Curtain Calls
Posted by Eric Welch on Apr 19th 2025
The lights are blinding.
The audience is packed.
My heart pounds like a war drum, 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, smiling, ready for a performance they will have no idea how to process. I laugh to myself—they’re about to witness some pure theatre shit.
The house lights dim. The crowd hushes. My pulse goes full throttle.
Carl steps on stage to greet the audience.
It’s showtime.
The Morning After
I wake up in my basement apartment. The blinds are cracked, sunlight cutting across the couch like a blade.
My phone won’t stop buzzing—twenty missed calls, more deals to make. The business doesn’t wait. But me? I feel… different.
No parade. No confetti. No official declaration.
But I know something has shifted.
Maybe it’s the adrenaline.
Maybe it’s the vanity of being seen.
Maybe it’s the peace of blending myself into a character.
Whatever it was I wanted more.
But first, there was work to do.
I fire up the Caddy and head to Louisville’s deep West End, where a friend of mine runs a tire shop.
The West End is its own world: liquor stores, Cash ’n Pawns, check-cashing joints, and more used tire shops than you could count. A neighborhood stitched together by survival.
I pull up. A crew of dudes outside, all strapped, all eyes on me. Part of the landscape.
Out walks Hassan—chubby, bearded, always grinning.
“Abibi!” he yells.
Before he can reach me, one of the neighborhood addicts cuts him off. I’ll never forget this man—ragged, desperate, but with warmth still flickering somewhere in his eyes. A lost soul searching for light in a place where light rarely breaks through.
“Abibi! Help me out, man! Let me clean the shop or something!”
Hassan doesn’t slow down.
“Can’t you see I’m greeting 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 crew laughs, egging him on.
I stand silent, uneasy. Watching this man shrink, caught between humiliation and hope.
He forces a laugh, nervous, cracked. “Ha-ha, for real though. I’ll clean. I’ll clean the shop.”
Long pause.
Then Hassan cracks up. “I’m fuckin’ with ya dirty ass. Clean the shop. Make this place spotless!”
The man lights up with gratitude for crumbs. “Thank you, boss! I’ll clean it real good!”
Inside, Hassan rolls a blunt. I glance at it and laugh.
“Bro, what the fuck is this? You can’t roll for shit.”
He shrugs, grins. “Don’t hurt my feelings. Our birthdays coming up, remember? Twenty-one. Vegas, baby. First time out west.”
I smirk. “Anywhere besides Florida, huh?”
We laugh. He sets his pistol on the table like it’s just another accessory.
Then he leans in. “What you think of this bud? The homies outside got their Mexican bringing a truckload. You want in?”
That’s when I started seeing the pattern.
The real weight always came from the Mexicans. Every big move, every heavy shipment—it all pointed west.
So, my mind started racing.
What if I moved west?
What if I got in with someone in Mexico through Los Angeles?
Could I flip by day, create by night? Art on one hand, hustle on the other.
Not the smartest plan. But at the time, it made perfect sense. It’s just weed, right?
I tell Hassan, “Maybe. Front me a few, 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.”
Flash Without Freedom
Back then I was living for product, money, art, and family. Hustling harder than ever. Stacking without a clue how wealth really works.
Flashy shit. Ghetto rich.
Proof to myself that I could do it. That I could pull myself up and out.
But real freedom? Real structure?
That part hadn’t come yet.
I was still building.
Still blind.