My Beautiful Nightmare: Preface and Chapter 1 Exclusive Preview

Preface: How I Became a Drug Dealer, Part 1

I was in month thirty-six of forty inside Oregon State Penitentiary, the state’s only max-security joint in Salem, when I ended up celled up with a man who would quietly reroute my whole life.

His name was Rabbit.

Rabbit ran with the Paisa’s, the group of Mexican guys, mostly born in Mexico, who weren’t in the main Latino Sureño gang. He had a big gamecock tattooed on his stomach, an unmistakable billboard. Normally he and I wouldn’t have shared a cell, but by then I only had four months left. There were no other blacks to share a cell with, and we already knew each other from the yard. Plus when I paroled, he could move one of his homies in and it would now be their cell.

Here’s the thing about prison: people can only teach you what they know. If you were celled up with me long enough today, you’d end up learning about bartending, traveling, and Norwegian winters. Being celled up with Rabbit meant I was going to learn about something else entirely.

Rabbit was doing ten years for trafficking cocaine and using a car dealership as a front. His mother was his co-defendant. One night we were just sitting there talking, and he looked over at me and said:

“Hey, Hollywood… What do you know about cocaine?”

Hollywood was my nickname in there, my “handle.” Before I got locked up, I’d lived in Hollywood, California, chasing dreams, so the name stuck.

The honest answer? I didn’t know shit about cocaine.

Up to that point, my entire drug résumé was weed and a few ecstasy pills at raves in Seattle the summer I turned twenty-one. I had never even seen coke in person. Growing up, my parents never allowed drugs anywhere near our family. They barely even drank alcohol. I swear my mom had the same two wine coolers in the fridge for like my entire childhood. No cigarettes, no weed, nothing. Not even coffee! They kept our home clean.

I remember kids in fourth grade sneaking cigarettes to school because their parents smoked and they thought that’s what “cool” looked like. That never tempted me. My parents didn’t smoke, and to me they were the coolest people I knew. So I didn’t have any real-life reference point for the world Rabbit was from.

He started filling in the blanks.

Over the next few months, he taught me the cocaine business like it was a college course: how to cut it, what to cut it with, how to cook crack, how to test quality and estimate purity. He didn’t force it on me or try to recruit me into some operation. We were just two guys killing time in a cell, and he was sharing what he knew.

On my last day, he handed me a phone number.

“If you ever get in a bad spot and need money,” he said, “call this number.”

Me? A drug dealer? At that moment it sounded ridiculous. I still believed, on some level, that I’d just get out, find a job, and get on with my life. I didn’t even know people who used cocaine. Who was I supposed to sell it to?

But I also knew I wasn’t the same kid who’d gone in. I’d gone to prison over a drunken college-party brawl when I was twenty-one. Got out of jail two weeks later and did ten months on bail, then got sentenced to forty-eight months at age twenty-two and ended up serving forty months with “good” behavior. During those years I had four birthdays in prison. By the time I paroled, I was twenty-six.

I was released as a convicted felon who had learned almost nothing about rehabilitation and a whole lot about violence, survival, and drugs.

Before I tell you about my life as a drug dealer, and the madness that was prison, I need to back up and explain how I even got to that cell in the first place.

Chapter 1: Growing Up in Virginia

I grew up in Herndon, Virginia—an easy, suburban town in Fairfax County where childhood felt safe and simple. I didn’t know how lucky I was at the time. Both of my parents were home, present, and fully committed to raising me. My mom worked for the cable company, my dad had a sports shop he owned for a little while and then continued on working in retail, and together they built a stable life full of routines, sports, and unconditional love.

Herndon was the place where everything started for me—five-bedroom house on Virginia Avenue, Bruin Park right out the front door, and a town full of kids who became lifelong friends: Marcus, Dana, Chris, Greg, and Kevin. We rode bikes all day, played football in the grass, hit the Herndon Festival every summer, and believed nothing bad could ever touch us.

Looking back now, that innocence was a privilege.

Coach Bill, the Herndon Legend

A huge part of that community was the parents—especially Kevin’s Dad, Bill Harris and Marcus’s dad, Joe Trammel. Bill coached everything: football in the summer, basketball in the winter, baseball in the spring. Stern but fair, loving without being soft, he became the blueprint for the man I wanted to be. And Joe was right along with him. Stability, family, consistency—they lived it every day. They were both family men. At the time I didn’t fully understand what I was witnessing, as an adult, I realize. It’s hard to get up everyday and be there, not only for your family, but for all the families of an entire town. Day after day, year after year, but they both did it, and it stayed with me.

Eighth Grade Reality Check (1997)

The worst thing that happened to me as a kid was getting beat up in 8th grade at Herndon Middle School.

Back then, these toy ink pens called Power Penz were all the rage. They had dart guns, helicopters, even a little basketball game called Rim Shot. They were awesome. I had one and brought it to school. Another kid asked to check it out, so I handed it over.

That kid was CJ Grish.

CJ ended up getting caught playing with the pen. Teachers had started confiscating them because kids wouldn’t stop messing with them. When the teacher questioned him—right in the middle of class, in front of everyone—he said, “It’s not my pen, it’s Robert’s pen.”

WTF?! What did I have to do with this?

The teacher asked if it was mine. I said no. In my head I’m thinking, I didn’t get caught with it—he did. That’s his problem.

Apparently, that logic didn’t sit well with CJ. He was not happy.

After class he told me we were fighting after school. Uh oh. Big problem. CJ was HUGE—legit bigger than some of the male teachers. No exaggeration. I was thirteen, 5’3” (160 cm), way smaller than average. CJ was almost 6’0” (182 cm). I already knew I was about to get my ass kicked.

I told my friends what happened. Dana pulled CJ aside in the hallway and told him to let it go—that I was half his size and it wasn’t worth it. Dana told him that they wouldn’t just sit around and watch me get beat up. CJ didn’t care. He said he’d be waiting.

When the final bell rang that day, instead of heading outside to my impending doom, I decided it was the perfect time to clean out my locker. I swear I took over a half an hour bullshitting. I was just buying time, hoping everyone would leave so I could sneak away. I was absolutely not trying to fight that dude.

Nope. Everybody was outside waiting. Like the whole damn school. Didn’t these kids have homework?

I slipped out the back door and saw the crowd in the distance. They looked like they were starting to disperse. I figured I’d cut left toward the Jefferson Mews apartments, hop the fence, and get home.

Then my own homie Chris spotted me and yelled at the top of his lungs,
“THERE’S ROBERT!! ROBERT!! WE’RE OVER HERE!”

I thought, Shit. Bruh. Are you kidding me?

I wasn’t always the confident guy you see today, though I have always known how to make an entrance—however, this was a time I was desperately trying to make an exit. Meanwhile my so-called friend, Dooty Judas, had just called me out in front of everyone.

Everyone turned. Now I had to go over. The crowd closed in—easily 100 kids. It felt like the whole damn school was there. Didn’t these kids have places to be? Where were the parents? How was this even happening?

CJ stepped up, towering over me, and said,
“I’ll even let you get the first punch.”

The crowd gasped, ready for my public execution.

I backed up, did a little run-hop forward, loaded up a massive right-handed haymaker, and smashed my fist into his face… for the knockout.

At least, that’s how I imagined it.

Reality? He didn’t even flinch. I had given him my best shot and he didn’t even flinch!

It was at that moment that I realized my mom had been right all along about bringing dumb stuff to school trying to show off. I should’ve listened—because now I was about to get my ass kicked over these dumb pens.

And I did.

He grabbed me, spun me around, and hammer-fisted the top of my head. It was lights out. I was seeing stars—cartoon stars, birdies, all of it. I was OUT. COLD.

When I came to, I saw Dana flying through the air swinging on CJ like a superhero. Thank God. He only hit me once, I think, but it laid me out completely.

Dana knocked him down, then the situation turned into a full-on mosh pit. Everyone jumped CJ. I won’t lie—I felt a little bad, just a little—but we really did try to avoid it. He knew what was going to happen. While the chaos unfolded, I escaped and took my ass straight home. No round two. Not that day.

Today though! I’m still looking for CJ. If you know him, tell him I’m fully grown now and we need to run that back. I know I should move past it. I know I'm an adult, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. I’m looking.

I’m so incredibly grateful there were no camera phones back then. I would’ve gone viral for all the wrong reasons. Oh my god, the video would still be making its rounds. So thankful to be a part of the last generation before technology hit full force.

That was the last time I ever got beat up—and I’ve been in some rough places since. Middle school was hard for me, like it is for a lot of people. I was small, hadn’t hit my growth spurt, wasn’t necessarily good at sports yet, and rode the bench on the Herndon Select basketball team—coached by Bill, of course. I was in the cool crowd, but my friends were the cool ones. I was just their friend. They still are cool. And they still are my friends. I’d like to think that I’m cool now too though.

Everything Changes (1998)

Life flipped quickly after that. My parents separated, my dad moved to Nevada, and my mom met Tony Harris—Kevin’s uncle—who would eventually become my younger brother Tariq’s father. Suddenly we were moving from Herndon to Vienna, and I was starting over as the “new kid.”

That became a pattern for me.

Oakton High School — Freshman Year (1998–99)

Oakton was bigger, whiter, wealthier, and unfamiliar. Out of 2,500 students, I knew maybe ten kids from youth sports. For the most part, I blended in quietly—5’6”, squeaky voiced, trying my best not to embarrass myself in front of girls like my crush, the 5’10” basketball superstar Melynda Gant.

That was the year I learned late bloomers exist. I just didn’t know yet that I was one of them.

One cool part of Oakton: classmates included NFL coach Scott Turner and actress/director Stephanie Turner, kids of Washington Redskins coach Norv Turner. They were normal, grounded, and part of the everyday school life you’d never guess belonged to NFL royalty.

By the end of the year, I’d grown four inches, to 5’10”. I didn’t know it yet, but life was already preparing me for constant change.

Birth of the Bearcats (Summer 1999)

That summer, Tony started an AAU team: the Virginia Bearcats. The team was built around me and Kevin, and we filled the roster with our actual friends. Somehow, we won the 15U Virginia State Championship. It felt like our little neighborhood was taking over the world.

Lee High School — Sophomore Year (1999–2000)

Another move. Another new school. Springfield this time—Robert E. Lee High School (now renamed). My third school in three years.

Tony had taken the JV coaching job at Lee, so I transferred to play point guard for him. The varsity team that year was stacked—District Champs, Regional Champs, State Semi-Finals. My boy Chris Goodin, a sophomore like me, started on varsity. He would play on the Bearcats too. He and I became inseparable.

Then came one of the scariest moments of my entire childhood.

The Day Chris and I Almost Got Abducted (Autumn 1999)

You already know how dumb teenage boys can be. Chris and I were playing basketball after school at Lee, we missed the late bus, and ended up walking home along the Springfield Parkway—a freeway. Chris had been confident that somebody would give us a ride, but no, that didn’t happen.

After two miles, a grimy Pontiac Trans-Am pulled over. Inside was a man who looked like every “Stranger Danger” warning rolled into one: dirty blond hair, filthy clothes, chubby, and something about his left hand on his thigh with extremely short shorts made my stomach twist.

He kept insisting we get in.

Everything in my body said No. My gut screamed it.

Chris and I backed away, made up a lie about living “right over there,” and walked fast toward a housing development. He watched us for way too long before finally driving off.

We didn’t talk at first. We just kept moving. Both of us knew—we had been right there, one wrong choice away from disappearing.

A second car pulled up later—this time college kids blasting music, chill vibes, asking for directions to the Saratoga pizzeria. That ride felt right. We accepted, and they dropped us close to home.

That moment taught me something I didn’t fully understand until adulthood:

Your body knows danger before your mind forms the words. Listen to it. Always trust your gut.

Becoming a Big Brother (2000)

In January 2000, Tariq was born. I was fifteen, suddenly changing diapers, holding this tiny light-skinned baby, and catching pee on my clothes when I was supposed to be catching the school bus. Girls loved him though. They’d ask if he was mine. I was like, “No! I’m fifteen!”

Life was changing fast. By that spring, I got my driver’s license, the Bearcats won our second straight state championship, and we got invited to the World Youth Basketball Tournament in Hawaii.

It felt like everything was opening up.

I had no idea how much darker things would get later, or how far from home life was about to take me…