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heaven.”
    Father Bob took a puff on his cigar. “When he starts quoting Milton, I usually take my nap.”
    The door opened and a skinny, ponytailed guy of about thirty walked in. He wore a white T-shirt with a sprig of cannabis on
     it. “I’m looking for the lawyer,” he said.
    I offer free legal advice on Saturdays, for the benefit of the poor St. Monica’s sends my way. But word has gotten out, and
     all sorts of wonderful clients seep in throughout the day.
    Pick McNitt has taken to calling me Forrest Gump. Because, he says, I never know what I’m going to get.
    Boy howdy.

8
    I TOOK MY place at the table in the far corner, by the magazine rack. Pick, who is the only receptionist I have, told Mr. Ponytail
     to ride on over.
    “My name’s Only,” he said.
    “Only what?”
    “Just Only.”
    “Only the Lonely?”
    “Right on,” he said, and laughed. Sort of a snort laugh. As he sat I caught a whiff of the Mary Jane.
    “This is free legal advice?” he said.
    “The Sisters of St. Monica’s are raising funds for their homeless shelter,” I said.
    “St. Monica’s?”
    “Up in the hills. Donate on the way out. Whatever you can.”
    “Cool.”
    “How can I help you?”
    “I got fired from the phone store, man,” Only said.
    “And?”
    “And what?”
    “Do you have an employment contract?”
    “Contract?”
    “I didn’t think so. How about an employee’s handbook?”
    He shook his head.
    “Were you given any verbal assurances, letters, e-mails, anything that would give you the impression you couldn’t be fired
     except for good cause?”
    “No, man.”
    “You’re what’s called an At Will employee, Mr. Only.”
    “Just Only, remember?”
    “I may have some trouble with that, but listen. An At Will employee means they can fire you anytime, without cause.”
    “But—”
    “And you can walk, whenever you want.”
    “I—”
    “Unless they did something like harass you, or discriminate against you.”
    “That’s it!” Only said, sticking his finger in the air.
    “That’s what?”
    “Discrimination, man! That’s what I been trying to tell you.”
    He was excited. I was not. I sighed. “Okay, and how did they discriminate against you?”
    “I’m part of a minority.”
    “Are you gay or a woman?”
    He blinked.
    “Are you black or Hispanic?”
    “No, but—”
    “Jew or Muslim?”
    “No.”
    “Quaker? Amish?
American Idol
loser?”
    “I’m an American, period, and I demand my rights. I got a doctor’s prescription.”
    “Medical marijuana,” I said.
    He smiled. “How’d you know?”
    “Wild, wild guess.”
    “Right. And my doctor—”
    “What’s your condition?”
    “I’m fine, man.”
    “I mean, that you smoke for?”
    “Oh. Back pain.”
    “How’d you get a bad back?” I said.
    “Skateboarding. I was bustin’ an insane acid drop and had to bail.”
    I just looked at him, wondering why I went into law.
    “Off my friend’s roof,” Only explained. “Caught a little air there.”
    “Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” I said. “You skateboarded off your friend’s roof and fell and hurt your back?”
    “Yeah.”
    “And for that, you have a doctor’s prescription to suck ganja for the pain.”
    “Right.”
    “Is this a great country or what?”
    “Exactly,” he said. “So I smoke a little at lunch. Not at work, lunch. The manager confronts me. I show him my prescription.
     But they fire me anyway. That’s not right. They can’t do that.”
    “But they can.”
    “How?”
    “The California Supreme Court says they can.” Now we were on my turf. I know squat about skateboarding and I’ve been off hemp
     since college. But California law is my meat. “Even though medical marijuana is legal here, and even if you only use it off
     work, and even though it doesn’t even affect your job performance, an employer can still show you the door. Even if you’re
     not an At Will employee.”
    “I can’t believe that! What’s happening to our