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I stood face to face with Jesus, marvelling at the intricate details to his eyebrows, wondering how long it took the stone mason to carve out each individual hair hundreds of years ago. I was outside the Grotto – an outdoor Catholic sanctuary cut into the base of a hundred-foot cliff in Portland, Oregon. I yearned to enter, but a service was underway and I didn’t want to intrude. So I busied myself with this stoic stone statue of Jesus outside the entrance. John, an affable giant of a man, approached me with a wide smile and leaned in close. “Wanna buy some weed?” I was stunned. I was in a Catholic sanctuary. I wanted peace and to relax and to-- I said yes. John glances furtively around, eyes darting, foot bouncing, hands fidgeting. “You ain’t a cop, is you?” “I’m… I’m Australian. I can’t be a cop here.” I reply, confused. “You sound Australian and you’re small and skinny and pimply and pasty and look twelve…” (thanks) “… and look nothing like a cop, which is exactly why you might be one”. I show him my passport for confirmation. He looks me in the eye, on the verge of tears, like he’s putting his life in my hands. “Promise me, man. I finally got custody of my kids back”. I melted in sympathy. I felt like the bad guy here, forcing this innocent man to sell me, an evil drug fiend, weed. I told him don’t worry about it, but he insists. He hands me a zip-lock bag of weed to verify. I smell it – definitely weed. He suddenly snatches it back, whispers that someone’s watching, and slinks into the Grotto with me on his heels. Nestled in the corner of the parking lot, perched upon a rocky outcrop and surrounded by thick bushes and towered over by tall pines, is a giant stone crucifix with Jesus upon it – a perfect hiding spot. Behind it we go. The space is claustrophobic. We breathe the same air. The sun bathes the crucifix and casts its shadow across me – a final judgement. “Fifty and we good” We exchange goods— He twists my arm behind my back, shoves me against the crucifix, and informed me I was under arrest. “Exchange made. Bring the car around” he declares into a hidden mic. I hear a car pull up in the parking lot. My soul leaves my body. This is it. As the worst case scenarios barrelled through my mind, he hands back my wallet and lets me go. He didn’t want to screw up my life, but he did berate me with the stupidity of the situation – how if he were a real drug dealer, I could’ve been stabbed and robbed. As he tried to instil morals in me, my mind started to clear, no longer clouded with emotions. I realized he didn’t read me my rights. I peered through the bushes – there was no police car. And my wallet felt light. I opened it. Empty. $300 gone. John had stopped talking by now. I craned my neck up and was met with his cold gaze. I swallowed nervously. “You’re… you’re not a cop” He scoffed. “You really wanna do this?” He raised his hidden mic to his mouth. It was a standoff, like two gunslingers outside a saloon in a Western. I straightened, put my chin up. “You’re not a cop” I state confidently. He opened his mouth to speak into his mic, then dropped his hand and the ruse. “And?” “And give me my money back.” “Possession’s nine tenths of the law, and this cash is in my possession” I was incredulous, but also helpless. Physically outmatched and I couldn’t call for help – I was trying to buy goddamn drugs. I was defeated. John let me keep the weed (although back in my room I realized while the top layer was weed, the rest was oregano) and said “don’t let anyone take your joy away, this isn’t what America’s really like” then skulked away. After a moment of contemplation, I stumbled out of the bushes and looked up. High on the rocky outcrop, Jesus looked down at me.