It's amazing to me that young people will still pick up a

Quote: “It’s amazing to me that young people will still pick up a cigarette.”
Author: Loni Anderson

Host: The neon lights of the city bled through the rain-smeared window of a late-night diner. The clock above the counter ticked with a slow, tired rhythm, and the air was thick with the smell of fried onions, coffee, and the faint ghost of tobacco that lingered despite the No Smoking sign. Jack sat in the corner booth, his fingers absently rolling a cigarette he wasn’t supposed to light, while Jeeny stirred her tea, watching him with quiet disbelief.

Host: Outside, the rain pattered on the pavement, mirroring the steady thump of passing cars. The world seemed hushed, as though listening — to their silence, to their shared fatigue, to the question that hovered unspoken.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny, Jack? Loni Anderson once said, ‘It’s amazing to me that young people will still pick up a cigarette.’ And here you are, proving her right.”

Jack: (smirking as he turns the cigarette in his hand) “Amazing, huh? I’d say it’s just human nature — repetition of stupidity. The heart craves what the mind despises.”

Jeeny: “That’s not nature, Jack. That’s addiction. That’s the slowest form of surrender.”

Jack: (lighting the cigarette despite the sign) “Or maybe it’s defiance. Maybe lighting this is the last rebellion I have left.”

Host: The flame flared, then settled, its light reflecting in his grey eyes. The first curl of smoke rose like a question mark, vanishing into the ceiling fan’s lazy spin. Jeeny’s nose wrinkled, but her eyes softened, not in disgust — in sorrow.

Jeeny: “Defiance? You think inhaling poison is rebellion? The tobacco companies would love to hear that. They built their empires on people mistaking destruction for freedom.”

Jack: (exhaling slowly) “Freedom always costs something. You pay with your lungs, I pay with mine. You call it destruction, I call it ownership — over myself, my choices.”

Jeeny: “Ownership? No, Jack. It’s dependence dressed up as choice. You think it’s power because it burns in your hand, but it’s the cigarette that’s owning you.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled with quiet intensity, her fingers tightening around her cup until the porcelain creaked. Jack smiled faintly, blowing smoke toward the ceiling, the light catching the swirls like tiny galaxies collapsing.

Jack: “You talk like cigarettes are the world’s biggest sin. Come on, Jeeny. Look around — people destroy themselves every day. Overwork. Drink. Love. It’s all the same impulse — to feel something sharp enough to remind us we’re alive.”

Jeeny: “But not all wounds make us more human, Jack. Some just make us hollow.”

Jack: (leaning forward, voice low) “You ever think maybe people smoke because they are hollow? Because silence is unbearable without something burning?”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming against the glass like heartbeats. A neon sign outside blinked “OPEN 24 HOURS,” each flicker casting a pale blue light on their faces — one soft, one hardened.

Jeeny: “Then you fill the silence with something real. Art. Music. Conversation. You don’t drown it in smoke.”

Jack: “You think it’s that easy? You think you can talk depression out of people? There’s a reason Kurt Cobain smoked until the end — sometimes the world’s too heavy for fresh air.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “And he’s gone, Jack. He’s gone because pain and addiction don’t make poetry. They make graves.”

Host: A beat of silence. Jack’s hand froze halfway to his lips. The ash at the end of the cigarette trembled, then fell, leaving a small, gray scar on the tabletop.

Jack: “You always bring up death like it’s the final word. But maybe it’s just another part of the bargain. Every joy has a toll.”

Jeeny: “And every toll can be refused. You don’t have to light the fuse just because life feels dim. You can learn to love the dark until dawn comes.”

Jack: (half-laughing, half-bitter) “You sound like a preacher.”

Jeeny: “No, just someone who’s watched too many people disappear under smoke. My father died coughing himself into silence. He started when he was sixteen — said it made him look grown. You know what it made him? A ghost before fifty.”

Host: Her voice cracked, and Jack’s eyes lifted — the kind of look a man gives when he realizes a truth just hit home. The rain slowed, and the diners’ chatter returned — low, muffled, almost kind.

Jack: “I’m sorry, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Don’t be sorry. Just understand. When I see you light one, I see him. That same lie — that control and chaos are the same thing.”

Jack: (putting out the cigarette) “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I just miss the illusion of control.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to stop mistaking self-destruction for strength.”

Host: The smoke curled upward, fading, until the air grew clear again. The window fogged, and Jeeny traced a small circle in the glass, looking out at the empty street, her reflection beside his.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? When I was a kid, smoking looked… cinematic. Every hero in every movie had a cigarette — Bogart, Dean, Pacino. It was like the smoke meant mystery, power, control.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s how they sold it. They made poison look poetic. It wasn’t rebellion — it was marketing.”

Jack: (chuckling) “So, rebellion was just good advertising.”

Jeeny: “The best kind. The kind that makes you kill yourself slowly and thank the company for the privilege.”

Host: Jeeny’s words hung in the air, heavy as truth, light as smoke. Jack’s fingers tapped the table, restless, nervous, like a man who’d just seen through his own disguise.

Jack: “You know, I’ve tried to quit before. Once, I made it six months. I remember the first day without it — everything felt too quiet. Too raw. Like I’d lost my best enemy.”

Jeeny: “That’s what healing feels like, Jack. Empty at first. Then real.”

Jack: “Empty… yeah. Maybe that’s what scares people. The moment before you start breathing clean again.”

Jeeny: “That’s the moment where life starts to come back.”

Host: A server passed by, refilling cups, the steam rising like ghosts. The diners’ jukebox clicked to life — an old Elvis song, low and wistful: “Are You Lonesome Tonight.” The note seemed to hang, perfectly timed, perfectly human.

Jack: “You really think people can change? Even after years of habit, of self-sabotage?”

Jeeny: “People change every day. They just forget to notice it. A single breath of clean air can be the start of a new life — if you let it.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But it’s possible. And that’s enough.”

Host: The rain stopped at last, leaving tiny rivers on the window reflecting the streetlights. Jack looked at the cigarette, then crushed it — slowly, deliberately — like a man burying a part of himself.

Jack: “Maybe Loni Anderson was right. It is amazing. Not that young people still smoke — but that some of us still think it makes us more alive.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And maybe the real rebellion, Jack… is learning how to live without needing to burn.”

Host: The camera pulls back. The diner lights hum, the neon flickers, the world feels almost gentle. Jack takes a deep breath, exhales, and for the first time in years, there’s no smoke — only air, warm, human, forgiving.

Host: Outside, a streetlamp flickers, then glows steady, reflecting in a puddle where a single cigarette butt floats — motionless, spent, done.