I rode a cab the other day that had a hand-drawn sign on the dashboard that said “No Smoking.”

Although I smoke, complying with the sign wasn’t a problem. I’m not the kind of smoker who makes a fuss about being deprived. If somebody doesn’t want me to smoke in his presence, I don’t.

After we had gone about a block, I said, ”Will you please turn off the noise?”

The cab driver, a shaggy-haired man in his 30s, looked in his mirror and said, “The what?”

”The noise.”

“You mean my radio?”

”Yes, the radio.”

”What’s wrong with it?” he said.

”It’s giving me a headache. The music is bad and there’s static. You ever hear of the problem of noise pollution? That’s noise pollution.”

He shook his head and turned it down.

“I can still hear it,” I said.

”You want a different station, some other kind of music?”

”No. I hate music. I haven’t liked any music since Spike Jones’ Band.”

He shook his head again but snapped the radio off. We rode in silence for less than a minute. when he said: ”You know, it’s a funny thing about music. Some people, they like—”

I interrupted. ”Say, no offense meant, but do you mind if we don’t talk?”

”You don’t want me to talk?” he said, sounding incredulous.

“Right.”

”All right,” he said, obviously offended. “Then I won’t talk.”

He probably thought I was rude or worse. Maybe you do, too. And maybe I sounded that way.

But just as he didn’t want to be exposed to my smoke, why should I be exposed to his lousy taste in music, his radio’s static and the sound of his voice?

Now, I have to admit that if the no-smoking sign hadn’t been there, I might have felt differently. I would have opened the window a couple of inches so the smoke could escape, had a cigarette and listened to his music or his views on life.

But now it’s my policy to meet intolerance with intolerance.

It began a while ago with one of two women at the next table in a restaurant. She was my first exposure to the anti-smoking crusaders.

I was having dinner with a pal. We hadn’t even ordered when she turned toward me and said very firmly, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t smoke.”

Before I could do anything but look surprised, she launched a California-style lecture. “Respecting the rights of others…menace to the environment…intruding on my space…”

Before she was finished, I had squashed my cigarette and said, “OK. OK.”

Because I’m a fair person, I could see her point.

About halfway through the meal, I turned toward her and said, “Excuse me, but could I tell you something?”

”Yes?” she said, glaring at me in anticipation of the request.

But I fooled her. I didn’t mention smoking at all. I just said: “I really don’t care about your neighbor’s medical problems. Or your job. Or your vacation plans. Would you lower your voices so your conversation doesn’t intrude on my space?”

She gave me a look of contempt and said: “Really. The tables here are so close that we’d have to whisper.”

”Try,” I said. “I’d appreciate it.”

But they didn’t. She said, loudly and clearly: “Oh he just thinks he’s being clever. Oh, he’s so” – and she dragged the word out – “so clevvvverr.” And they went on talking just as loudly.

That was it. War. I attacked on two fronts.

First, I told my friend a dirty joke. No, it wasn’t dirty, it was filthy. It had no swearing or gutter language. But a really good, filthy joke is even filthier if told in clinical terms.

It seemed only fair. If I had to hear about their neighbor’s intestinal malfunctions, why shouldn’t they hear my filthy jokes?

While I told the jokes, I took out my cigarettes and lighter and put them on the edge of the table.

When my last bite was gone, and the coffee cups filled, I picked up the cigarette package and sort of fondled it. I could see them watching.

Then I slowly slid out a cigarette and tapped it on the table. And tapped and tapped it. Then I put it between my lips. She was not only watching, she was starting to look homicidal.

I just kept it there for a minute. I took it out while I said something.

I pickled up the lighter. But I just held lighter and cigarette in my hands, as if distracted by conversation.

Finally, I snapped the lighter a couple times. She cracked under the pressure.

“Waiter,” she said. “Check.”

And they hadn’t even had coffee or dessert.

As they rose, she glared at me and said, “Do you know what you are?”

I smiled, put down the unlit cigarette and said: “Thanks to you, much healthier.”

So, you see, we can all coexist, if we just try.

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Mike Royko is a syndicated columnist for the Chicago Tribune.