When I was a kid, seventeen or eighteen, my friends and I spent the summer at this one diner. We went to this particular diner because...er, because that's what you do over summers in New Jersey - you go to diners, drink coffee and smoke. Occasionally we'd go bowling - you can smoke in bowling alleys in Jersey, too. We loved the waitress, too, used to throw cigarettes in with our tips. After a while she started leaving things off of our bills. T'was a mutually beneficial relationship. She got canned at the end of the summer (I like to think for something other than being kind to a group of bored, lonely kids) and we never went back.
This one specific afternoon we're sitting there talking and smoking and we notice the woman in the booth across the aisle from us shooting us sidelong glances and grumbling to her husband. It wasn't the smoke that was bothering her, couldn't have been - the other half of the diner was non-smoking and completely empty - they could've camped out there if they had wanted some clean(er) air. Still. She didn't look happy and it was abundantly clear that this was somehow our fault.
Eventually she leaned over to me and said 'Excuse me, but how old are you?' I was going to answer truthfully (must've been eighteen, then) when my friend sitting across from me (little muscular punky guy. Little crazy. Looked dangerous in the right light. Oh, and seventeen, by the way) looked her straight in the eye and said 'Why?'
'Because my husband and I don't like seeing young people smoking. We smoke, but we feel it's improper in children.' I seethed at being called a child and managed to keep my mouth shut.
'...And?' He hadn't blinked yet.
She was flustered. Apparently she was one of those people who thought that her age gave her an automatic position of superiority when talking to teenagers. The fact that it took her all of thirty seconds to reveal herself as a hypocritical meddler didn't apparently make it into her head.
She had an idea. 'And I'd like to see your IDs, please.'
Pugs (the punk kid. Shortened form of his last name. Didn't find out till years later that he really hated it when I called him that. Whoops) still hadn't blinked. He paused for a bit then said, evenly, 'I'd like to see yours first.'
The light in her eyes fizzled. 'Excuse me?'
'You have no authority to ask us to see our IDs unless you're a properly designated law enforcement officer or if we're buying something with an age restriction. Added to which, it won't help - it's not illegal to smoke in New Jersey if you're under 18, it's illegal to buy cigarettes. Well, actually, it's illegal to sell cigarettes to a minor. But once we got 'em, there's nothing you can do.' He closed his eyes, slowly, and inhaled a massive quantity of smoke. He could've made it up, probably did, but it sure sounded good.
She sputtered for a bit before going to find the manager. He asked us to stop smoking and we said we were on our way out the door, just needed to get money together, etc. It seemed like the best solution - we were regulars and well paying customers who had just thrown down fifty bucks for a meal for four and they were respectable people getting coffee and pie. That way, he got to look stern, she got to feel effective and we got to stay right where we were for a bit longer. Long enough anyway for all four of us to simultaneously light up one last smoke as we settled the bill. Nicotine makes you telepathic, you know.