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I was all in now,

deep in the world of community theatre.

And man… what a scene.

The juxtaposition of it all was wild. One minute I’m in the streets, flipping pounds and spending weekends under the neon glow of a club, and the next I’m standing in a circle at a Unitarian church, playing theatre games with actors.

It was surreal.

I kept my worlds separate—or at least, I tried. Most of the people I was acting with had no idea what the rest of my life looked like. And honestly? I was scared if they did, the whole balance I was trying to build would collapse.

Still, my ego was getting bigger. I liked being good at selling weed. I liked the confidence it gave me.

But as I settled into that new space, building relationships with these kind, talented artists, something shifted.

I realized I was having fun.
I was finding parts of myself I didn’t even know were missing.

And the real ones in the cannabis world? They didn’t care. They knew I wasn’t trying to be the grimy plug who robbed or schemed or put bullets in people just to make an extra buck. I wasn’t trying to be the boss type, barking orders from the top.

I ran my business with respect. With equality.

Sure, maybe I was naive about the violence happening around me—or maybe I just didn’t want to acknowledge it. One minute I’d be hanging with homies who’d been shot at, who’d shot back, who lived and died by the hustle. And the next, I was sitting on a dusty church sofa, reading lines from a script about magic and make-believe.

---

I’m at rehearsal, script in hand, when the phone buzzes.

“Okay,” I whisper into the receiver, “I’ll walk outside. In the alley, right?”

I set the script down on the couch, walk outside to my car, pop the trunk and pull out a duffle bag stuffed with five pounds of grade-A fuck-me-so-good flower.

Walk around the building to the alley where a car sits, trunk pops. I slide the bag in.

No words exchanged. No money handed over. Just business.

They drive off.

? Ticket price: $17,500
? Profit: $2,500

And me? I don’t even think twice.

I walk back around the building, where everyone is chatting it up. Smiles exchange, conversations about character, objectives, and the process they are in.

---

Inside, warm-ups are starting.

We stand in a circle. Somebody claps their hands:

“Zip!”
Another catches it: “Zap!”
It flies again: “Zoom!”

I don’t understand a damn thing we’re doing. But I play along anyway.

And for once, I’m not calculating margins.
I’m not watching my back.

I’m just playing.

I’m just free.

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The hustle. The theatre. The contradictions stacked on contradictions.

Drugs.
Money.
Art.

I didn’t know where it was heading, but I’d never felt more alive.

This was full throttle living.