the get-away girl

Years ago, when I lived on my own for the first time (in the beautiful slums of Baltimore), I lived above an interracial couple who grew marijuana in our shared backyard. I don't smoke pot (and have only tried it once), but I let them know they could trust me not to narc on them, so long as they never tried to sell or distribute on our shared property.

At the time, I was working for an oriental female doctor who couldn't pronounce German names and cringed when her inherited AIDS patients came in. I loved that job for a little while, but eventually she laid me off and I needed to find a way to get more income.

Right around that time, the pot neighbors' car stopped running, and then eventually got repossessed. They needed a ride a couple of times, and paid me gas plus a bit extra for taking them where they needed to go. I never took them to sell or buy drugs, but I did take them to pick up cash from their "distributors" on occasion.

Somehow, without me realizing it, I became the chauffeur (read: get-away driver) for my neighbors, as they stole DVD box sets and CDs from various stores and then sold them to record and tape traders. I was paid well for driving them around. They could "make" $500-700 on a good day, and I would get about 40% of that. I had no qualms about accepting dirty money. It paid my rent, car payment, and put food on the table.

I was always amazed they were able to get in a store (Barnes and Nobles, Borders, FYE, etc.) and take that much stuff, and not be caught AT ALL. I thought for sure the alarms would go off. I finally learned their secret: they heavily-foiled the inside of shopping bags (those paper shopping bags like Bloomingdales' has), because apparently the foil blocks the beepy-majigger thing from going off.

Unfortunately for them, they weren't too savvy with all that money, and ended up stiffing our landlord out of four months of rent. When the sheriff came to kick them out, I made sure they never made it in the backyard to see the cannabis garden (so that I wouldn't be liable for their bad deeds). Mr. and Mrs. Pothead pleaded with me to watch the garden, and that they would be back within a day or two to get their precious plants.


After two days, they never showed and I asked some of my scuzzier neighbors if they wanted their very own marijuana plant, for $50 a pop. I made almost as much selling those plants as I did driving the get-away car.

And that, my friends, is the time I was a get-away girl.