There used to be a retirement community across the street from the high school I attended.  As you can probably imagine, teenaged slackers and overly antagonistic retirees did not get along.  Being the elderly, they are the ones that actually vote and have nothing to do all day but sit around and complain about the state of the world.  Teenagers would take any excuse to duck out of class and mill around in the parking lot smoking cigarettes.  Inevitably, the two sides clashed.  Often, the school got calls from the retirement community’s residents, complaining that there were students outside smoking and that those horrible fumes were infecting everyone at the home.  The dean would sigh and explain that he was aware of the smokers, but he wasn’t able to catch them and some of them were seniors and legally able to smoke.  Then the residents would call when they thought the students were driving too fast.  Most of the time, we were.  In fact, a few times, we even drag-raced each other.  Still, if the dean didn’t see it, there wasn’t much he could do but give us all a stern lecture.  Sometimes, he’d smirk though.  We had all seen those flames painted on the side of his hot rod, the one he drove to school every single day.  He also carried around a zippo lighter, though no one ever saw him smoke.