Solo
Page 3
In my house
guitars
are the holy grail,
the keepers
of our secrets
and our prayers,
but tonight God’s
not on my side,
’cause I can’t write
a lick,
and the whole world’s
gonna know
real soon.
While I’m in
my room
swimming
in a fishbowl,
trying to write
my life
on strings,
I hear loud talking
and laughter
downstairs.
At 3 am.
Uncle Stevie
who used to play
drums
in my dad’s band,
is in the foyer
smoking
dressed like
he’s about to
Rock the Casbah—leather
pants, leather jacket,
Ray-Bans, and worn
snakeskin shoes.
Somebody forgot to tell you, the eighties left, I say.
C’mere, you little bugger, he says, grabbing me in a
headlock.
Blade, why aren’t you asleep? You need your rest for
tomorrow.
I could ask you two the same question.
Kid, we haven’t slept in thirty years.
Party like rock stars, huh?
We’re just two dudes riding the elevator to heaven.
No stairway, huh?
Too old for stairs, kid.
Speak for yourself, Stevie.
What are you doing up?
I’m still writing, y’all wanna help?
We’d, uh, love to, kid, but we got some business.
What kind of business?
They look
at each other
as if they’ve stolen
the last cookie
in the jar.
We’re just going to grab some coffee and talk, Rutherford
says.
You think I’m stupid enough to fall for that story again?
We’ve been doing THIS for years.
He’s right, it’s only coffee. I haven’t imbibed in nine days.
Your dad’s clean, Blade. We’re talking about getting the
band back together. That’s all, I promise, kid.
Stevie, we can’t leave this amateur here by himself trying
to craft a masterpiece. Let’s show him how we make magic,
then we have our breakfast meeting.
Then you show up at my graduation.
Then we show up at your graduation.
Okay.
Cool, now show us what you got written so far, kid.
Well, right now, it’s mainly an, uh, idea.
You got nothing?
I got nothing.
For all his flaws
Rutherford
is Picasso
with pen and guitar.
This could be
the first graduation speech
to win a Grammy.
Even though he writes
life’s woes and wonders
like a boss,
he hasn’t been able
to right his life
since October 10, 2007.
October 10, 2007
Storm was in the pool
or getting her nails painted paisley,
and Mom was asleep.
She was tired of The Road.
She wanted to be home.
We all did.
Except Rutherford.
He and his band
The Great Whatever
were in Vegas
for the third
sold-out concert.
He promised
Sunny, this is the last one.
But, he’d said that before.
I begged her
to let me
go to the concert.
No, I’m feeling lucky,
she said. Do you know
what today is?
It’s 10/10.
What does that mean?
No idea, but maybe
it’ll bring us
some luck.
Let’s go play
the slots. So when he left
for sound check
we left
the penthouse too
in our own
private elevator
that went straight
to the casino.
Between
our floor—thirty-five—and
the lobby,
the display read:
E Z.
Mom and I took turns
trying to figure it out.
Emotional Zebra.
Nice one, Mom.
She dropped one coin
and then another
into the first slot.
Expressionless Zombie.
Entry Zone.
Egalitarian Zealot.
YEAH! she said,
laughing so hard
she didn’t even notice
she’d won
$190
in the quarter slots.
Then we walked
outside the Bellagio
and headed downtown.
You take half, she said
handing me a wad
of bills.
We stopped
at Magic Marley’s music store
and I bought
Track by Track: The Greatest Songs You Must Hear Before
You Die
a thousand pages
that cost most
of my winnings.
Good choice, she said, smiling.
You’re a star in the making, Blade.
On the way back, near
the hotel,
she stopped to smell
some yellow flowers
then bit a piece of one.
Seriously, Mom?
What? Marigold. Edible Zest.
Yeah, for a bee.
Watch out, Mom.
MOM, WATCH OUT!
But it was too late.
She got stung.
Too sweet
for my own good, she said
laughing, and
rubbing the bump
swelling
on her neck.
Evil Zapper, she said
laughing again.
We walked inside
the lobby,
but never made it
to the elevator
because she
fell to the ground
right beneath
the famous
glass sculpture.
The doctor said
an allergic reaction
to the bee sting
triggered
a brain aneurysm.
She died.
Right there
in the casino lobby
while The Great Whatever
rocked the stage.
That was ten years ago.
Rutherford never forgave himself.
And his life spiraled
into a quicksand of
nothingness.
Empty Zeroness.
Track 1: Thinking of You
ROCKER: LENNY KRAVITZ / ALBUM: 5 / LABEL: VIRGIN AMERICA / RECORDING DATE: 1998 / STUDIO: COMPASS POINT STUDIOS IN THE BAHAMAS
While we’re writing
the song
that I’m to play
in less than nine hours
in front of
three thousand people,
the song
that I’ve decided
to dedicate
to my mom,
Uncle Stevie plays
some Lenny
for inspiration,
then explains
that most people
only know that
Lenny wrote
it about his mother,
but no one knows
that she was
an actress
on a sitcom
called The Jeffersons
or that
one of his bandmates
actually played
Heineken bottles
on the track,
which would be
a pretty cool story
if I hadn’t heard him
tell it
a million times.
My dad
jets for the pool
and a cig
because
the song
makes him
think
of her.
The song’s a hit! Went for coffee. Break a leg, killer!
I doze off
a few hours later
and wake up
to Rutherford’s red Maserati
making skid marks
down our driveway
and a note
on my mirror.
Graduation Day
From the stage
I see Chapel
blow me a kiss.
I get so lost
in her deep blues
I almost don’t hear
Principal Campbell
introduce
Our salutatorian,
Blade Morrison.
Climbing the Steps to Speak
I throw
my guitar
over my
shoulder and
walk to
center stage
and start
strumming to
loud applause
but I
never get
to sing
because
I realize
they’re not
clapping
for me.
On the biggest stage of my life
in the middle
of the most important thing
I’ve ever done
a woman wearing
a black helmet,
matching bikini,
and nothing else
rides a red Harley
onto the football field
with a man
in the same outfit
holding a guitar
high above his head
screaming
I LOVE ROCK ‘N’ ROLL!
I stare in disbelief
and shame
at Chapel
at Principal Campbell
at the graduating class
egging him on
with cheers
and roars
even after
the bike slams
into the front
of the stage
and he gets up
steps on
the biker woman
then stumbles
his way
up the steps
to the mic
to me.
Rock and Roll, Blade, my father whispers
hugging me
with breath
that smells like
the devil’s mouthwash.
My father
has a map
on his body that tells you
everything you don’t
want to know about him.
A sun on his right shoulder.
A storm cloud with a bolt of lightning on his left.
A blade running down the back of his neck.
Over his heart: STILL HERE.
But, we’re not. Still. Here.
This is the end of the road.
While he bares his wretched self
in front of the world
I walk off stage
to the sound
of his vomiting
and cell phones clicking.
I’m not even mad.
I’m just done.
Being here.
Being a Morrison.
Texts from Chapel after Graduation
9:08 pm
I’m sorry I couldn’t
be there
to comfort you.
9:08 pm
Parents.
Grandparents.
Graduation dinner.
9:09 pm
My parents made a point
NOT to talk about
you or what happened.
9:09 pm
I was sad and on
the verge of tears
the whole time at dinner.
9:10 pm
I kept thinking
about you and how
embarrassed you must be.
9:10 pm
I bet your song
was DOPE though.
Play it for me later?
Hollywood Report
Rock & Roll Royalty has proven yet again
that no one knows how to screw up bigger
and better than Rutherford Morrison.
Just yesterday, he crashed his son’s
graduation ceremony, literally,
drunk driving into the stage
moments before Blade Morrison was to deliver
the commencement address. Thankfully, no one was
injured,
except the already damaged ego and reputation
of his only son.
Rumor has it that Rutherford had been sober
for a short period of time, nine days, but who’s counting.
According to reports, he’s headed back to rehab,
for the ninth time in as many years, but again who’s
counting?
As much as we all still love his music,
if rehab doesn’t work, jail or death might be the only fix.
Track 2: When the Lights Go Out
ROCKERS: THE BLACK KEYS / ALBUM: RUBBER FACTORY / LABEL: BLACK POSSUM RECORDS / RECORDING DATE: JANUARY–MAY, 2004 / STUDIO: AN ABANDONED TIRE MANUFACTURING FACTORY IN AKRON, OHIO
I try reading it doesn’t help
I try strumming it doesn’t help
I try eating it doesn’t help
So I just lay here
with the lights out
listening to The Black Keys.
Staring into
the desolation
of my brokenness.
Eventually falling
into a sea
of dreams
drowning
in the dark
deep beneath
the place
where dreams
have no rules.
Dream Variation: Spin a Song
In the dining room
Rutherford
sits
at the opposite end
of the Italian marble table.
(Even our dreams are excess.)
Atop the table
is a feast
of desserts—my favorites:
red velvet Oreos
red velvet cupcakes
red everything—including
a garden of red roses
(each with the initial BU
tattooed on them).
Bumpy Umbrella, Rutherford says
matter-of-factly,
with the sincerest grin
aimed at my mother
as she swaggers
into the room
to the beat
of “All About that Bass”
with a knife
the size of a machete.
She slices a cookie
into a millions pieces.
(And doesn’t say a word.)
Belly Ulcer, he adds
and all of a sudden
I feel like
I’ve eaten
every cupcake and cookie
in the room
and now I’m gonna
throw up.
(She is still silent, slicing.)
I turn ashen
as each Oreo crumb
turns into
a spider
and crawls
off the table.
Buckle Up, Rutherford says, laughing.
(The dining room is now a hallway or an open field, I
can’t tell.)
He’s gone,
his laughter
now morphed into
a song
with an infectious rhythm
of blues
that’s becomes the soundtrack
to a movie
with a chase scene
starring yours truly
and a big, red spider
with a dreadful face
gunning straight
for me.
(It looks familiar, but I can’t tell.)
Run, she whispers
and I do
before it bites me
or worse.
I run
I run away
I run away, fast,
I run away, fast, toward—
Hovering
BLADE! BLADE! WAKE UP!
I’m awake. I’M AWAKE. What are you doing, Storm?
Stop shaking me.
Geesh, you’re drenched. Wet dream, huh?
GET AWAY! What time is it?
It’s half past time to get up and stop crying over spoiled
milk.
Spilt milk!
Whatever, open these windows and stop whining. He
messed up, get over it.
Easy for you to say, he didn’t embarrass you in front of
the world.
Uh, yeah he did. I was right there too. It was bad. But it’s
not the end of the world.
It’s not the end of your world, Storm. You didn’t get
ruined.
He’s our father, for better or for worse.
Why are you so forgiving?
Why are you not? It’s a disease. He needs help.
Yeah, well, tell him that when he gets back from
whatever hellhole he’s in.
He’s back.
Great. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need some privacy.
Next time, knock.
Next time, don’t scream, DON’T KILL ME, PLEASE!
What are you talking about? It was a nightmare.
What was it—fire, a cliff, a gun to the head?
It was nothing.
Still, I wanna know.
It’s the same dream I’ve been having, Storm, but this
time, Mom was in it.
Well, now I’m intrigued, little brother.
It was ridiculous.
Get on with it, this room smells like sautéed cat pee.
. . . .
Texts from Chapel
11:45 am
I couldn’t stop
thinking about you last
night. I fell asleep
11:46 am
thinking about your song,
and woke up with you
on my lips. Sorry you
11:46 am
didn’t get to
play it . . . Are you okay,
babe? Muah!
Conversation
Yeah, and I just kept running toward her.
It’s rude to text and talk.