OLYMPIA, Wash. — Tavern owner Frankie Schnarr takes a long draw from his bottle of Coors Light and scans his sports bar, listening to billiard balls rattle and a pinball machine explode with points.

Suddenly, there's that smell: musky-sweet, skunky yet somehow pleasing, an odor traditionally fraught with illegality.

Three men in jeans and sleeveless shirts shooting pool nearby fire up a small purple pipe packed with pot. They inhale deeply between shots, laughing, passing the bowl, mellowing their buzz with an occasional swig of beer.

Marijuana. Being brazenly smoked in public, right there under the bar owner's nose.

Schnarr smiles.

"You get used to the smell — it's like the mold at your Mom's house," he says, motioning for another Coors. "It's strange at first, but later you realize, 'Oh, that's what that is.' Some people walk in here these days and go, 'Oh, wow.' But most walk in and say: 'Oh, wow. This is cool!'"

At Frankie's Sports Bar and Grill, firing up a "fatty" or a "blunt" is not only condoned, it's welcomed. Last fall, Washington state legalized recreational marijuana use, allowing people to smoke the drug in private, but not in public places such as bars. Schnarr, 63, has found a way around that: He's using a space in his bar he says is private, not public.

Now the second floor of his sports bar — a mammoth room with TVs, card tables, 10 pool tables, four shuffleboard tables and rows of booths — is the only pub in the state to allow the practice. It's a rarefied realm where patrons burn joints and bowls of greenish weed in a free-for-all fashion that's still unknown in most of law-abiding America.

As state officials scramble to change the law and put a stop to Schnarr's reefer madness, patrons like Jason Southwick can't believe their good fortune.

The 32-year-old unemployed landscaper takes a bud of pot from a plastic medicine vial, packs his pipe and breathes in for a prolonged moment. His friends list ways stoners and boozers handle their buzzes differently: Pot smokers don't start fights and don't run people over at crosswalks.

"We're more chill," one woman says.

Southwick tries to blow a smoke ring, but coughs instead, his breath acrid, eyes inflamed. His friends smirk: He's broken an unwritten rule, greedily sucking in so much smoke that his lungs rebel.

He gazes up at a slow-turning ceiling fan for a prolonged moment. "Wow, man, that is strong," he says. He walks underneath, staring quizzically. "Have you ever seen anything like this? Dude, I've never felt so much wind in my life."

No one is listening.

Except Schnarr: Pot smokers like Southwick have translated into brisk business.

"These stoners are polite people," he said. "I haven't heard as much 'Yes, sir' and 'No, sir' in my 25 years in the bar business. And they spend money. After they start smoking, they may not drink as much. But they sure do eat."


Schnarr is a rebel with a for-profit cause.

"He likes to push the envelope," said his lawyer, Shawn Newman. "He's a risk-taker, a fighter. He'll take you on."

He's taken on the state of Washington on two occasions, both times challenging edicts on what he can and cannot do inside his business.