High Stories: "The Time We Almost Lost Everything on the Way to LAX..."

So me and my friend had just smoked a fat blunt before heading to LAX for a flight. You know, just a little pre-airport ritual to make TSA slightly more tolerable. We were zooted—like, everything-is-funny-and-nothing-makes-sense zooted.

Our Uber pulls up, a big black SUV. We toss our luggage in the trunk, hop in, and start cruising toward the airport. Music’s vibing, windows cracked, everything’s feeling smooth.

About 10 minutes into the freeway, I feel this intense gust of wind behind me.

Like, unnatural. Not “window open” breeze… this was “are we in a wind tunnel?” level air.

I turn around… and the TRUNK. IS. WIDE. OPEN.

We were so high, we never closed it after loading our bags.

I look back and see our suitcases sitting right at the edge, just chilling there, fully exposed to the freeway gods. I didn’t even think—I just launched myself over the back seat like a stoned action hero and body-blocked the luggage. Arms wrapped around backpacks, legs braced, head down, praying nothing flies out and causes a six-car pileup.

My friend’s in the front, yelling directions to the Uber driver like we’re in a Fast & Furious scene. The driver’s panicking, trying to merge across 5 lanes to the nearest exit.

We finally pull off. I’m still clinging to the bags like they’re newborn puppies. We stop. The driver jumps out. Closes the trunk like it’s the most normal Tuesday task in the world.

We get back on the road. No bags lost. No accidents. Just two very, very high people staring straight ahead, emotionally recovering.

Made it to the airport on time. Barely. Spiritually? We’re still in that Uber.