PlanetGordon.com

Smoke Signals

Every day since the school year began a group of sixteen and seventeen-year-old girls from the local Catholic school around the block sneak out at lunch time to smoke. As my apartment building is close to the school yet far enough up the street to avoid the prying eyes of wandering teachers or school security personnel, the girls frequently use my building's stoop as their gathering place.

I don't have a problem with kids skipping school, at least not enough to tell them to go back. At the age of thirty-one, I'm also not one of those angry old men who doesn't want non-residents sitting on his building's stoop. And lest you think I'm a complete fun-hater, I don't have a problem with the girl's smoking even if they are underage. Part of growing up is sneaking out for a smoke every now and then; let them explain the smell on their clothes to their parents. (If their parents are even involved enough to care.)

In fact, I don't have a problem with smoking at all. What I do have a problem with, however, is smoke. You see, your right to smoke ends at my nose. (And if you've ever met me you'll know that doesn't allow for a lot of smoking room.) Want to fill your lungs with sweet sweet tobbacky? Go for it. Like the kind of high that only comes from sucking on a car's exhaust pipe? Be my guest. Just do it in your own home or in an area where you're not blowing into the breathing space of those who like to keep their lungs tar-free.

I work at home in a tiny second bedroom which I use as my office. The one window in the room looks out over the stoop from our position at the front of the building on the second floor. Every day for the last month and a half as the daily soda-klatch has gathered below, smoke wafts into the apartment, making me feel as if I work in a pre-smoking-ban bar and not within spitting distance of my bedroom. The smoke seeps in regardless of whether the windows are closed or open and the smoke lingers in the apartment for hours, leaving a pain in my chest and a despearate need for a breath of clean, smoke-free air.

I have politely asked these girls a dozen times to move to another stoop if they want to smoke, but for some reason they can't break their routine. I went down today to ask them one more time. Four of them sat on the stoop. One of the girls, prettier and thinner than the rest and the clear ringleader, told me that what they did during the day was none of my business.

I told her that she was right. I could care less about what they did during the day and that if they didn't want to be in school that was fine by me. All I wanted them to do was to move to another stoop if they needed their cigarettes. "Smoke all you want," I said. "But could you please not do it below my window?"

"We're just minding our own business," said the ringleader. "What do you care?"

I tried to appeal to their better graces with a tiny white lie. After numerous attempts at courtesy, I felt I had earned one small fib. "I have asthma," I said, "and the smoke really makes it hard to breathe." Now, I do have asthma, but it is exercise-induced; I have to be exerting myself fairly hard to feel any shortness of breath.

The girls puffed away. I had probably never seemed so old to someone else as I did in that moment. "So what?" said the ringleader. "That's not our problem."

So I went upstairs. Instead of going back to work, I went into my kitchen where I filled a large plastic cup with water. I took it to my office, opened the window wide and flung the water outside. I couldn't see what happened, but the kids' yells told me my target had been hit. I heard them talking about their soaked socks, bags, sandwiches and other possessions. Who knew that one cup of water could cause such a deluge?

Of course they figured out I was the one who had soaked them and they were smart enough to figure out my apartment number. They rang my buzzer repeatedly. I ignored it. As I breathed in the still-smoke-filled air in my apartment I thought I should let them suffer for a few minutes. Not my most mature moment, I know, but it was satisfying nonetheless.

Finally, my guilt got the better of me and I decided to go down to talk to the girls and apologize. Sort of. "I'm sorry if you all got wet," I said, "but I was just minding my own business and watering some plants on my window sill. It must have spilled."

One of the girls yelled at me. "What are we supposed to do? We have to go back to school all wet!"

"So what?" I said. "That's not my problem."

The kicker to the whole thing is that I actually wound up feeling even more guilty after the girls walked back to school. I realized I hadn't taken one last step before resulting to my water-based activism. I was dissapointed in myself. Why hadn't I driven one more mile on the high road before taking the off-ramp to immature town?

I looked up the number of the high school and called the vice principal. She said she couldn't do very much about their smoking, but she has asked me to call the next time they are in the area because she "really wants to get them" for playing hooky.

For one of the best anti-smoking stories ever, read this account from Francis.

Posted by Doug at October 7, 2005 02:50 PM