I parked my patrol car by the station pumps to have some water splashed on my dirty little window to the world. The trustee doing the splashing was actually an inmate, one of the county's low-risk offenders working off custody time - probably for a drug-related crime - by performing menial tasks at various sheriff's substations. The "war on drugs" takes prisoners, you see.
The trustee probably wouldn't have been in his predicament had he not already enslaved himself to his habits. As I stared at the man through the soapy tempered glass, it was easy to picture him as an older version of friends I'd had in school who identified themselves as "stoners." They hung out in places like bowling alleys, malls and the ubiquitous "smokers' corner." They could be found in darkened movie theaters, passing their narcotic origami back and forth among themselves. Often, I was the third wheel.







