Pablo Escobar comes to pick me up from my house at 11:30 on the dot, just like we planned. He’s always busy, so he values punctuality. Even with his schedule, he always finds some time to spend with me. He drives up in a brand new Rolls Royce with bulletproof tires.
“Do you like it?” he asks sheepishly, diverting his gaze.
“It’s a bit… much. But yes,” I answer. “Let’s take my car to lunch instead.”
He looks downtrodden for a moment, but perks up quickly. “That will be lower profile anyway,” he says warmly.
Pablo Escobar is playing the new Selena Gomez album from his phone, which is connected to my car’s stereo by a crappy aux-to-cassette converter.
“Whenever I’m with the rest of the cartel, they don’t like to listen to music like this,” Pablo quietly remarks.
“That’s why it’s good to have a friend you can be yourself around.”
Pablo smiles as he bobs his head to the beat.