Anyone growing up before the ’80s grew accustomed to tolerating smokers and cigarette smoke wherever they went.
From the time my parents crawled out of bed in the morning until turning in that night they smoked like chimneys. Inside the house, outside, in the car, in restaurants and in movie theaters, including the drive-in.
In fact, the only place I recall where people did not smoke was in church. However, on Sundays when driving up to Our Lady of Guadalupe, it often looked like the house of worship was on fire. Dozens of parishioners would be crowded around the entrance sucking in their last drag of nicotine before heading inside. After mass many had unlit cancer sticks hanging out of their mouth, prepared to fire up the instant they exited the holy place. One of the recurring effects of my parents’ addiction proved to be the intense yellowing of the inside white walls of my boyhood home. For most of my childhood and into high school, I dreaded the first week of summer vacation, knowing it meant sacrificing three to four treasured days of summer painting the smoke-stained interior of Whalon manor. I can’t remember the exact justification; however, it was always my mother and me doing the painting.
For some unjust reason my brother and dad never lifted a finger, or a brush, to assist in the exhausting yearly ritual. It did make me a fairly accomplished painter due to years of mandatory practice. My mother insisted that every wall and closet be painted bright, plain white. I believe it had something to do with the fact she was a registered nurse and in hospitals everything was white.
I often sarcastically asked my mother why not paint the house in tobacco-stained yellow. (I realized there was no such color, but I was an incurable wiseass). Then, I explained, we wouldn’t have to indulge in the painful painting process every year. She usually replied, “Peter, that’s just silly, yellow is for bananas!” although it made perfect sense to me. From an early age I distinctly recall having difficulty understanding why anyone in their right mind would want to inhale smoke into their body. I could barely breathe during those dreadful smoggy summer Los Angeles days we were infamously known for. I can honestly report to you that I have never smoked a cigarette in my entire life. If you’re too young to remember the glory days of unfettered smoking, rent a movie made in the ’40s, ’50s or ’60s. You’ll be viewing a society obsessed with smoking in every facet of life. I especially enjoy watching Cary Grant crushing out a butt on the floor of a department store or Lee Marvin flicking his half-smoked Marlboro into some punk’s face. Classic stuff indeed. Today, now that we have successfully demonized another small segment of society, those nasty smokers are forced to huddle in small packs like pariah outside respectable establishments or in the back yards of their own homes. These puffers are rightfully ashamed to show their faces and deathly afraid of being identified and branded with the scarlet letter–S! Who can we gleefully shun next? There has to be countless groups out there exhibiting habitual, anti-social behavior many of us don’t approve of. Maybe the always irritating gum chewers or those obnoxious sunflower seed munchers, or how ’bout those malicious junk food eaters.
Let’s systematically humiliate them and force the whole twisted mob into seclusion. Hey, maybe we could exile all members of these subversive factions to an island, much like the French Emperor Napoleon III did with Devil’s Island off the coast of French Guiana. How ’bout evacuating and using Catalina to house these reprobates? Wow, when I get revved up I really come up with some first-rate ideas. Actually, in my humble opinion, we should lay off the smokers and all other groups who are only harming themselves with their personal choices. And don’t start moaning about second-hand smoke—please. Keep the smokers outside, drunks out of their cars and overweight people off of airplanes (lighten up, I’m just kidding) and everybody will be just fine.
And if you are an old-school smoker longing for the days when you could leisurely smoke without some Dudley Do-Right do-gooder gettin’ in your face, I have some advice for you–go to Vegas where you can freely puff away almost anywhere. I believe there are even a few churches around town where you can light up while reciting the Lord’s Prayer or praying for a better run at the blackjack table.
