As I was heading out this afternoon, I saw that a notice had been posted on the lobby floor by the elevators. I could tell, from the thick blocks of verbiage, that it was a new notice, not the one advising tenants about HVAC filter changes from two weeks ago.

Now what.

Now hear this: no more smoking anywhere in this building. Not in tenants’ apartments, not on tenants’ balconies — nowhere. Public or private, no smoking. As of 1 June. (Which is not a lot of notice, when you consider the matter.) Needless to say, no smoking in the driveway. Nowhere “on the property.” 

I don’t smoke; I gave it up in 1983. Kathleen doesn’t smoke, not even once in a while, as she used to do. But we have a friend, a man who comes to dinner now and then, who will have to be told that slipping out onto the balcony for a Chesterfield is no longer permitted. 

The prohibition is being touted as a health measure, but it will presently appear as a term, presumably non-negotiable, in the leases, putting it on the level of “no pets.” No need, that is, for the building to defend the ruling. 

Ray Soleil, who was with me, shrugged and said, “That’s the way to take care of legalized pot.” I suppose he has a point — a slightly cynical, baby-with-the-bathwater point. But it would never occur to me to smoke marijuana. So wasteful! I always bake it into something. Or I used to do. I haven’t even seen the stuff in years. 

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