“Back in the late nineties, I smuggled a sunglasses case full of weed through the airport with the help of a TSA bag checker.”

I brought weed over the U.S. border once — by accident. I was a 23 — year — old Canadian, in college, playing in a punk band, and working at a restaurant. I was a mean waitress, but all the old patrons who took up space at the bar found my attitude charming. They all liked me. The only one I actually liked back was Robert.

Robert was the perfect customer: low maintenance, fun to talk to, kind without being creepy, and, best of all, he’d always throw me some weed. One night, after a long shift of serving calamari to rent — a — cops and yuppie couples, I sat down to drink a beer with Robert before walking home. He pulled out a fat joint from... Read More