When I got stabbed, it was probably being stoned all the time that saved my life.

Dispatch
11-29-02023

When I got stabbed, it was probably being stoned all the time that saved my life.

I was 21 when it happened. I’d just gotten married to this GF I'd had since 11th grade. I’m divorced now — and working this line cook job at a hip Asian fusion spot in Hillcrest called Som Yung Guy. I really dig the job, even though it’s sorta rough. The manager doesn’t mind that I’m stoned all the time, as long as I, “𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥 𝙪𝙥 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠 𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙣”, and I actually have a knack for it — line cookin’ I mean — which surprised the hell outta me. I’ve never had a knack for anything, aside from being stoned all the time.

I met my ex wife in 10th grade. We got friendly in this study skills class that was a total joke. We sorta made a game out of giving the teacher a helluva hard time. I’d been keeping my head down in school till then, which was easy ‘cause I wasn’t good looking enough or weird looking enough to turn heads. Well sorta drug me out of my shell.

That’s her name, Well — just plain Well, not short for anything. I loved that. I’d say her name and follow it up with some lame-ass joiner-joke, like, ‘𝙒𝙚𝙡𝙡 . . . 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚!’, ‘𝙒𝙚𝙡𝙡, 𝙖𝙞𝙣’𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙞𝙩’, or my fav, ‘𝙒𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙡.’ She’d smirk every time, and I’d be grateful. I was always afraid of the bit goin’ stale, which would been like me goin’ stale.

‘Cause giving Well laugh was, like, the first time I felt like I had something to give.

The teacher’s name was Miss Teetree. She had a lazy eye and hair like a mop soaked in hot sauce. I’d hide her shit in the dirt of her potted plants and stick pens to the ceiling above her desk with chewing gum. Well had Miss Teetree again for English in the next period. She said the pens would fall on her head.

“𝗧𝗼𝗱𝗮𝘆 𝘀𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗱 '𝗙𝗨𝗖𝗞!' 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗮𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝗶𝘇𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝘂𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗰𝗿𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗯𝗿𝗼!”

Well thought it was funny, but it landed on me sad as hell. I sorta laid off Teetree after that. Well and I were friends by then anyway, which was the whole mish. I was definitely crushin’.



Well was short and a little chubby inna hot way you could call curvy. My dad used to say chubby chicks were more grateful to "𝙩𝙝𝗶𝙚𝙧 𝙈𝙖𝙣", which I always thought was kinda fucked, since he’d say it front of my Mom, who was all twiggy. She got her licks in too though. They were always diggin’ into each other, never missing opp to slide the knife in. I almost felt like they stay together ‘cause they would never know anyone’s weak spots good enough to knife so well. I dunno, I don’t see ’em much these days. 

I started smoking toward the end of 10th grade. Well invited me over to her house too, “𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣 𝙖 𝙨𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙛𝙮,” with her and her bro. I said "𝙘𝙤𝙤𝙡," like I knew what a fuggin’ spliffy was, and wasn’t nervous as shit about going over the girl I was crushin’ on’s house to get high for the first time, of all things.

Today, I woulda just Google’d, "𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙖 𝙨𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙛𝙮?" real quick. Having the internet pocket-side is good for a fool who feels like he doesn't know shit about shit — ‘cause everything to know is already known, you know? Even if I invent some new shit, I can just find a dude with a whole Subreddit about how to make trumpet mushroom jerky, or Mountain Dew pho broth. That’s sorta what I love about being stoned. When I’m stoned, I get ideas and they feel like mine. I don’t even double check ‘cause I know someone’s had the idea already. It still feels like mine. Like, does a hawk scope a dragonfly and say, “𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙩, 𝙄 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙛𝙡𝙮𝙞𝙣' 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙢𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜.”



That’s part of my knack at this line cook gig. I get ideas about making food that feel, I dunno like, off chain. I can flow my mind right on to the plate.

But yeah, Well’s brother, Beverly dealt weed — this was back when Cali still had weed dealers — and kept Well well-smoked on the freebie. Bev was swole, and friendly, but inna wound-up sorta way that felt like it could flip violent in flat sec — a fuggin’ grenade with a smiley face, that dude. Sitting in his garage, waiting for the ‘𝙎𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙛𝙮’ to make it me had my nerves on the rack.

Bev hit it and started coughing fierce, saying “𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙩,” between hacks. Well hit it crisp without a goddam peep, she could out smoke anyone, her throat was a deep fryer. When it made it to me I tried to impress, but got hit with a coughin’ fit rough enough to make Bev’s look nada-nada.

“𝙂𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙩, 𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩?” Bev said, and I nodded, ‘cause what did I know about it?

Then Well says, “𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙙𝙤𝙜 𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙩, 𝙗𝙧𝙤! 𝙃𝙖𝙧𝙨𝙝 𝙖𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚. 𝙄𝙩 𝙎𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙨 𝘽𝙚𝙫.”

I thought this was badass ‘cause Bev intimidated the hell outta me. But also, it put me in the sucker spot of having to pick between laughing with Well — who I was crushin’ on — or protestin’ with Bev — who sorta scared the shit outta me. I could tell Well was savorin’ my tension. I started to feel like I was being tough-tested.

But instead of throwin’ in with either of them, I threw myself under the bus, saying something like, “𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙮 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚, 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙢𝙮 𝙗𝙞𝙩𝙘𝙝-𝙖𝙨𝙨 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚.” Then let my coughing give emphasis.

Bev reached over and two-finger flicked me in dick through my shorts.

“𝙒𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙠𝙞𝙙, 𝙒𝙚𝙡𝙡!”

Well smiled, grabbed the spliff from my hand and ripped the rest. I think that is when — doubled over in dick pain and seeing her face swimmin’ in a smoke cloud — I decided I wanted to be hers, if dudes can decide things like that.

It was a minute before we were, like, going out, but I started hanging out with her and Bev almost every day after school. We’d get stoned in their garage and bull shit, stream shit, and listen to music, while Bev told us why it was awesome.

“𝙔𝙤, 𝙏𝙪𝙥𝙖𝙘 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙪𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙩. 𝙇𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙩 𝙨𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙖𝙙𝙧𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙, 𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙈𝙖𝙢𝙖, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙬𝙨 𝙒𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙖 𝙒𝙝𝙮 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝘽𝙞𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝙖𝙡𝙗𝙪𝙢, 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙣, 𝙛𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙞𝙣’ 𝙙𝙪𝙣𝙠𝙞𝙣’ 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙜𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙙𝙞𝙜𝙜𝙞𝙣’ 𝙝𝙤𝙨 𝙗𝙧𝙤!”

It was hard to get a word in when Bev was on one about Tupac, but Well and I could bullshit silent — got to be where we could have whole convos with eye-rolls and smiles.

Bev started kicking me QP’s of half-deace flower and I got to small-time dealing. When word about my hustle got to the rich high schools in Rancho, I didn’t have to work much to find custies. I’d hang at the park behind Papa Tony’s Pizza with Well — and Bev sometimes. Well would handle cash and I’d run stash from behind a palm tree which was an overkill precaution, but made us feel like a gangster sorta team. My custies wouldn’t dare snitch. I rolled with Bev, and Bev had rep — kids were afraid Bev’s rep.

We never really moved from that spot — Papa Tony’s had deace pizza for a buck a slice back then.



I started to bite a bit of Bev’s rep, which is hilarious because I’d never even been inna fight before — or since really, unless I count gettin’ stabbed, which I don’t.

I started turning the heads of wannabe baddie chicks looking to play with a low-stakes delinquent — gettin’ a secret revenge on Dad’s curfew, or an on-blast revenge on some on/off normie/jock BF. At least that's what I figured was the reason. I mean, what did I have goin’ on, like really? I was still scrawny as hell, and being stoned all the time had my eyes all sunken and bloodshot. Swimmin’ in black XL Carhartt hoodies and fat tongue SB Dunks, I looked like the skate spot’s grim reaper.



It was around this time when Well sort of leaned towards me outta nowhere one afternoon in Bev’s garage and stole a hard makeout. Bev was right there, which scared the shit outta me, but I rolled with it. He just said, “𝘿𝙖𝙢 𝙒𝙚𝙡𝙡, ‘𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚,” and hit his new ROOR bong — a two footer, cost that fool like half a stack, and he broke the next day.

It wasn't a really nice kiss, or, I mean, a gentle one. Well kissed the way a rancher brands a cow. It worked though, I mean, who else I was trying to belong to?

It was about 3 years later that I got stabbed. Well and I had got married about 3 months before it happened— at a court house, a few days after a gnar fight that ended with her slugging me in the face and yelling, “𝙡𝙚𝙩’𝙨 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙜𝙚𝙩 𝙛𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙙.” I tied the knot with a shiner.

I think we thought getting married would nix the battles we’d been havin’ since Bev got locked up. But it felt like our marriage just called our love on its last bluff. We’d made the final move, now all that was left was the rest of our goddam lives — which wasn’t looking like much. I’d quit on dealing, since weed wasn’t all that hard to get anymore after goin’ legal in 2016. Bev had branched out to heavier shit, but he got rolled with a thou-count of molly — “𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙥𝙮 𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙙𝙚, 𝘽𝙍𝙊!” —in a spare tire of his new Mustang. I wasn’t brave enough to pick up his torch.

So, I was working at a Mission Supply, dropping off rags and aprons and pickin’ up the dirties at all the north county food spots. Well was holdin’ a night shift at this bar, while going to esthetician school. She kept dragging feet on finishing that shit, though.

I’d got back to our apartment one night and Well was straight up cowgirlin’ this dude’s lap on our couch — The Weeknd blasting loud and gritty from a blow out bluetooth speaker clipped to the fuckboy’s pack.

I didn’t even know how to feel right then, I kept thinking how I should feel, and what that feeling should make me do. I should yank Well off him, right, and his kick ass? Well screamin’ the whole time, “𝙙𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙝𝙞𝙢, 𝙙𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙝𝙞𝙢!” That’s what Bev woulda done.

I just felt scared though, all I really wanted to do was run.

Well saw me standin’ frozen. She shouts, “𝙒𝙃𝘼𝙏 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙁𝙐𝘾𝙆!” at me — dude gets wise, pushes Well off him, yanks his shorts up and ducks out, then back in for a sec to grab his pack, then back out. I hear . . .

♪ 𝙄𝙩'𝙨 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙨, 𝙗𝙖𝙗𝙮/𝙊𝙝, 𝙤𝙝, 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙝 ♪

♪ 𝙄𝙩'𝙨 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚, 𝙬𝙚'𝙧𝙚 𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙤𝙬𝙣/𝘽𝙖𝙗𝙮, 𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙤𝙬𝙣 ♪

. . . fade out at a sprint.

“All while Well keeps yelling, “𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗙𝘂𝗰𝗸, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗯𝗶𝘁𝗰𝗵! 𝗞𝗶𝗰𝗸 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝘀𝘀, 𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘄𝗶𝗳𝗲! 𝙆𝙄𝘾𝙆! 𝙃𝙄𝙎! 𝘼𝙎𝙎!”

I start yelling back “𝙁𝙪𝙘𝙠 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙒𝙀𝙇𝙇! 𝙄 𝙛𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙞𝙣' 𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪, 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣, 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙤 𝙛𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙞𝙣' 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙚 𝙒𝙚𝙡𝙡. 𝙁𝙐𝘾𝙆 𝙔𝙊𝙐, 𝙁𝙐𝘾𝙆 𝙔𝙊𝙐, 𝙁𝙐𝘾𝙆 𝙔𝙊𝙐!” I was crying — like a frustrated lil’ kid.

Well starts pushing me and I start pushing back. She’s yelling “𝗗𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗧𝗼𝘂𝗰𝗵 𝗺𝗲 𝗯𝗶𝘁𝗰𝗵, 𝗹𝗶𝗹’ 𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗯𝗶𝘁𝗰𝗵, 𝘄𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗱𝗼 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝘁!” and keeps pushing me and I keep pushing her and she hits the kitchen counter. She grabs this sharp-as-hell chef’s knife that Bev got us as a wedding gift —“𝙃𝙖𝙣𝙙-𝙥𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙅𝙖𝙥𝙖𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙚𝙡, 𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙘𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙖 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙪𝙘𝙪𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧, 𝘽𝙍𝙊!.” I saw it in her hand and froze again, looking at the light glinting of the ‘𝙃𝙖𝙣𝙙-𝙥𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙅𝙖𝙥𝙖𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙚𝙡’ — like moonlight on water.



The blade sorta bounced off my sternum and went a couple inches into my left pec, nailing the rib gap. The cops came in a minute later — the neighbor had called when she saw the Well’s fuckboy beat street. Well said I’d pushed her, which was true, and I wasn’t saying nothing — just sorta on the couch tryin’ to breath. One cop was pushin’ the fuckboy Sublime t-shirt he’d left against my chest. I remember seeing blood kinda squirt out and I passed out, woke up for a minute in an ambulance, then out again.

When I came to in the hospital, I was cuffed to the bed. A nurse was talking to a cop near the door, saying it was “𝙩𝙤𝙪𝙘𝙝-𝙣-𝙜𝙤” but the “𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝙡𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙣𝙤𝙞𝙙𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙮𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙢 𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙨𝙞𝙜𝙣𝙞𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙮, 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙨.”

Cop said I was being charged with ‘𝘼𝙨𝙨𝙖𝙪𝙡𝙩 & 𝘽𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙮’ and had a ‘𝙉𝙤 𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙘𝙩 𝙊𝙧𝙙𝙚𝙧’ with Well. I started trying to like, my-side-of-the-story the shit, but when he asked me if I wanted to press charges on Well I said, '𝙣𝙤.' I didn’t want Well to catch heat. He said if I wasn’t pressing charges they’d have to go with her side of things, which was frustrating, but not really because I was looping on pain meds. Funny how one of us had to be guilty, like one of us had to be punished. And it felt good too, like I was being brave for Well finally. Doin’ her one last solid, because I never wanted to see her again.

He asked me if I wanted to press charges one more time, and I said, “𝙣𝙖𝙝”, one more time, and he sorta shrugged and left. He took the cuff off my wrist though, which was nice I guess.

Well dropped the charge a few days later, so it all kinda went away after and a bit of paper shoving at the cop shop. She left all my shit at my parents house while I was in the hospital, which, for Well, was pretty fuckin’ gracious. She even put the knife in there. I use it every day at Som Yung Guy, crazy right? Kinda weird too, but it’s whatever — it’s a good knife and it makes me laugh that I make food with it.

There was this German philosophy dude I learned about in 12th grade English. We were talking on him as part of reading The Stranger. I was stoned, but I remembered the convo like, sticking in my head — like those pens above Teetree’s desk, fallin’ to my forethought every now-n-then. It fell on me in that hospital bed.

German homeboy was pessimist-maxing, saying that life is full of the same feelings and emotes again-n-again, and that there’s more unique shit to trigger those emotes than any one person’s life could hope to experience. Life is both ‘same-old-same-old’ and unbearably huge. So, this dude says the only real logic-move is to just off yourself — skip to the last page of a boring-ass story that is always gonna end unfinished.

I remember that landin’ backwards in my stoned teen mindset, flipping right into optimism. It took the edge off sorta, ‘cause I had already known I’d probably waste my life, but — taking this sad-ass German on the literal — what that fuck did it matter, it was a waste from the git. I could just kick back, stay high, snag a laugh, and now, feed folks some good food.

Laying in that hospital bed, I got to thinking about all the bodies that had laid in it before me, hell, died in it before me. And all the bodies after me too — the homies laughin’, grindin’ and ridin’ time towards this bed to hurt-up and heal. Different paths, same fuckin’ bed. It made me feel like I was rolling deep, like the no-new-suffering nature of life connected me to everyone in a big way — too big, really.

I started crying real heavy. This nice Jamaican night nurse heard me. She held my hand for a long time. I started telling her about Ms. Teetree. She laughed her ass off, then I did — us laughin’ right next to the tears.