[dd74]

1) Serving subpoenas. A horrible existence of the "Don't shoot the messenger," vibe. I always got the blue collar garbage that lived in San Bernardino or near Electric Avenue in Venice (CA.). Wasn't a good way to meet women, either, unless you're into hyped-up blonds who put bleach both in their hair and on their needles.

2) Gas jockey at a Mobil station in Westwood, near UCLA. Worked with a crew of bros from Belize who loved to handle the nozzle after having a good smoke o' da herb. The idiots would saunter out to the pumps with lit cigarettes and proceed to fill 'er up.

The mechanic was a real treat: a Morrocan maniac whose brother was a hash connect. His default specialty was to pressure-spray a gas solvent on car undercarriages WHILE forgetting that the hand which held the sprayer also held a lit More cigarette.

What a crew! I was only in it for the Wilshire Boulevard executive secretaries and the occasional (but never cute) female FBI agents that stumbled up from the Federal Building.