our e-mails. What steams him most these days are “the busy bodies” (the antismoking activists) who are interfering with people’s rights. And he doesn’t even smoke. Nonetheless, he vows to get the ACLU involved. I bet they can hardly wait. Not.
The truth is, despite appearances, I do have compassion for smokers. It’s a little difficult to summon when the smoke from my neighbor’s apartment makes mine smell like poker night. Or when my Jacuzzi time is cut short by a stinky stogie. Or if, worse come to worst, I wind up in that HAZMAT suit. I’m counting on you, City Council. The whole world is watching. Well, at least Michael and I.
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on April 25, 2008. Read the original PDF.