Treehouse: He swirls metal cans bringing me wings—I'm his lifeline, but we'll never hang out.
So like… Malibu.
That’s where I’m from. It’s this stretch of coastline about thirty miles west of LA, tucked between the Santa Monica Mountains and the Pacific. PCH runs right through it—that’s the Pacific Coast Highway for anyone who’s not from here—and honestly, it’s kind of insane how beautiful it gets sometimes. Like when the sun’s setting over Point Dume and the whole ocean turns this crazy orange-pink color, and you can hear the waves from basically anywhere because the surf sounds loud here. That’s actually what Malibu means in Chumash. “The surf sounds loudly.”
Pretty sick, right?
But here’s the thing about growing up here… everyone thinks it’s all trust funds and celebrity kids and like, yeah, there’s some of that. But there’s also just… regular people. People working at Ralphs, serving tables, fixing cars. People who commute in from the Valley or Ventura just to work here because the rent’s gnarly if you’re not already set up.
Which brings me to today.
I’m heading to this spot—won’t say which one because, you know, privacy—but there’s this server there. Wes. He’s like, twenty-four, maybe twenty-five? Lives out in Oxnard, drives in for his shifts. And I don’t know, man…
I’m not a life coach or anything. I’m literally eighteen. I’m supposed to be worried about AP Calc and whether I’m going to UCSB or staying closer for community college first. But Wes has become this… thing for me. My passion project, I guess you could call it.
Pause.
It started like six months ago. I’d go in after surf sessions, grab food, whatever. Burgers, fries, buffalo wings—the usual. And Wes would be there, swirling that big metal food container pan over his head like he’s performing or something, bringing my order out with this grin on his face. That’s kind of his thing. Makes people laugh. Makes the job less soul-crushing, I guess.
And we’d just… talk. While I’m eating, while he’s got a minute between tables. At first it was surface level stuff—how the waves were, if I had school the next day, normal server-customer stuff. But then one day he looked rough. Like really rough. Tired eyes, moving slow, and I asked if he was good.
He told me he’d been sleeping in his car some nights because his roommate situation fell through and he couldn’t afford first and last month’s rent anywhere closer. He was trying to save up, but it was like… impossible. Every time he got close, something would happen. Car trouble. His mom needed help. Something.
And I just… I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
So I started helping. Small stuff at first—brought him leftovers from home, slipped him cash tips even though I’m broke too, helped him find resources online. Then it got deeper. We’d have these conversations—always at the restaurant, always while I’m there eating—about life, about what he wanted, about why he kept ending up in the same patterns. He’d talk about his ex, about how he felt stuck, about how he wanted to go back to school but didn’t know how.
And here’s where it gets real…
I told him: “Look, I’m gonna help you. But you gotta meet me halfway.”
He goes to church now. Every Sunday. I don’t even care if he believes in God or whatever—that’s his business—but he needed structure. Community. Something bigger than just grinding through shifts and going home to nothing. And it’s working. He’s met people there. Good people. People who aren’t just… using him or dragging him down.
And work? He shows up on time now. Every single shift. No more calling in, no more rolling in late smelling like regret and bad decisions. His manager noticed. Gave him more hours. More hours means more money. More money means he’s actually saving now.
Long pause.
But here’s the deal I made with myself, and with him, even though he doesn’t totally know it’s a deal…
As long as he keeps going to church, as long as he keeps showing up to work on time, as long as he’s trying… I’m there. I’ll keep checking in, keep talking him through the rough days, keep being that person who believes he’s not just some burnout server who’s gonna be stuck forever.
But if he slips… if he goes back to the chaos…
I can’t do it. I can’t be the person who watches someone drown while they’re refusing the life raft. I’ve seen that before—with my cousin, with friends’ older siblings—and it destroys you. It destroys them, but it also destroys the people trying to help.
So yeah. Boundaries. Even in compassion.
And speaking of boundaries…
He’s asked to hang out outside of work. Multiple times. Grab a beer, hit up a party, just chill. And every time it’s a hard no. Like… hard no.
Because that’s not what this is. This isn’t a friendship. This isn’t me trying to be his buddy or his peer or whatever. The second we hang out outside that restaurant, the second I blur those lines, I lose the ability to help him the way I’ve been helping him. It becomes something else. Something messier. Something that doesn’t work.
Our conversations happen when he’s swirling that food pan over his head, bringing me my wings. When I’m sitting in that booth and he’s got five minutes before table seven needs refills. That’s the container for this. That’s where the magic happens, if you can even call it that.
It’s weird, I know. But it works.
Today I’m going in to see him because it’s been a rough week for him. His car broke down—again—and I can tell from the way he texted me (yeah, we text, but only about real stuff, never to hang out) that he’s spiraling a little. That voice in his head that says see, you’ll never get ahead, why even try is getting loud.
And I’m gonna sit there, order something I probably can’t afford, and remind him:
“Dude, you’ve been showing up. You’ve been doing the work. This is just a setback, not a reset. You’re not the same person you were six months ago.”
Because he’s not.
And maybe I’m not either.
Maybe that’s what this whole thing is really about. Not me saving him—because I can’t save anyone, that’s not how it works—but both of us learning that consistency matters. That showing up matters. That sometimes the most radical thing you can do is just… keep going.
Within boundaries. Within structure. Within the lines that keep this thing sustainable.
Pause.
Anyway.
The waves were pretty firing this morning. Overhead at Zuma, clean lines, offshore winds. I got a few good ones before school.
But honestly? I’m more stoked about this conversation I’m about to have.
Because Wes texted me last night: “Got the car fixed. Made it to church this morning. Bringing you extra wings at 4?”
And that… that right there…
That’s everything.