THE AUX, THE SHORTCUTS, THE FRIES—THE BOYS, ALWAYS

Photos captured this morning in Woodland Hills by the one and only Mitchell Royel on his iPhone (yeah, the man’s got angles). Meanwhile, we’re blasting the timeless classic Oops! by the gravy god himself, Yung Gravy. Feels fitting, ‘cause if today had a soundtrack, it’d 100% be that buttery beat.

Honestly, Mitchell snapped these while I was trying to make a protein shake with, like, zero skill — ended up looking like a chemistry accident in a high school locker room. Foam everywhere. Smelled like creatine and regret. But hey, the lighting hit different, and Gravy’s still got us vibing, so it’s a win.

Moral of the story? Shake hard, flex harder, and always trust Mitchell with the camera

(Voice memo. 2:07 a.m. Somewhere off Ventura Boulevard. The window's cracked. A car's idling somewhere down the street.)

Okay.
Okay, I'm recording. Is it recording?
Yeah.
Red dot.
We're good.

So I can't sleep.
Classic me.
And I'm lying here with the window open, and the air smells like jasmine and warm asphalt, and somebody down the block is playing music way too loud in their driveway. And I just thought, man, somebody should say this out loud before we all forget it.

This is for the Woodland Hills boys.

You know who you are.
You know exactly who you are.

Let me set the scene, because I think about it constantly. May '24. The Valley's doing that thing where it's ninety-one degrees at four in the afternoon and then around seven the sky turns this soft orange, like somebody dropped a creamsicle on the horizon. Every house on the street has a tile roof and a lawn that somebody's dad is way too proud of. And I'm standing in my living room in my striped navy polo, the one my mom says makes me look "presentable," right next to that pothos plant that's slowly taking over the whole bookshelf.

And I'm just looking out the window. Waiting.

That's the thing nobody tells you about the best nights. Half of them start with waiting. Waiting for the group chat to decide. Waiting for someone's parents to leave. Waiting for headlights to swing into the driveway.

And then they do.

Dark green Civic, late nineties, the paint kind of faded on the hood like it's been through a few summers of its own. Two girls in the front seat, both grinning at the window like they already know I've been standing there for twenty minutes pretending I wasn't. And I play it cool. I do the little nod. Very smooth. Very composed.

And then I trip on the doormat on my way out.

Oops.

That's kind of the whole philosophy, honestly. Oops. You walk into life a little too confident, you mess up, you laugh about it, and somehow it ends up being the best part of the story. The boys taught me that. We weren't perfect. We were never trying to be perfect. We were trying to be there. Present. In the car, in the moment, windows down.

Let me tell you about the boys.

There's the one who always had the aux, and never once in his life let anyone else touch it. Didn't matter whose car. Didn't matter whose birthday. If you reached for the cord, he'd look at you like you just insulted his grandmother.

There's the one who swore he knew a shortcut every single time. Never once was it a shortcut. We ended up in Reseda. We ended up in Tarzana. One time we ended up at a closed nursery at midnight, just staring at a bunch of succulents. He still defends it.

There's the one who didn't talk much, but when he did, it hit. Like we'd all be yelling, laughing, eating fries off a napkin in a parking lot, and he'd just go, "Bro, we're gonna miss this." And everybody would get quiet for a second. And then someone would throw a fry at him. But he was right. He was always right.

And then there's me. The guy who shows up in a polo like it's a country club and then ends up sitting on a curb at 1 a.m. with ketchup on his sleeve.

We were a mess.
A beautiful, loud, sunburnt mess.

The nights, though.
Let's talk about the nights.

Nights at the Top of Topanga, sitting on the hood looking out over the whole Valley lit up like somebody spilled a jar of gold glitter across the floor. You could see the grid of it. Every streetlight. Every little house with its porch light on. And we'd just sit there, talking about everything and nothing. What we'd be. Where we'd go. Who liked who. Who was pretending not to like who.

Nights at the drive-thru where we'd order way too much and split it in the parking lot, arguing about whose turn it was to pay, and then it'd turn out nobody had cash, and someone would find eleven crumpled dollars in the cup holder like buried treasure.

Nights where we didn't go anywhere. Just a backyard, a couple of lawn chairs, a speaker that kept cutting out, and the pool light turning the whole fence blue. Somebody always fell in. Usually on purpose. Sometimes not.

Oops.

And the drives. Man, the drives. Taking Topanga Canyon all the way down to the coast, those curves hugging the mountains, the air getting cooler and saltier the closer you got. And you'd round that last bend and there it was. The Pacific. Just sitting there, huge and blue and totally unbothered by any of our drama.

That's what that first polaroid is about. She's driving, laughing so hard her head's tipped back. I've got my elbow out the window, wearing a watch I definitely only wore to look like I had somewhere to be. The trees are going by. The houses are going by. And neither of us is looking at the camera because we're too busy being happy.

I love that picture because it's not posed. It's just proof. Proof that it happened. Proof that for one afternoon, everything was exactly right.

Here's the part I've been thinking about tonight, though.

When you're in it, it feels endless. Summer feels endless. The boys feel permanent. You think there'll always be another night at the overlook, another green Civic in the driveway, another window to stare out of while you wait.

And then one day you look at a polaroid and you realize it's already a memory.

Not in a sad way. Well, a little sad. But mostly in a grateful way. Because you got it. You got those nights. You got the boys. You got May '24, and nobody can take that back from you.

That second polaroid — I look at it and I don't see a guy waiting for a ride. I see a guy standing right on the edge of the best summer of his life, and he has no idea. He's just nervous and kind of excited and hoping his hair looks okay.

It didn't, by the way. It never does. Doesn't matter.

So yeah.
This is me saying thanks.

Thanks to the boys who showed up at my door at 11 p.m. with no plan and a full tank. Thanks to the girls who pulled up honking and made us feel like the main characters for a second. Thanks to every parking lot, every canyon road, every backyard with a flickering pool light. Thanks to the Valley heat, and the Valley nights, and the Valley sunsets that honestly don't get enough credit.

We made a lot of mistakes. We took a lot of wrong turns. We said "oops" about a thousand times.

But I'd do every single one of them again.

Woodland Hills, you raised us right.
Mostly.

Okay. Before I go to sleep, and before I get too emotional on a voice memo I'm definitely never sending to anyone — here's some advice. For the boys who need it.

-Deck

EPILOGUE: FOR THE GIRLS

1. Stop trying to be smooth.
The nod, the lean, the "yeah I was just leaving anyway." She's not impressed. You tripping on the doormat and laughing about it is more attractive than any move you've practiced in the mirror. Just be a real person.

2. Actually listen when she talks.
Not just waiting for your turn to speak. Actually listen. Remember the little things. Bring them up later. It sounds simple because it is, and yet here we are.

3. Don't text three drafts. Send the first one.
You've been staring at that message for forty minutes. She's not analyzing your punctuation like that. Send it. Worst case, you cringe later. Best case, you're getting picked up in a green Civic.

4. Have somewhere to go.
Not a plan, just a direction. "You wanna get food?" is fine. "You wanna get food and drive up Topanga after?" is better. It shows you thought about more than just the first five minutes.

5. Let her pick the music.
Seriously. Every time. You'll hear something you never would've found on your own, and she'll remember that you didn't fight her for the aux. That matters more than you think.

6. Show up when you say you will.
On time. Not ten minutes late "on my way." Actually on time. It's a low bar that a shocking number of guys clear on the ground instead of over it.

7. Don't perform. Just hang.
The funniest, most magnetic version of you is the one that shows up when you're not trying. The guys who are great with girls aren't running material. They're just comfortable. Get comfortable.

8. Bring your friends into it.
If she's with her friends and you're with the boys and everyone's together and it's good — that's the whole thing. That's the whole dream. Don't try to separate her from the group. Merge the groups. Let it be a night.

9. It's okay if she doesn't like you back.
Genuinely okay. Not "I'll say it's okay and then be weird about it" okay. Actually okay. The Valley's full of people. The summer's long. You'll be fine. Move with your head up.

10. The goal isn't the girl. The goal is the memory.
You want a story worth telling at 2 a.m. on a voice memo nobody asked for. Whether it ends perfectly or totally sideways, if it made the summer feel more alive — that's the win.

Alright. That's it. Window's still open. A car just pulled up down the street, and for a second I swear I looked out to see if it was a green Civic.

It wasn't.

But one day it'll be something just as good.

Goodnight, Woodland Hills.