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Now, there you go again, Irked, stumbling all over that "forced" thingie. The owner of a restuarant who allows his patrons to smoke in his establishment does not wait for you or others to pass by, put a gun to your head, force you into his restuarant where you begin inhaling hefty amounts of tobacco smoke...nor does he block you from leaving whenever you please (assuming you paid any bill you may have generated), or stop you from going to a smoker-free restuarant down the street...No, he accepts that you are free to not engage in a voluntary exchange of goods and services with him -- for whatever reason. Should you not also conduct yourself accordingly?
About once a week I go the long block over to Pop's Place and get burgers and fries for our evening meal. Pop's is a classic Texas beer joint with a decent kitchen attached. All of the employees smoke, and Stan the cook smokes like a stove when he is not actually in the kitchen cooking. Probably ninety percent of the customers do as well, and there is a reasonably sized no-smoking area at the far end equipped with a positvie air blower.
I'll belly up to the bar if there's an open place and in a minute or two Jane or Shawna or Tracie will come and take my order. The smoke is thick and it makes my eyes water, but the food is worth the wait and I probably won't die from Feldspar's disease before the order is filled. Next to me is David, a guy in the "awl bidness" who is worth about 40 megabucks on the hoof; he doesn't smoke either, but five days out of six he'll ride his Harley the mile from his very large home and take a seat at the bar. Down the line about six seats is Donnie, who smokes and drinks far too much, who looks as if he could play back-up banjo in
Deliverance, who shoots a fine game of 8-ball, and who is overwhelmed by the fact that his mother is being remorselessly consumed by breast cancer. There are others, all with a drink in one hand and most with a cigaret in the other. They are all here because they want to be; no one forced them to come in and get smoke cured.
While I'm waiting, others will drift in or out of Pop's; some, like me, for carry-out orders, others will find a table or friends and settle in for a spell. An older man and woman - probably "snowbirds" from the way they dress - walk in and halt in the blue-gray cloud and assess the odds of their surviving the evening. She speaks first, confirming their alien status in that nasal accent peculiar to Californians, saying "My God! Jack, lets find a place that isn't on fire!" They turn and leave, drawing little attention and less animosity.
My order will take ten minutes to prepare, so I get a beer, exchange greetings with David and Donnie, and nod to others I know slightly. The smoke and the noise continue, mingling with the cooking odors from the kitchen. It takes twelve minutes to finish today, and I'll get my Big Tree cheeseburger - a third of a pound of ground round, cooked until the pink just vanishes - and my order of skin-on french fries - cooked in a combination of animal fat and partially-hydrogenated vegetable oil.
I pay my tab and leave, having come in purely by choice. I could have gone to the Jersey Grill - a new "code" place a mile away but lacking the vulgar ambience of Pop's - or to Lanny's Turtle Bay Pub - two miles up the road but with an inferior kitchen - or across the Copano Bay bridge to town where I'd have my choice of dozens of places - some with absolutely no smoking, and some with seperate areas.
Where I went was purely my choice, and I never felt the need to force Pop's to conform to my standards; I have plenty of choices, and I feel no need to try and run the world according to my peculiar genius.
