On one of my last days in Cincinnati, I got lucky.
I was at the Marriott, riding in an elevator, working out my two weeks’ notice. Suddenly, a young kid of about 17 or 18 stepped in the lift.
He was well-dressed, with darkish skin and hair. I thought maybe he was Middle Eastern.
He had a tiny little joint in his hands. He saw that I saw it, and looked up a…