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This was during the Los Angeles marijuana drought of 1986. I still had a connection, which was insane, 'cause you couldn't get any weed any-fucking-where. Anyway... I had a connection with this hippie chick up in Santa Cruz and all my friends knew it. They'd give me a call and say, "Hey, dude... You getting some? Then get some for me, too.", like they knew I still smoked so they asked me to buy some for them when I was buying for me, but it got to be every time I bought some weed, I was buying for four or five different fucking people. Finally I said, "Fuck this shit. I'm making this bitch rich." She didn't have to do jack shit. She never even had to meet these people. I was doing all the work.

Then got to be a pain in the ass. People called me on the phone all the fucking time. I couldn't even rent a fucking tape without six fucking phone calls interrupting me. "Hey - When's the next time you're getting some?" "Motherfucker. I'm trying to watch the Lost Boys, you know. When I get some, I'll let you know." Then these rink-a-dink pot heads come by-- they're my friends and everything, but still, you know-- I've got all my shit laid out in $60 bags. They don't want $60 worth. They want $10 worth. To break it up is a major fuckin pain in the ass. I don't even know what $10 worth looks like.

This is a very weird situation. 'Cos I don't know if you remember back in '86 there was a major fucking drought. Nobody had anything. People were living on resin-- smoking the wood in their pipes for months. This chick had a bunch. And she's begging me to sell it. So I told her I wasn't going to be Joe the potman anymore, but I would take a little bit and sell it to my close, close, close friends. She agreed to that, said we'd keep the same arrangement as before; 10, free pot for me, as long as I helped her out that weekend. She had a brick of weed she was selling, she didn't want to go to the buy alone. Her brother usually goes with her, but he's in county unexpectedly.

What for?

His traffic tickets - got a warrant. They stopped him for something, found warrants on him, took him to county. Now she doesn't walk around alone with all that weed. I don't want to do this. I have a very bad feeling about it. But she keeps asking me, keeps asking me, keeps asking me, finally I said OK 'cause I'm sick of hearing it. Now, we're picking the guy up at the train station--

Wait a minute. You go to the train station to pick up the buyer with the weed on you?

The guy needed it right away - don't ask me why. Anyway, we're get to the station and we're waiting for the guy. I'm carrying the weed in one of those little carry-on bags. I got to take a piss. So I tell the connection I'll be right back - i'm going to the boys' room. So I walk in the mens' room, and who's standing there? Four Los Angeles county sheriffs and a german shepherd.

They're waiting for you?

No, they're just a bunch of cops hanging out in the men's room, talking. When I walked through the door, they all stopped what they were talking about and they looked at me.

That's hard, man. That's a fucking hard situation.

German shepherd starts barking. He's barking at me. I mean, it's obvious. He's barking at me. Every nerve-ending, all my senses, blood in my veins, everything I have is screaming, "Take off, man! Just bail, just get the fuck out of there!" Panic hits me like a bucket of water. First there's the shock of it - bam! - right in the face. I'm standing there drenched in panic. All these sheriffs looking at me, and they know, man. They can smell it. Sure as that fucking dog can, they can smell it on me.

"Shut up! So anyway, I've got my gun drawn, right? And I got it pointed right at this guy. I tell him, "Freeze! Don't fucking move," and this little idiot's looking right at me, nodding his head yeah, saying, "I know. I know. I know." But meanwhile his right hand's creeping towards the glove box. I scream at him, "Asshole! I'm going to fucking blow you away right now! Put your hands on the dash!" And he's still looking at me, nodding his head, "I know, buddy, I know, I know." And meanwhile his hand's still going for the glove box, and I said, "Buddy, i'm going to shoot you in the face if you don't put your hands on the fucking dash!" And this guy's girlfriend-- this real sexy oriental bitch, you know? She starts screaming at him, "Chuck! Chuck! What are you doing? Put your hands on the dash!" So the guy snaps out of it and casually puts his hands on the dash."

"What was he going for?"

"His fucking registration."

"Ha ha! You're kidding!"

"No, man. Stupid fucking citizen doesn't know how close he came to getting blown away. That close, man."

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