Rebel smokes

It’s been more than three months since the Oregon law banning smoking in bars has gone into effect, perhaps still too soon to see any tangible repercussions, positive or negative, aside from, of course, the actual absence of smoke.

Quite a few bars and some restaurants still have lingering reminders of the way things were … the evidence of decades of soaking in a persistent nicotine fog won’t just vanish because of a law—as once-white (now beige) walls, and the faint but enduring smell of cigarettes is still fused to every porous surface.

Many bar owners and employees worry that what won’t linger in the bars could be the smokers themselves. While less money is being spent on non-essentials across the board, those earning a living in the service industry fear that the smoking ban could cause a mass exodus and a significant decrease in income.

In all the other places where smoking bans have been instated, there seem to be conflicting reports on the effect this has on bars and taverns. Most people that work in them seem to agree that there is a drop in business, or that regular patrons who smoke don’t come as often, or stay as long.

But they’re still out there.

We see them huddled outside now, these pariahs—outcasts from the warm, social environment where they once were included. In doorways, under awnings, alone or clustered in small groups, at least some of the smokers are hanging tough, braving their exile in the bitter cold, the pouring rain. They won’t be driven back into their homes, and they can’t—or won’t—quit smoking. They are a persistent lot. They are the ones who drink and smoke.

I’ve seen this all happen before—it was a long time ago, in a far-off land called California. It was about to become 1998, and people in bars all across the state were puffing as though their lives depended upon it. You could hear the words in the air, repeated again and again: “Last chance … it’s your last chance to smoke inside. …”

Some swore they’d quit smoking, others said they’d quit going out. Still others, those who were in favor of the ban—or at least perversely predisposed to find the brighter side of things—mentioned the benefits: no more stinky hair and clothing after a night out. No mandatory second-hand smoke for those people who like to socialize with an adult beverage sans cigarettes.

The legislators who passed the law said they were helping employees of the food and beverage industry live longer, healthier lives. Many of these bartenders and waitresses rolled their eyes, and went outside for a smoke. Quite a few of them weren’t happy, even though the law was supposed to be for their benefit. Even the non-smokers were worried that the ban would affect their income negatively. Most everyone who was adamantly opposed to working in a smoky environment had already moved on to less polluted employment.

There were still patrons, in smaller numbers, more than a few of them who sat staring at their hands unhappily, chewing on straws, eying the doorway. Conversations were interrupted frequently, pool games abandoned halfway through as people bolted to the sidewalks and parking lots to satisfy their mounting craving to puff away at a cigarette. And, yes, they were drinking a bit less, leaving a bit sooner.

No one claims to remember the first time the rule was broken, or who the guilty party was. I was there. Let’s say it was a man named Bob, who had drunk so many pints of beer, who was so engrossed in recounting his hazy thoughts through a cloud of spittle, that he completely forgot it was 1998. Instead of heading toward the exit as he had done a dozen times already that evening, without even thinking, he pulled out a cigarette and inhaled, continuing his rambling. He was vaguely aware of the sudden attention and admiration directed toward him—for the first time that night, all eyes were on Bob.

When he went to flick his ash, the spell was broken. Everyone, Bob included, realized simultaneously that he was simply plastered—not the captivating orator that Bob believed himself to be, not the brazen rebel leader that the other smoking patrons saw a glimmer of, for just a moment. …

That moment was long enough to plant a seed. Bob, now clumsily self-conscious, began to laboriously grind his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe. But no one had told him to stop. There were no smoking police. In a few minutes, someone wandered towards the farthest, darkest corner and lit up. Two girls went into the bathroom, lit cigarettes and blew the smoke out the window.
The bartender noticed, of course. Anyone who was too blatant about smoking inside the bar was shut down. Some learned to slyly pass a makeshift ashtray out of drink coasters, handing it to the patrons with a wink saying: “You know, you’re not supposed to smoke in here.”

Suddenly, every other bar you went to seemed to have a sort of “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy towards smoking inside. Those employees who were not all that crazy about the ban in the first place found themselves in the position of having to enforce it, or not.

Other bars strictly maintained the  “no smoking” policy, and everyone seemed content. Those who wanted to puff away figured out where they could get away with it. Bar employees who didn’t want to be around smoke could—and did—ask the offending parties to take it outside. It seemed as though there was a place for everyone.

Eventually, complaints were made. It occurred to someone that if the smoking ban was going to be effectively enforced, some agency aside from the bar and restaurant owners and employees (who were, by and large, against the ban, remember) should be monitoring these places.

Inspectors and agents from the liquor commission, the health department and the police were assigned to monitor and in some cases to conduct undercover stings, to catch the non-complying establishments, and after a few citations and some hefty fines were actually handed out, the idea that there would be NO SMOKING in bars finally, completely sunk in. Four years after the law went into effect.

Could all that happen here, in Oregon? For all I know, it’s already begun. Someone may have forgotten that it’s 2009, lit up a cigarette while his or her mind was somewhere else, and decided to see how far he or she could go with it. Someone witnessing this might have gotten a little bit bolder and contemplated the idea of challenging the smoking ban, too. No two stories ever play out the same way.

Legislating personal choice is a very tricky business. I choose not to smoke. (Well, I’ve made an excellent effort to choose not to smoke, which has failed on a few occasions in the past few years.) I don’t want stinky hair or clothes or lung cancer or heart disease. I can see the logic behind banning smoke in a place that serves the general population, or that is dedicated to improving or maintaining health.

But … in bars, all bars? I might risk getting thrown out of the righteous ex-smoker’s club, but I still believe in the individual liberty to self-destruct via our preferred methods in the appropriate context, including in smoky bars.