It was just another day of work for me in the upper haight. I had just sold a bag of pot and was enjoying some beer on hippie hill. I think I had four; one I gave away and the other I traded for a toke. I decided to get back to work. As I was walking towards the front, a man asked me about some buds. All of the red flags were there. He wore a navy blue sweat suit with brand new New Balance shoes and mirrored sunglasses. His hair was short, wavy, and gelled back. I asked him how his day had been going, and he told me it was all right until now, as if buying pot was a chore. Since I don�t carry the stuff on me, I directed him to a friend of mine. I lit up a cigarette as I waited for my profit to come around. Instead, three bike cops came around the corner and arrested three of us. I felt like a moron. I never thought that drinking on the job would be such a serious mistake in my line of work. The cop told me to put my cigarette out, and threw us into a paddy wagon. My first jail experience wasn�t all bad, though. When we were put into the holding tank, the guy sitting next to me realized he needed my help. Since both of his hands were cuffed behind him, he couldn�t reach the 15-hit strip of L he had in his pocket. I had one hand free, so he instructed me to take it out and eat it. For the next few hours, we were shuffled from holding tank to holding tank as I got higher and higher. By the time we reached the final one, I was lying on the floor, laughing my ass off. The picture on my bracelet is priceless! I must have been peaking when they took my photo; I look like such a tripper. I spent the next week in this lame-ass part of the jail called �F pod�. The mattresses are barely more comfortable than cardboard, and the lights don�t turn out at night. On top of that, we only get one quasi-real meal a day. The other two were baloney and peanut butter. Don�t get me wrong, I appreciated anything they gave me to eat. It helps the day go by faster to simply look forward to the next meal. I was booked on Thursday. On the following Thursday, I finally made it to court. Luckily, I was released that day, and got to finish my cigarette, albeit a week later. The judge was one of the worst one can end up facing for drug charges, since her daughter died of an overdose. However, since it was my first offense, she let me off with this thing called Supervised Pretrial Release. Basically all I have to do is go down to this little building on 7th and Bryant and check in before 4pm Monday through Thursday. They�re going to force me into a residential drug treatment program, but at least I can finally take my computer out of storage. Thank god video games don�t show up in pee tests, because I am a hardcore addict. The only thing I really have to worry about now is all the folks on Haight looking for an excuse to hurt someone; since I brought the undercover to someone else, I am responsible for his arrest, since he assumed I had already thoroughly checked the guy out. I understand that well enough, but in my opinion, it�s an issue solely between him and me, and has nothing to do with everybody who�s heard about it. If the guy wants to punch me for getting him locked up, that�s up to him. However, since I plan on starting my GA this week, I will have hopefully saved up a sum equal to whatever pay he might have forfeited as a result of being unable to work during his incarceration. He�s always been honest and fair, so I figure all I have to do is ask him how much money he generally makes in a week, and then multiply that by how many weeks he was locked up. Wish me luck, and thanks for reading.