High Stories: "A Man Asked Us To Help Push His Car Up a Hill, While We Were Smoking a Blunt!"

Photo by Vincent Sébart

There are two types of stoner stories: the ones where nothing happens... and the ones where God looks down mid-hit and says, ‘Let’s make this interesting.’ This is the latter.

Let me set the scene: my bestie and I are mid-blunt, mid-vibe, and mid-sunset on one of those magical evenings when everything feels soft, sexy, and slow-motion. The weed was hitting just right. Our energy? Divine. Life was quiet. Perfect. Golden-hour glow, wind-down playlist on low, and absolutely zero intentions of doing anything that involved physical effort.

Enter: chaos on wheels.

A beat-up sedan—struggling, wheezing, and sounding like it just smoked its last Marlboro—comes crawling up the hill we’re parked near. It’s the kind of hill that makes you question your life choices. Like, you really thought your 2002 Civic could handle this incline, my guy?

Then, it happens.

The Ask

The car stops. The door opens. A man steps out—disheveled, desperate, and clearly drenched in whatever cocktail of panic and poor planning led him to this hill in the first place.

And he looks at us.

Not at the other pedestrians walking their dogs or the group of guys standing around doing nothing. No. He looks directly at the two blazed femmes in crop tops, passing a cherry-red blunt between giggles and spiritual revelations.

“Excuse me,” he says as if we’re the AAA hotline.“Can you help me push my car up this hill real quick?”

Now, I’m high but not hallucinating. So I blink. I turn to my girlfriend. She blinks. We both look at him like he just asked if we could help him land a plane.

“Like… physically push your car?” I ask, blunt still in hand.

“Yeah, yeah, just real quick. It died, I just need a push to the top.”

Sir. Be so serious.

But You Know What? We’re Built Different

We take a long hit, exhale like action movie heroes, and say:

“F**k it. Let’s go.”

Because we may be high, but we’re also kind-hearted, cannabis-fueled icons of service. And no man was going to tell his friends he got stuck halfway up a hill because two stoned girls wouldn’t help him.

We flick off the ashes, adjust our tops, and walk over in our weed-scented glory to assess the situation. The car is, in a word, struggling. This thing had seen better days—probably back when iPods had click wheels.

I position myself behind the trunk like I have any upper body strength whatsoever. My girlfriend gets next to me. The man hops in and puts the car in neutral.

The Push Heard Round the Block

We start pushing.

At first, it doesn’t move.

Then, miraculously, the car lurches forward.

Momentum kicks in, adrenaline takes over, and for a moment, we are stoned She-Hulks, giggling and grunting as we push this man’s clunker up a hill like it’s the last scene of a sports movie.

Every few seconds, we pause, hands on knees, coughing from the combo of laughter and exertion, like:

“Why… the f**k… did we say yes to this?!”

Eventually—miraculously—we get this man and his broken ride to the top. He throws it into park, hops out, and claps like we just finished a CrossFit class.

“Y’all are angels,” he says.

“We’re stoned angels,” I reply, lighting what’s left of the blunt with hands that now smell like motor oil and determination.

We strut down that hill sweaty, high, heroic. It wasn’t just a good deed. It was an origin story. Somewhere between the coughing, the cracked-out car, and the complete absurdity of the situation, we unlocked a new level of badassery.