Initially, it was Oscar, who had that bomb, bomb, dank cannabis. I went through Oscar to procure weed back in the day, before it was medically legal in Arizona.

Started working in a bar in 2009. Co-workers had connects to that bomb, bomb, too. I didn’t hang with Oscar as much, because, Oscar was, uh- kind of shady dude. At least with my co-workers we had a regular job, be it in a bar. We worked and earned in the legal way, whereas Oscar found means to get by, most always illegally. I didn’t care so much for the outlaws, back then- I didn’t think it was a honest means to provide income. I still don’t think the criminal life is anything other than death or prison. Fuckkkkkkkk that.

Anyway…

It’s a slow night on a Sunday. It’s maybe 9:30, 10pm. And there’s this dude sitting at the bar by himself, just chillin on his own.

I have no remembrance of how I engaged in conversation, but, I was accepted and loved at that bar, as an employee and co-worker. So I had this confidence, where I’d just stroll up and be like, “sup”.

Bob and I get to talking. Come to find out, Bob has the most fire cannabis I’ve smoked in a long time. What was really O.G. was Bob even straight said, “first quad of bud is on the house, to see if you like it or not”. I remember I was friends with Alfonso, through Oscar. Alfonso was an honest dude. He smoked weed too, but he was nothing like Oscar. Alfonso wasn’t an outlaw. Alfonso’s father gained and earned U.S. citizenship, and was proud to be an American. Oscar’s dad? Not a US citizen, but who am I to judge. Natives should be citizens regardless, but eh- the government and what not.

Anyway…

Alfonso and I were hooked.

I don’t mind saying Bob’s name, because right off the bat, Alfonso was all, “his name ain’t Bob”. And I somehow kinda damn well knew Alfonso was right. See, Alfonso came from L.A. Didn’t live on da beach, either, meaning he probably knew what kind of person “Bob” really was. Or rather, who the kinds of people Bob was connected with, were.

Yes, killers. Mafia, Cartel, those types of outfits.

Because what I meant about Alfonso was, he probably was affiliated with the bloods or the crypts. Even if he wasn’t, he was around them. He knew what they were about, first hand, growing up where he lived in L.A. Perhaps Alfonso wasn’t affiliated, but I damn well knew for a fact he knew what the gangsters were like, more so than my green ass did. You grow up around it, you can spot people that live dangerous lives pretty fast.

I didn’t move to Florida by choice. Turns out, Oscar was such a bad influence, apparently… Wasn’t like Oscar had a gun to my head, I knew what I was getting into, and didn’t care… I guess it was my reckless attitude that got me shipped out to Florida.

I don’t blame Oscar. I don’t hate you, Oscar.

Oscar and I chatted again in maybe, eh- 2014, I’d say. He wanted me to move out to Cali and we would be a force together, a European and a Mexican rockin’ the streets, as he said.

I kid you not, I almost did do that. Last minute, I bailed.

Next thing I knew, Oscar got incarcerated again. And I haven’t heard from Oscar since.

Oscar really wanted to be a good person, to be an honest person, like, well…Alfonso was.

Last time I talked to Alfonso, I owed him money he fronted me for weed. He was cool about it, kinda half joking, like, “don’t forget about my Mexican ass, haha”. I fucked up. I must have been broke, or, maybe…I just didn’t value my friendship with Alfonso. And that was the last time I spoke with Alfonso.

Alfonso, that was my bad. And, I hope to find you again someday, and give you a hundred dollar bill. And maybe we could be friends, once again. Because, I realize looking back, that Alfonso was a true, real friend. He really cared about me, loved me as a brother.

Oscar used me like a tampon, and therefore, I’ll never be friends with Oscar again. Plus, Oscar just couldn’t stop being an outlaw. I hope Oscar finds help, but I can’t help you, Oscar. For I am but one regular human, I have no idea how to save a soul. In fact, all I can work on doing is setting my soul up for success. That’s all I have control over, keeping myself in check, squared away, humble, kind. Blah blah blah. You get what I’m saying.

Alfonso didn’t need saving. Alfonso was good, squared away. I miss you, Alfonso, my buddy. I hope you’re doing well, and life is at least alright for you, where ever you’re at. I’m so sorry I abandoned you as a friend, that I treated you the way I did. I hope I can make things right, between us, some day.

When I moved back to Arizona, I didn’t have Bob’s number. But I had this feeling, still do, that “Bob” didn’t stay in one place for too long. Meaning, even if I had Bob’s number, Bob was probably already gone. In a different state, a different city, where he could be that Bob in a place that didn’t know who he was from Adam.

Bob was in it thick. Had to be. The way he handled himself. He covered his tracks, from what I could tell. He was a wise outlaw. Can’t catch Bob, he’s the gingerbread man. Well, okay, not true, but you get what I’m saying. Good for you Bob. You brought the most fire weed to town, somehow- and you did it like an OG professional, mature-ass outlaw.