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The lights are bright.
The audience is packed.
My heart is beating fast, but I’m breathing through it.

This is it.

No turning back.

Fuck.
What if I forget my lines?
What if I miss my cue?

I peek through the curtain.
My mom and stepdad are out there, front row, ready for a performance they will have no idea how to process. I chuckle to myself—they’re about to witness some pure theatre shit.

The theater darkens. My heart beats louder.
Carl steps on stage to greet the audience.

It’s showtime.

The Morning After

I wake up in my basement apartment, blinds cracked, sunlight slicing across the couch.

My phone continues to blow up—twenty missed calls. Business doesn’t stop. But I feel… different today.

There’s no parade, no confetti, no official sign that something's changed—but I know it has.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline.
Maybe the vanity of being seen, of being wanted.
Or maybe it’s the peace of slipping into a character.

Whatever it was, I wanted more.

But first—it’s time to work.

I hop in the Caddy and head to the deep west end of Louisville, where a friend runs a tire shop.

The West End—liquor stores, Cash 'n Pawns, check cashing spots, and more used tire shops than you can count. Typical underserved section of any city.

I pull up. There’s a crew of dudes outside—all strapped.
It’s just part of the landscape.

Out walks Hassan—chubby, bearded, smiling.

“Abibi!”

As he makes his way toward me, one of the neighborhood addicts cuts him off. I’ll never forget this man, down and out but you could feel his warmth in his soul. Someone lost looking for the light, but this isn’t the place to find light.

“Abibi! Come on, help me out! Let me clean the shop or something.”

Hassan doesn’t miss a beat.
“Can’t you see I’m trying to greet my brother? Get the fuck outta my way. Damn, nigga. You’re always here, like a dog lookin' for a bone. Bark like a dog. You want some money? Bark.”

The others egg it on, laughing, adding fuel to the fire.

I’m standing there—silent, uneasy, watching this man just stand frozen, unsure if it’s a joke or humiliation.

“Ah, nervously he laughs, ha-ha, for real though I’ll clean. I’ll clean the shop.”

Long pause.

Then Hassan laughs.
“I’m fuckin’ with ya dirty ass. Clean the shop. This place better be spotless inside!”

The guy lights up, grateful for crumbs.
“Thank you, boss! I’ll clean it real good!”

Inside, Hassan rolls up a blunt.
I take one look—
“Bro, what the fuck is this?” I laugh. “You can’t roll for shit.”

He grins, unbothered.
“Don’t hurt my feelings. Our birthdays are coming up, remember? Twenty-one! Vegas, baby! First time out west.”

I nod.
“Anywhere besides Florida, huh?”

He laughs, sets his pistol on the table like it’s his wallet.

Then:
“What you think of this bud? The homies outside got their Mexican bringing a truckload. You want in?”

It’s around this time I start noticing a pattern.

The real weight is coming from the Mexicans.
Every big movement of bud—always from the West.

So I start thinking…

What if I moved out west?
What if I could get in with someone in Mexico via Los Angeles, and still focus on art?
Flip by day, create by night.

Not the smartest plan. But hey—it’s just weed, right?

I tell Hassan:
“Maybe. Front me a few and let’s see. I gotta bounce though—I’ve got a show tonight.”

He nods, smirking.
“You know I got you. Go get ’em, Hollywood.”

Still Building, Still Blind

I was living for product, money, art, and family.
I was hustling harder than ever—trying to make as many moves as I could, stacking without a clue how wealth really works.

Flashy shit. Ghetto rich.
Proof to myself that I could do it.

But real freedom? Real structure?

That part hadn’t come yet.