By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
By Charles Lam
The man laughs self-consciously as he puts the money in his wallet. He glances back and forth. “Ha, ha, ha,” he says. “I’m getting used to this now.”
We drive back to the Big Kahuna’s house with $520 in cash in Racer X’s briefcase. Today, he estimates that the Big Kahuna has made $1,000, and that, as a driver, he will receive $200. As we navigate the rush-hour traffic on Harbor Boulevard for the third or fourth time that evening, Racer X reflects on his volunteer work with the club. “This is a really cool job,” he says. “The first few times I went out, I was really nervous. You don’t know if you’re going to be meeting a cop or a cowboy who might decide he wants the weed for free and pulls a gat on you. But that’s never happened yet.”
So far, his closest call happened at a parking lot where Racer X made the mistake of getting out of his car to hand an envelope to a customer in return for a wad of cash. An alert security guard saw the exchange and pulled up to ask what was going on. “I told him it was a medical-supply delivery,” Racer X says. “He couldn’t see what was in the envelopes and didn’t really know what was going on, so he didn’t call the cops.”
Even if the guard had done so, Racer X says he’s confident that he’d be protected. “Legally, we’re fine,” he says. “There is no problem with what we are doing. If a cop were to pull up in the middle of a delivery, I have a paper saying the patient has designated the club as his caregiver. I might run into a problem, but I would just keep my fucking mouth shut and not say a goddamn thing and see what happens in the courts.”
That anecdote reminds Racer X of a funny story he’d been meaning to tell me all day. “Remember that cute girl we delivered to last week?” he asks, referring to Yoga Girl. “Well, her mom got ahold of her cell phone.” According to Racer X, Yoga Girl’s mom began dialing all the unfamiliar numbers on her daughter’s phone, which eventually put her on the line with the Big Kahuna, who always answers the phone by stating the name of his cannabis club.
“What are you?” the anxious mother asked the Big Kahuna.
“We’re a club,” he answered.
“Is my daughter in your club?” the woman asked, the alarm in her voice rising.
The Big Kahuna was about to hang up on her, but then thought better of it. After all, it wasn’t like he was a drug dealer. He was a legitimate, nonprofit organization.
“Yeah, you know what?” he responded, his voice still friendly and professional. “I don’t think I’m going to answer any more of your questions. You’re not part of the club.”