Back in the days of Artesia High School, nestled between the contrasting worlds of Lakewood and Cerritos, there were three of us: the self-proclaimed “Three Amigos.” Cerritos was the polished, higher-end neighborhood, while Lakewood had the gritty, working-class vibe. The three of us—Scott, Lewis, and myself, and eventually Mike—were stuck somewhere in between, both geographically and in life.
It started with just Lewis and me. From the moment I arrived, we clicked instantly. Scott joined the fold soon after, fitting in perfectly with his laid-back surfer vibe. He had the look—bleach-blonde hair, faded jeans, Vans, and a perpetual stoner expression. He didn’t just look high; he was high, always chasing the next hit of marijuana with that classic stoner voice to match.
Mike, on the other hand, was the rocker. He wore black nylon pants with zippers, had an edgier vibe, and was slower to pick up hacky sack compared to the rest of us. But he lived in the same complex as Scott, and eventually, he became part of our misfit crew. Together, we formed a strange but tight bond.
We spent hours kicking around a hacky sack, contemplating life’s absurdities, and talking about nothing and everything all at once. Eventually, our deep discussions would dissolve into reckless plans, like daring beer runs at the local liquor store or scheming about how to score weed.
One particular day stands out. Someone told us about a group of kids who had a stash of marijuana they’d hidden somewhere. We tracked them down to a park, where we discovered their treasure—a hole dug out in the middle of the field where they kept their stash.
Being the geniuses we were, we smoked it right there in the cramped tunnel they’d built. The smoke filled the space with nowhere to escape, and I swear I came close to death that day. My lungs burned, my head spun, and the experience ruined me for smoking marijuana ever again. To this day, I’ve never touched it since high school.
Lewis and Scott, on the other hand, had no such qualms. They’d light up and blast Led Zeppelin while I sat back and listened to The Doors, lost in my own head. What tied us together wasn’t so much shared interests as shared circumstances.
We all came from fractured families—part-time moms working full-time jobs, dads who only showed up on weekends if at all. Life was messy, chaotic, and unfair, but we found solace in each other, even if we didn’t realize it then.
After high school, the paths we took were as varied as our personalities.
Lewis, always the charismatic troublemaker, found himself in deep when his younger stepmom took a liking to us. She was noticeably younger than his dad, with a penchant for skimpy clothes and no bras. She flirted with both of us, but it was Lewis who eventually took the bait.
His dad caught them together, and it ended exactly how you’d expect—disaster. Lewis was kicked out of the house and sent to Job Corps in Los Angeles. He didn’t want to follow my route into the military, so Job Corps became his escape.
Scott, ever the mellow surfer, shocked us all by graduating from college and becoming a mechanical engineer for Douglas Airlines. He went on to design planes and eventually transferred to Boeing.
Mike drifted off, and I lost touch with him altogether.
As for Lewis and me, our adventures burned brightly but briefly. After a chaotic trip to Hollywood, we went our separate ways. Life pulled us in different directions, and I never saw him again.
Looking back, those days were a mix of chaos, laughter, and a kind of raw honesty I’ve never found again. We weren’t perfect, far from it. But for a time, we had each other, and that meant everything.
We were misfits trying to navigate broken homes and uncertain futures, finding moments of escape in hacky sacks, stolen weed, and late-night conversations.
I’ve never been able to duplicate those friendships, but maybe that’s the point. They were unique to a time and place, a fleeting chapter of youthful rebellion and camaraderie.
And while the years have blurred the edges of those memories, I cherish them still—the good, the bad, and the utterly ridiculous. They were ours, and that’s enough.
