The Day My Dad Volunteered Me to Pick Up His Marijuana.
And not from a dispensary.
It was 1984. I lay on our living room couch listening to my dad and his “guy” discussing the “delivery situation.”
His guy’s woman had been pulled over recently bringing a load down and they didn’t want to deliver anymore.
She had pounds of marijuana under the lining of the bed of her truck.
They had the dogs.
Fortunately for her, she said that there was a strong odor of skunk spray in the air. Like a skunk had recently sprayed or gotten hit nearby. She believed it must have mixed up the dogs because they didn’t detect anything, and she was sent on her way. Seriously. True story.
His guy told dad he would have to drive up and pick-up because he is a “white man who is less likely to get pulled over.”
The Border Patrol had been “profiling”.
Profiling is when you are pulled over based on your ethnicity. Indigenous native American profiles were being pulled over, detained, and searched excessively lately.
Desperate to keep his connection, I hear dad say “Yea, no worries, Kinley can come get it.”
Wait, what the fuck? I got up and went into the kitchen.
