By Dean Maddox, Public Safety & Crime Reporter
I started smoking at fifteen. Thought it made me look like I gave less of a shit than I already did. Hanging around the back of the school, hoodie up, couple of punks with lighters and cheap smokes we bought off some guy with a neck tattoo. Back then it was about looking tough. Now? It’s just what keeps me from losing my mind.
I’m thirty-three and I still light up every day. Same brand, same routine. First thing in the morning, last thing before bed, and a whole lotta in between. My jacket smells like stale smoke. My teeth ain’t pretty. I drink black coffee all day and I don’t carry gum.
And I’m not quitting.
I know it’s bad. Save your lecture. I’ve been hearing about cancer since I was seventeen. I’m still here. Cigarettes didn’t ruin my life. The world tried first.
Now I’m watching this new wave come up—Gen Z glued to their vape pens and Zyns like it’s just candy or some harmless little buzz. Everything’s mint ice and mango haze, like if you make it fruity enough it stops being an addiction.
It’s not harmless. It’s just early.
Look—I ain’t judging. I get it. I was you once. Thought it was cool, thought I could stop. Hell, maybe I still could’ve back then. But time passes, the habit digs in, and now the idea of not smoking feels like a bigger problem than smoking.
If you’re still new to it—quit while you can. Seriously. Don’t let it become the thing you need every time the pressure builds up. Don’t wait until your hands start twitching in traffic and you’re pulling into some shitty gas station just to feel okay again.
But don’t get it twisted—I’m telling you this with a cigarette burning in the ashtray next to me. I ain’t your therapist. I’m not better than you. I’m just ahead of you on the road. And if I’m honest, I’m probably not turning around.
Couple weeks back I’m sitting outside a homicide scene in Modesto. Cold night. Cop lights bouncing off busted windows. I’m leaned on my truck, smoking, waiting for the coroner. Some teenager walks by, skinny kid, hoodie pulled low, dragging on some digital-looking vape.
Backpack said Brayden.
“Hey,” I said. “Brayden, that’s your name right? Come here a second.”
He looked at me like I was about to report him. I didn’t even move. Just pointed at the smoke he was breathing out.
“Look—I ain’t here to preach. I’m not the guy you want advice from. I’ve got more regrets than clean shirts. But that thing you’re puffin’? It ain’t as harmless as it looks. They haven’t figured out how bad it is yet. That’s the part that scares me. When I was your age, I probably still had time to quit. You still do. Don’t waste it.”
Then I let him walk. Didn’t tell him to throw it away. Didn’t expect him to. That’s not how this works. You don’t quit ‘cause someone tells you to. You quit when you’re ready. Or you don’t.
Now let’s talk about this state.
California’s always got a new ban. New tax. New fine. Now they’re going after filtered cigarettes. Santa Cruz straight-up banned the sale of ‘em. Not the use. Not where you smoke ‘em. You can’t even walk into a store and buy a regular filtered cigarette in the entire damn city.
That’s not public health. That’s control.
You can do heroin on a public bench and someone’ll give you a clean needle and a hug. But you light up a Winston outside a diner and it’s like you kicked somebody’s dog.
They tax the hell outta us smokers—close to three bucks a pack just in state taxes, plus sales tax on top of that—then act shocked when people get pissed off. A pack costs damn near eleven dollars now. That ain’t a price, that’s a punishment.
I smoke outside. I don’t blow it in kids’ faces. But if I can’t walk down the street without getting a ticket while the guy across the sidewalk’s got fentanyl in his blood and a public defender on speed dial… something’s backwards.
And don’t give me that look either. You think just ‘cause you don’t smoke you’re better than me? You’re not. You probably lie to your wife. Probably cheat on your taxes. Probably drink too much boxed wine and call it self-care.
We all got our shit. Mine just happens to come with a lighter.
So yeah. I’m a smoker. I’ve buried friends who drank too much, friends who drove high, friends who pretended they were fine until they weren’t. I made it this far with a lighter in one hand and a job to do in the other. That’s not perfect. That’s just life.
So don’t tell me how to live unless you’re willin’ to sit in the same ash, pay the same taxes, and fight the same bullshit every day. I didn’t ask to be your role model. I just want five minutes of quiet, a cigarette, and a little fuckin’ honesty.
That too much to ask?
Dean Maddox
Knows every badge, beat, and scandal in town. Writes like a detective, drinks like a suspect. When the truth gets messy, Dean gets to work.
