Member-only story
Martin Sheen Was Our Last Good President
A rough week for all
Right at dusk I pulled my cab into the long smooth driveway that led to Sonoran Palms, a high-end drug rehab/loony bin so far out in the desert no one could hear the screams. It was getting close to Christmas and they had put a Santa hat on the saguaro cactus by the sign.
Before I could get to the security gate a man jumped out of the mesquite trees and leaped in front of my cab. He was wearing a white smock and his black hair was all over the place. He looked like he was about 30.
He got into the cab and ducked down out of sight.
“How we doing today?” I said.
“Shitty, dude,” he said. “Get me the fuck out of here.”
“Wait,” I said, checking the order on the computer screen. “Are you J. Pipple?”
“Yes, for chrissakes, just move!”
“Where to?”
“The closest bar.”
“Dressed like that?”
“You’re right, take me to Target first.”
“You got money?”
