Mike’s Law
In 2003, Mayor Michael Bloomberg — himself a former smoker, ironically — announces a citywide ban, effective Sunday, March 30: any bar in New York’s five boroughs which continues to allow smoking will be fined for each infraction — and these fines will be not insubstantial.
The reaction is mixed: whereas a 1995 ban on smoking in restaurants (instituted by then-mayor Rudolph Giuliani) was greeted with only half-hearted protest, the argument’s now made that people who frequent bars willingly subject themselves to smoke, smokers, and any secondhand effects. Bloomberg counters that, while a bar’s patrons may embrace such risk, the same cannot be said of the bartenders, barbacks, waiters, and various other kitchen staff, whose work environment is made hazardous to their health. Bloomberg’s law is meant to shelter these employees — who, he implies, are paid peanuts for an unskilled labor, and shouldn’t be punished any further.
The prevailing response is, Man, you’re full of shit.
To which Bloomberg replies, Oh, yeah? Try and stop me.
The transition is relatively painless. On account of the mild weather, smokers are content to stand around outside — grumbling about “Mike’s Law” — and by the time seasons change, they’ve become accustomed to the new rules. Bars begin to supply street-side ashtrays; meanwhile, there’s a subsequent — though largely ignored — increase in noise complaints (leading a misguided City Hall to revisit the 1926 cabaret laws). When Bloomberg is elected to a second term in 2005, it’s by a margin of 20% — the largest ever for a Republican candidate in New York City; proving either that smokers have since abandoned their grudge, or else form a largely ineffectual constituency.
Back in March 2003, on the eve of the ban, some debate ensued as to whether a smoke-free environment would help or hinder bars’ profits. In the fiscal year to follow, city officials demonstrated an 8.7% increase in sales — while opponents of the smoking ban claimed this figure represented aggregated sales data, ignoring the plight of individual businesses. For example:
Located in Manhattan’s Greenwich Village — within shouting distance of Washington Square Park — is the Stoned Crow. When the smoking ban took effect, the Stoned Crow readily complied, greeting its regulars’ moans and groans with a shrug (and, perhaps, a few choice words for Mayor Mike). To the untrained eye, business wasn’t affected any: NYU students continued to feed the jukebox; grizzled locals continued to prop up the bar; and you could always find a game of pool in back. Perhaps the sidewalk became a little more congested, as a result of all the displaced bodies – but so it goes in the West Village: the streets are narrow, circuitous, and no one knows where they’re headed, anyway.
However, business did suffer. As a result of reduced patronage, the Stoned Crow could no longer afford a serviceable kitchen (which was a shame, since their French fries were without parallel). Rather, the bartenders now provided a comprehensive collection of menus upon request: whatever food a customer desired, there was no need to leave the bar — just phone it in. The street address was even printed across the front in bold, drunk-proof capitals.
Of course, this meant that the kitchen staff became expendable. (In truth, their salaries had represented much of the undue cost.) No doubt, the short-order cook found employment elsewhere: one simply cannot produce such exceptional French fries without being held in high demand. But the dishwasher — a genial fellow of indeterminate age, who kept to himself but otherwise seemed okay — could not expect such a soft landing. The very person (or model, at least) that Mayor Bloomberg had meant to protect was fired as a result of his smoking ban. The fact that the dishwasher, too, was a smoker, probably only added insult to injury.
Though he’d soon be forgotten, it was said — or understood — that the dishwasher was a veteran of some foreign war; but, because of his indeterminate age, it wasn’t immediately apparent which. In 2003, American troops were being freshly deployed to Iraq (from where, it seemed, they’d only just come), Vietnam existed in the national consciousness as a cautionary metaphor, and World War II was closer akin to Thermopylae than any lessons of the new millennium. He was, very simply, the veteran: veteran of past experience and past conflict — and that Bloomberg’s ban put him out on his ass didn’t register too greatly.
But did he stand on the corner of Washington Place — ousted from the Stoned Crow and considering his next move — and rail to the heavens, “It’s not fair!” That life’s not fair? The veteran knew better: life’s neither fair nor unfair — and, anyway, who said it was?
But, sometimes, one needs to be on the receiving-end of a little sympathy. So, no — life’s not fair. In fact, sometimes life sucks a big, fat dick.
