People Who Throw Lit Cigarettes on the Ground

As the breakdown of civil society marches on, little courtesies become more precious. Eye contact between clerk and customer. Holding the door. You wave someone through the intersection even though you were there first, and they nod and smile. Some people make the effort and it makes all the difference. And then there are those who, when they've had all they want of a cigarette, toss the thing aside as if it were a gum wrapper and not a burning ember of destruction. There could be an oil-soaked rag or a newspaper in that gutter! What if somebody's working in that storm sewer, or there's a bomb with a dry fuse down there? And you know how curious little kids can be, their wandering fingers so easily seared. The point is, you can't know what will become of that flying fire seed. It doesn't seem like a very community-minded thing to do, does it?

Since the time of Prometheus, the domestication of fire has been one of mankind's signal accomplishments. It's much of what separates us from the apes; still, our command is tenuous and provisional, as yearly western infernos remind us. It's part of the allure of smoking — to wield a little fire in your hand, enslave it to your pleasure even as you are enslaved to its fumes. Then — what, you just throw it on the ground and walk away?

In the early 20th century, when cigarettes finally surpassed cigars as the tobacco product of choice, a well-accessorized smoker carried a portable ashtray alongside his engraved lighter, tortoiseshell cigarette case and hip flask. They're kind of neat; some even have a little butt-rest that folds out. Many antique shops deal in them, and you can usually find a few on eBay. At the other end of the spectrum, attendees at Burning Man are encouraged to carry an Altoids tin to serve the same purpose in the receptacle-poor desert. It works well, as long as you don't hold it flat in your hand when you're putting one out and burn your palm through the thin metal.

But judging from the volume of crushed coffee cups, candy wrappers and bodega bags choking our gutters and roadsides, people carrying around their crushed butts might be too much to hope for. It's easy to imagine the response ... "Are you fuckin' nuts?" And before you know it, he's ground out his smoke on your cheek. Ouch!

Smokers are so touchy these days. There's something Michigan Militia about them, huddling together outside the Citibank building in the chilly December wind, glaring hatefully at the community that has so marginalized them. They gather in smoke-easies, provided with ersatz ashtrays (shot glasses, votive holders, the old reliable Altoids tin) by bartender co-conspirators. Interrupted by the arrival of a pregnant woman or — of all things — a stroller, they grumble and cast sidelong glances, another sanctuary profaned.

One by one, they've seen their great cities fall — San Francisco, New York, even Dublin, all turned over to the hand-wavers and little-coughers. Now there's talk of banning butts from beaches and parks — "Have you no sense of humanity? We used to be the cool people, and now we can't even smoke at a sidewalk café!" Their indignation is genuine, their defiance instinctive.

And so the caramel-stained filters fall, tan and white, lipsticked and slobbered. Fine then. But could the rest of the block ask just one little favor? Could you step on the damn thing as you go?

— J. Daniel Janzen (jdaniel at flakmag dot com)

— graphic by Derek Evernden (derek@ocellus.net)