It's one slow-ass Tuesday night, and I'm parked at Northeast 23rd and Alberta, filling out my trip sheet.

There's a knock on the window. I look up, and it's a kid, asking for a cigarette.

I get out, and we lean against the car and smoke. He tells me that his grandmother just kicked him out of the house for smoking weed. He doesn't think it's fair—just because his mother got into coke doesn't mean he will. Hell, the grandmother used to smoke weed, isn't she being a hypocrite?

I explain to him that this is just the way of the world: Sixteen-year-old kids smoke weed, and their grandparents don't like it when they catch them. I agree with him when he says that there are a lot worse things he could be doing, but try to get him to see it from the grandmother's perspective, given what happened with her daughter.

He settles down and tells me he likes to smoke pot because it makes him creative and sociable. When he's sober, he feels full of anger, like he just wants to fight all the time. He rails bitterly against society.

A call comes in. As I get in the car, I tell him that what I think is fucked-up about society is how much we sedate ourselves—with drugs, TV, the Internet, everything. His eyes widen, and he says that he'll think about it, that that's some deep shit. I wish him luck and drive off.