“Just drop me off at the dispensary.”

Take the job. Drive for fun and profit. You love to drive. Why the hell not? It won’t ever be crazy. You won’t be asked strange, weird things. It’ll be fine and normal. You live in a small town. You are far enough from Los Angeles unless you drive to LAX. Then all bets are off.

Driving for Traxx was supposed to be a part-time gig. It was supposed to be. And the company expressed to me the need for privacy and security for their passengers. I never expected a high-profile client, easily recognizable in Hollywood, to ask me to drop them off at Green Day Life, the medicinal marijuana clinic on the outskirts of San Dimas.

“Pardon me?” To say I was shocked would be the understatement of the day. The last thing I expected was a well-known celebrity to ask me to take them to a marijuana clinic. Sorry. I guess the correct term nowadays is a dispensary, isn’t it?

A homeless person in my car? No, I wouldn’t allow that. What makes you think, or the company for that matter, that I would take someone to a place that sells a legal mind-altering substance? And before you ask, yes, I’ve dropped people off at establishments that sell liquor, beer, and THC or CBD drinks.

“Um, I can’t do that.” I pulled the Prius off to the side of the 210, waiting for her to give me a new spot to drop her off. “I can’t be on the property.”

She tilted her sunglasses down so I could see her eyes. “What? She hissed. “Do you know who I am?” She ripped the sunglasses off her face, grabbed the back of my headrest, and whispered, “Listen here, my minimum-wage friend. I don’t know if you’ve ever met a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but would you like to see one? I’ve got more money than you will see in your lifetime, and no one and I do mean no one, tells me no. Tell me ‘no’ one more time, and you’ll see what a crazy bitch I can be. Not that you’ve never heard the rumors in the tabloids, have you?” Picking her Dior sunglasses from the back seat floorboard and pushing them up on her nose, she asked calmly, “Now then. Can we go?”

“Yes. But I can’t go on the property.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that!” she shouted, rapidly tapping her phone. “Yes, it’s me. No, I’m leaving San Dimas and heading your way. Yes. I’ll be there in, what?” She tapped me on the shoulder, “How long until we get to the dispensary?”

“I’m not taking you to . . .”

She blew up. “This clown won’t drive his car to Green Day! Something about not being on the property!” The backseat grew quiet. “No. I hadn’t thought about that.” Her face went white. “Not uh! Felons can’t go the property?” She looked at me again, this time panicked. “A convicted felon? Driving me around?” She ended the call. “So, about the dispensary?”

“I can’t take you there.”

“You want to tell me why not?” I started driving toward the dispensary, knowing I couldn’t be seen with a thousand feet of it. If one San Dimas cop sniffed around and caught me? I’d be going back to prison for a very long time. Judge Fernadez promised he’d do it.  

“I got a conviction six years ago. Trafficking with intent to distribute a controlled substance.”

“How long were you in prison?”

“A while,” I replied. It’s been a little over two years since I was released by Judge Fernandez. His parting words to me were, ‘Do not step foot anywhere close to a location that sells or distributes marijuana. Am I clear?’

“I’ve never come within a thousand feet of a place like that, and I won’t. I am not going back. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

Her face was crimson red, embarrassed she asked me to take her there. Or at least that’s what I thought.

“There’s an In-N-Out across the street. Can you drop me there?”

“Sure.”

I made an appointment to see Judge Fernandez a year later because fourteen dispensaries were built within eight blocks of my apartment complex. If I followed his order to the letter? I’d have to drive out of my way to pick up anyone, even someone as famous as her. And I needed the job.