The delivery service for which I worked sold marijuana to about four thousand customers from Battery Park City to 96th Street, and aside from a few peculiarities (who else is interviewed inside a cargo van, for instance, and given the company lawyer's 24-hour emergency number on her first day?) it operated with the clockwork precision of any other menial job. I would call in at noon to find out where to meet the van, and arriving late meant a $25 dock in pay. A beefy, laconic man named Peter would give me fifty clear jewel boxes of pot in a shoebox. Each box was neatly labeled with its genetic strain of thumb-sized clumps, presenting the sort of dazzling variety to make the readers of High Times drool: "Bubble Berry," "Nigerian Skunk," "Hawaiian Indica," "Government Issue" and "G-13" -- the last of which was vaulted to eternal pot fame for abetting Kevin Spacey's midlife crisis in "American Beauty."

Peter would also give me a pager to stay connected to the dispatcher, who was stationed on the city's outskirts with a computer database of our customers' addresses and phone numbers. Rotating between the Upper East and Upper West sides, I soon became convinced that virtually every living person on the island of Manhattan smokes pot. I delivered to doctors, lawyers, professors, architects, housewives and stockbrokers. I delivered to a marginal Broadway actress near Columbus Circle who would coo about her latest shopping excursions. I delivered to a financial consultant in a white Saab who drove down from Westchester to drop a thousand dollars on his monthly supply. I delivered to a French restaurant owner, a New York Post writer, a Random House editor and a Park Avenue trust funder. I delivered to an entire office of hipsters at a major record label, a young advertising executive who really wanted to write poetry, a prince from a certain Arab monarchy, and a high-end furniture dealer whose homemade bong was fashioned from a champagne bottle. I delivered to the crustiest enclaves of York Avenue overlooking the East River, and to the sparkling new Trump Plaza complex perched over the Hudson. Customers paid handsomely for our convenience and quality -- $60 for less than two grams -- offering evidence, on one hand, of the same urban lethargy which has made it possible to have videos, shoelaces and candybars rushed to your door within an hour. But given the nature of the product, the delivery service was far more compelling evidence, I came to think, of something else.

On a late spring afternoon, I rode to the 35th floor of a midtown skyscraper. The foyer was silent and a string of surnames-- the firm's partners -- were mounted in brass on the wall. A chirpy woman came out. "Are you Jody, with a delivery?" She had neat lacquered hair, a fitted suit and a manicure. She frankly looked more like a morning talk show host than a heavy pot smoker. In the privacy of an elevator going back down, she handed me a legal envelope with $800 in exchange for a package, and her voice dropped several octaves to something of a growl. "Is it strong?" she asked, and I nodded yes. She then got off on thirty, sending me back down to one.

In this business, you more often deliver to home addresses and tend to feel like you could just as well be delivering pizza or drycleaning (although there were a few evenings when I showed up simultaneously with the Chinese food delivery guy, and awkward glances were exchanged all around.) Seeing how other people live is always a curious pleasure, whether you're bringing them drugs or not. One woman's apartment is a shrill riot of Victorian lace and gingerbread woodwork, with a bookshelf boasting the entire "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff" series. An older gentleman's penthouse, full of sleek bauhaus chairs and mirrored surfaces, makes you imagine you're trading in something much more glamorous than marijuana, like cocaine... or guns.. or slaves. A surprising number of customers have lava lamps situated among the objects on their windowsills and mantles, the bulbous lava suspended inside conical glass, displayed without so much as a nod to irony.

On a slow day, you can accept a glass of water and take a seat on the couch. Watching people fuss over the selection is likewatching a tourist play three-card monty -- interminably suspicious that even though they all look the same, only one is the real thing. They examine each jewel box for the lightest green leaves, the fewest seeds, the thinnest stems, the thickest clumps, and the shiniest crystals clinging like dew to the buds. The real connoisseurs pull up a lamp and fall into a solemn silence during the inspection. Others are perplexed by the assortment and, as if you are a waiter, ask for a recommendation. Some men requested a "happy giggle high," something to smoke while watching cartoons. Middle-aged women want something that won't make them too paranoid. Twentysomething guys want something to render them comatose in front of their expensive stereo systems. On certain summer nights, everyone seems to want something to enjoy while watching the Mets game, suggesting that the Mets are better when you're stoned.

There are regulars, of course, and your relationship with them is like that between psychiatrist and patient, just a little more illicit. You know what they smoked last week and the week before, and keep casual tabs on their assessments. They share what's going on in their lives, like freshly broken hearts or grueling bar exam preparations, and you inquire about recent developments. I grew quite fond of some of my regulars, like Dr. Millstein. He was an orthopedic surgeon living in an Upper West side highrise, a lonely bachelor with big hands and hairy forearms. Whenever I walked into his building, the doorman would smile like he either knew what I was doing there, or he thought Dr. Millstein was getting lucky. The apartment was pleasant, and his framed degrees hung like an afterthought by the door. He didn't start smoking pot until medical school -- a late bloomer, as we say -- when a friend at a Fire Island summer share passed him a joint. It was love at first toke. "I never got into cocaine and I don't drink at all," he confided. "What can I say? Pot is my thing." Dr. Millstein was an otherwise law abiding taxpayer who assured me that he never smoked before surgery, and seemed genuinely bewildered that his regular evening pleasure was in fact an illegal narcotic. "Think about it, any prosecutor would love this," he fretted. "I'd make a great headline: 'WEST SIDE DOCTOR ARRESTED FOR DRUG USE.'" His neurosis was charming, and I often thought he feigned it just to keep my company for a little while longer.

Other customers left something to desire in the personability department, like Morgan. The first time I delivered to him through the vaulted stone arches of Tudor City, I felt like a feudal peasant appearing before the king. He was just home from his large investment bank, lounging in front of the television, jacket off and tie unloosened. A commercial came on for then-Senatorial candidate Rick Lazio and, transfixed, he declared that "this guy is great. He's gonna whip Hillary." Ordering pot to his Tudor City apartment was clearly the most renegade thing Morgan had ever done -- it was his walk on the wild side. He chose three boxes and pushed $180 across the coffee table, without looking at or otherwise acknowledging me. I asked if many of his Wall Street colleagues smoked, and he replied glibly that certainly not everyone, but many, yes. I asked if any of them had ever been arrested on drug charges, or if they supported marijuana's legalization. He looked about as dumbfounded as if I'd asked whether he thought the cast of The A-Team should be commemorated on a United States coin. He then suggested that I be on my way as he reached for his bong, which was perched on a shelf, as it so happened, beside the lava lamp.

As a runner in New York, the fear of arrest buzzes in your mind like the dull, consistent hum of electricity. Mayor Giuliani's quality of life initiatives pumped marijuana offenders through the system en masse, and the national story is not much different: almost half of the 1,532,200 arrests for 1999 drug violations in the United States were marijuana related, up 138 percent from 1990. But underneath the shell of numbers is another story about the malleability of drug law itself, about the buyers and sellers to whom it unfortunately applies, and those like myself and my customers to whom it generally does not. I often delivered to a former NYPD officer named Gary who, like a salty old sea dog, regaled me with his tales of East Harlem drug sweeps and casually waved off my own self-concern. "Cops don't pay any attention to pot dealers, as long as they're out of sight," he said. "Look at the dealers out in Washington Square Park, they'll go to jail seventy or eighty times and they're always back out there. But to set everything up for a drug sting on a delivery service can cost $20,000. It's not worth their time and money when they know you'll have a good lawyer to get you out. Snagging black kids off the street is cheaper and easier."

Jason was a fellow runner, a nice guy getting his footing as an independent filmmaker. Late one night I got a call from Peter. "Don't go to work tomorrow. Jason got popped, the service is closed." Click. My heart froze, and with no way to find out what happened I imagined the worst -- that the police had infiltrated our seemingly impenetrable network of cellphones and pagers, and we were all going down. The next day I called the service's number from a payphone. It was disconnected. Four days went by before Peter called back, asking me to come to a midtown restaurant at noon. "It's okay, you're safe," he said. I got to the restaurant late. Peter was there with the main bosses who I had never met before, two stocky well-dressed men who were exceedingly, almost suspiciously friendly. Rounding out the table were the four other runners, eating sandwiches and salads on the bosses' tab. After some small talk that didn't fool anyone, the bosses explained in controlled voices what had happened to Jason. He had decided to deliver in his car, as opposed to on foot as per the service's rules, and had been double parking outside the apartment building while running in and out. Some undercovers seemed to have eyeballed him, trailed him for a few deliveries, and thought theyˇd found a cocaine dealer since coke runners tend to work with cars. About to enter a building, he was slammed against a wall and that was it. The bag was opened, everything was found, and Jason spent two days in Central Booking. He was charged with a felony of possession with intent to sell.

The story continued: Jason had done "the right thing" by not ratting out the service, and the lawyer had been dispatched to have his charge lowered to a misdemeanor, and perhaps get the case dismissed on the grounds of an illegal search. Meanwhile, the bosses were helping Jason with $500 a week until he could get back on his feet and find another job. The tattooed boss looked at each of us and, in a tone that was half pleading and half threatening, asked if we were in or out. He needed us to keep their seven year-old business afloat, and he especially wanted me, the only woman runner, a neat and articulate Ivy Leaguer who was about as unassuming as it gets. I imagined this as a collective bargaining session of the underworld. If we played our cards right, maybe we could get a raise and dental benefits. But there was still the dubious issue of safety. I waited for the other runners to say thanks for the lunch, have a nice life. But one by one they said they were in, with just a little reluctance. The bosses eyes turned to me, and I pushed my salad around with the fork. Going over the facts of Jason's arrest, I had to admit that it seemed more like a fluke than a sting. And the lawyer had indeed swooped in to clean up the mess. The odds were still on our side. So I answered. "Yeah, I'm in."