Growing up in California in the 1980s and 90s, there was really only one message regarding smoking: “Don’t.” This was true to some degree for people our age everywhere, but it wasn’t just lip service here. The local mall removed its interior ashtrays sometime around 1990, and in 1995 the Golden State—or the “Golden Nanny State,” to Nelson—was the first to ban the question, “Smoking or non?” But my memory that conforms most vividly to Nelson’s sneering jab comes from fifth grade. My friend Paul rolled in one morning at 7:55 AM with two stylish new pencil boxes that all the other boys immediately coveted. One featured Joe Camel, sporting a leather jacket and his eponymous stick between his lips, playing pool with a buxom camelette looking on. The other simply bore the iconic label from a pack of Camel cigarettes. Predictably, they were confiscated by 8:15.
Paul’s folks owned a mom-and-pop convenience store in Anaheim, so the pencil boxes weren’t some kind of rebellious statement; they were a free—and cool, admittedly—way to keep his shit out of everyone else’s grubby hands. At the time, we thought Paul had the coolest life ever because he was going to get a Mortal Kombat cabinet in his room once the sequel came out. When I look back, though, all I can think about is how hard his parents must have been busting their asses, given my own experiences at the 24-Mart. And when I think specifically about that morning’s experience, what’s clear is that tobacco was almost certainly responsible for the family’s well-being. Cigarettes and other tobacco goods remain, far and away, the most-sold product at convenience stores.
This was celebrated in the past, apparently. According to my mom, even the nuns teaching Catholic school encouraged their students to visit the local liquor store to ask for a free pencil box, courtesy of Philip Morris or R.J. Reynolds. A generation later, to us, this would have been unthinkable.
Nelson and I, upon arriving at private colleges—the first private school experience for either of us—found it incredibly odd to meet people our age, from other parts of the country, for whom smoking was not so taboo. Hell, even people from New York City--especially people from New York City—seemed so casual and open about smoking cigarettes. That seemed weird to me. A huge part of the anti-smoking propaganda of the era was portraying smoking as the vice of the deplorables, for lack of a term that existed in 2003. I’ll never forget a poster in my chemistry teacher’s classroom declaring, “SMOKING IS VERY DEBONAIR,” juxtaposed with pictures of poor white people smoking cigarettes and not looking their best. I liked that teacher, and he died of lung cancer years later, in an unfortunate irony of the universe’s probabilistic ways.
There are many reasons this campaign is bullshit, first and foremost that humans in general aren’t very good at discounting—delaying gratification today for something even better tomorrow. Teenagers especially suffer from this problem, since most believe they will not die. But almost as good a reason is that it only takes one shift at a 24-Mart to learn that adults of all persuasions smoke tobacco. This has been true since the Columbian Exchange—which, for what it’s worth, introduced not only tobacco to the old world but also cannabis to the new world—and it will continue to be true until the freaks in Silicon Valley inevitably enslave us and force all cigarette smokers, cigar aficionados, and lip-packers to switch to Juul.
24-Mart clerks share an intimate relationship with the morning smokers, albeit a weird one. Just like baristas, we greet semi-humans at the same time every day, providing them with what they need to exist through another day on Earth. As untouchable purveyors of stimulants, clerks and baristas see their junkies in states few outside their families do. Baristas at least know their regulars’ names—even if they can’t properly spell them—while the 24-Mart brigade is lucky to notice a name in passing on a quickly swiped debit card. Even so, a good clerk should be able to reach for a morning regular’s regular before any exchange of words.
As one might expect, the morning regulars don’t stray far outside the mainstream. Marlboro Lights are the top-selling pack on the market overall, but they absolutely dominate the morning demographic. A few of the gentlemen who fancy themselves more rugged opt for Reds, those with a repressed rebellious streak go with Camels, and a spate of fools who think you can chain smoke Ultra Lights without consequence usually buy Marlboro’s version. A Winston smoker here and there, a handful of menthol smokers, but you’ll rarely need to venture to the back shelf between the hours of 6 and 10 AM. These are respectable people who smoke cigarettes that carry few stereotypes, outside of the general social baggage that comes with smoking in California.
The other hours are another matter. Yes, the bulk of your customers will stick with the major Morris and Reynolds brands. But some different demographics emerge. First, hipsters don’t usually wake up (or at least get into hipster mode) until afternoon. It is very unlikely that you will sell a pack of American Spirit—no additives, and made by Native Americans!—until 2 on any given day (if at all in Orange County). You will likely sell a good deal of American Spirit later in the evening on the weekend to young folks who will sneer at the beer selection because your boss does not stock Pabst Blue Ribbon. You will also sell Lucky Strike and forties of malt liquor to their poorer friends.
You will sell a lot of menthol cigarettes to black folks. Per capita, black smokers buy ten times as many menthol cigarettes as their white brethren of the leaf. Newport dominates this market. Kool has its place too, although according to my experience, the brand’s loyalists also comprised old white dudes whose voices were permanently lost decades ago. Why the voice loss? Because the menthol flavoring opens up the lungs, allowing more of the (good and) bad stuff inside the cigarette to permeate the human cavity. That black folks systematically smoke menthol cigarettes must be purely random and not due to any kind of systematic advertising on the part of white, Southern tobacco executives, right? Just like why you’ll only ever sell Virginia Slims to women? And Kent Pauls, by the carton, to the centenarian who’s actually heard of the brand? And flavored cigarettes, since banned, to 18-year-olds (and hopefully not minors with fake IDs)?
And, finally, for what it’s worth, you will only ever sell that pack of Benson and Hedges when a 90-year-old Asian woman in a 30-year-old Buick rolls up into your parking lot, precarious millimeters from your Prelude, and demands three Quick Picks and said 5-inch cigarettes. Don’t worry, it’s all part of the initiation.
“Ay mijo, the rush is over and Nelson just showed up. Wanna take a break?”
I looked down from the rack I’d been restocking. Esme was standing there with a pack of Marlboro Lights she’d pulled from the cabinet.
“Uh, sure,” I said. “I didn’t realize I’d been here four hours.”
“That’s what happens!” she said. “Now ring me up! I want to go smoke.”
“Okay, okay, patience!” I teased. I rang her up for her cigarettes and followed her out the back. It was still surprisingly cold—the marine layer hadn’t yet burned off—and I crouched behind the store to try to enjoy my ten Ron-free minutes in relative warmth. Esme seemed immune to the chill, despite her short sleeves, as she dragged away on her stick.
“I don’t mean this in any bad way, just out of curiosity. Why do you smoke?” I asked.
“I dunno,” she started. “It takes my mind off stuff, gives me something to do.” She paused, then laughed. “Really, it gives me a good reason to take a break.”
I laughed, then said, “Be right back.” I moved purposely back into the store and up to the register, where Nelson was transferring the morning’s cash into the safe.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on break?” he asked.
I froze. I knew generally what I wanted, but the options suddenly seemed limitless. In an instant, I had to make a decision that would define my identity. I thought of all the cliques, all the stereotypes I could conjure, and stepped to the register.
“Hey Nelson,” I said, slapping five dollars onto the counter. “Pack of Djarum Browns.”
Paul’s folks owned a mom-and-pop convenience store in Anaheim, so the pencil boxes weren’t some kind of rebellious statement; they were a free—and cool, admittedly—way to keep his shit out of everyone else’s grubby hands. At the time, we thought Paul had the coolest life ever because he was going to get a Mortal Kombat cabinet in his room once the sequel came out. When I look back, though, all I can think about is how hard his parents must have been busting their asses, given my own experiences at the 24-Mart. And when I think specifically about that morning’s experience, what’s clear is that tobacco was almost certainly responsible for the family’s well-being. Cigarettes and other tobacco goods remain, far and away, the most-sold product at convenience stores.
This was celebrated in the past, apparently. According to my mom, even the nuns teaching Catholic school encouraged their students to visit the local liquor store to ask for a free pencil box, courtesy of Philip Morris or R.J. Reynolds. A generation later, to us, this would have been unthinkable.
Nelson and I, upon arriving at private colleges—the first private school experience for either of us—found it incredibly odd to meet people our age, from other parts of the country, for whom smoking was not so taboo. Hell, even people from New York City--especially people from New York City—seemed so casual and open about smoking cigarettes. That seemed weird to me. A huge part of the anti-smoking propaganda of the era was portraying smoking as the vice of the deplorables, for lack of a term that existed in 2003. I’ll never forget a poster in my chemistry teacher’s classroom declaring, “SMOKING IS VERY DEBONAIR,” juxtaposed with pictures of poor white people smoking cigarettes and not looking their best. I liked that teacher, and he died of lung cancer years later, in an unfortunate irony of the universe’s probabilistic ways.
There are many reasons this campaign is bullshit, first and foremost that humans in general aren’t very good at discounting—delaying gratification today for something even better tomorrow. Teenagers especially suffer from this problem, since most believe they will not die. But almost as good a reason is that it only takes one shift at a 24-Mart to learn that adults of all persuasions smoke tobacco. This has been true since the Columbian Exchange—which, for what it’s worth, introduced not only tobacco to the old world but also cannabis to the new world—and it will continue to be true until the freaks in Silicon Valley inevitably enslave us and force all cigarette smokers, cigar aficionados, and lip-packers to switch to Juul.
24-Mart clerks share an intimate relationship with the morning smokers, albeit a weird one. Just like baristas, we greet semi-humans at the same time every day, providing them with what they need to exist through another day on Earth. As untouchable purveyors of stimulants, clerks and baristas see their junkies in states few outside their families do. Baristas at least know their regulars’ names—even if they can’t properly spell them—while the 24-Mart brigade is lucky to notice a name in passing on a quickly swiped debit card. Even so, a good clerk should be able to reach for a morning regular’s regular before any exchange of words.
As one might expect, the morning regulars don’t stray far outside the mainstream. Marlboro Lights are the top-selling pack on the market overall, but they absolutely dominate the morning demographic. A few of the gentlemen who fancy themselves more rugged opt for Reds, those with a repressed rebellious streak go with Camels, and a spate of fools who think you can chain smoke Ultra Lights without consequence usually buy Marlboro’s version. A Winston smoker here and there, a handful of menthol smokers, but you’ll rarely need to venture to the back shelf between the hours of 6 and 10 AM. These are respectable people who smoke cigarettes that carry few stereotypes, outside of the general social baggage that comes with smoking in California.
The other hours are another matter. Yes, the bulk of your customers will stick with the major Morris and Reynolds brands. But some different demographics emerge. First, hipsters don’t usually wake up (or at least get into hipster mode) until afternoon. It is very unlikely that you will sell a pack of American Spirit—no additives, and made by Native Americans!—until 2 on any given day (if at all in Orange County). You will likely sell a good deal of American Spirit later in the evening on the weekend to young folks who will sneer at the beer selection because your boss does not stock Pabst Blue Ribbon. You will also sell Lucky Strike and forties of malt liquor to their poorer friends.
You will sell a lot of menthol cigarettes to black folks. Per capita, black smokers buy ten times as many menthol cigarettes as their white brethren of the leaf. Newport dominates this market. Kool has its place too, although according to my experience, the brand’s loyalists also comprised old white dudes whose voices were permanently lost decades ago. Why the voice loss? Because the menthol flavoring opens up the lungs, allowing more of the (good and) bad stuff inside the cigarette to permeate the human cavity. That black folks systematically smoke menthol cigarettes must be purely random and not due to any kind of systematic advertising on the part of white, Southern tobacco executives, right? Just like why you’ll only ever sell Virginia Slims to women? And Kent Pauls, by the carton, to the centenarian who’s actually heard of the brand? And flavored cigarettes, since banned, to 18-year-olds (and hopefully not minors with fake IDs)?
And, finally, for what it’s worth, you will only ever sell that pack of Benson and Hedges when a 90-year-old Asian woman in a 30-year-old Buick rolls up into your parking lot, precarious millimeters from your Prelude, and demands three Quick Picks and said 5-inch cigarettes. Don’t worry, it’s all part of the initiation.
“Ay mijo, the rush is over and Nelson just showed up. Wanna take a break?”
I looked down from the rack I’d been restocking. Esme was standing there with a pack of Marlboro Lights she’d pulled from the cabinet.
“Uh, sure,” I said. “I didn’t realize I’d been here four hours.”
“That’s what happens!” she said. “Now ring me up! I want to go smoke.”
“Okay, okay, patience!” I teased. I rang her up for her cigarettes and followed her out the back. It was still surprisingly cold—the marine layer hadn’t yet burned off—and I crouched behind the store to try to enjoy my ten Ron-free minutes in relative warmth. Esme seemed immune to the chill, despite her short sleeves, as she dragged away on her stick.
“I don’t mean this in any bad way, just out of curiosity. Why do you smoke?” I asked.
“I dunno,” she started. “It takes my mind off stuff, gives me something to do.” She paused, then laughed. “Really, it gives me a good reason to take a break.”
I laughed, then said, “Be right back.” I moved purposely back into the store and up to the register, where Nelson was transferring the morning’s cash into the safe.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on break?” he asked.
I froze. I knew generally what I wanted, but the options suddenly seemed limitless. In an instant, I had to make a decision that would define my identity. I thought of all the cliques, all the stereotypes I could conjure, and stepped to the register.
“Hey Nelson,” I said, slapping five dollars onto the counter. “Pack of Djarum Browns.”
