This happens to me with an odd sort of regularity. He was from somewhere in Iowa. I directed him to Exotica at 27th and Randolph. Though I guess, now that I think of it, he probably could have found what he was looking for at the Arab hookah store on that very block.
"There's no place closer? Hemp shop, smoke shack, head shop? You know what I'm talking about."
Well yes, I do happen to be deep enough in the criminal bohemian revolutionary underground to know what a head shop is, but you'll still get all of us in trouble one day by assuming such things so freely.
In the end, he asked me if I had papers to spare, and I had to tell him no. Tragedy.