You know you’re in L.A. when…
Yesterday, I got onto the elevator at work.
Three others board the sky-ward lift along with me.
A woman headed for floor two, a couple headed for eight.
I press nine.
As we travel to floor two, I notice the distinct smell of cigarette smoke.
Second floor, the single woman exits.
Another man gets on, only to press the lobby floor button.
He has crazy eyes, I observe.
He must wait.
The cigarette smoke lingers.
The woman of the couple headed for eight laments her lack of rights as a smoker.
“Well it depends on what you’re smoking,” blurts Mr. Crazy Eyes.
The couple laugh politely.
Floor eight arrives, the couple exit.
Mr. Crazy Eyes sighs and moves to the center of the elevator.
“I lost my license today!” he exclaims.
“Your driver’s license,” I inquire.
“No, my WEED license! I have to go spend another 80 bucks to get another one!
The ninth floor dings, its arrival merciful.
“Well, price to pay,” I say.
As I exit with a laugh.