Solo

by Kwame Alexander

  When Doves Cry

  I grip the steering wheel

  like we’re driving through a hurricane.

  You’re almost out of gas.

  We’ll be fine, babe.

  Where are we going?

  As far away from this madness as possible.

  Rodeo? She puts her hand on my leg to soothe me.

  Not exactly.

  Finding Robert

  Chapel and I walk

  the pier

  to find Robert,

  only he’s not there

  or in any

  of his usual spots.

  I ask James, who fishes

  on the pier every day, rain or shine,

  to help us

  find Robert.

  Try Leimert Park. They got a jam session going on tonight,

  he tells us.

  Chapel whispers, Another day, Blade. I should probably

  get home.

  It has to be today. You have to meet him today, I say.

  Seriously? Thought we were going to do Rodeo Drive.

  It’s important, Chapel. He’s important. I need you to see.

  See what?

  I just need you to see . . .

  We pay

  the $15

  to get into

  5th Street Dicks Lounge

  in Leimert Park,

  where the musicians

  jamming onstage

  nearly outnumber

  the people

  drinking

  and shimmying

  in their seats.

  Hearing Robert

  up there

  on a bona fide mic

  for the first time

  is like entering

  a universe

  where melody and

  soul

  and groove

  and element

  collide

  into something strange

  and magical.

  She kisses me

  hard and long

  like a riff

  strung out.

  Is it possible

  to overdose

  on love?

  He finishes his set

  and waves us over.

  Youngblood, how’d you find me?

  I know people.

  I see, he says, eyeing Chapel.

  This is—

  Chapel, he says, finishing my sentence.

  She reaches out

  to shake his hand,

  but Robert doesn’t shake hands.

  He bows.

  Chapel bows

  her head too.

  It is a blessing to finally meet you, Chapel. How’d y’all like

  the show?

  Pretty dope, she says.

  Robert nods at Chapel. I knew I liked you.

  It was okay, I guess.

  Okay? Boy, you better recognize . . . your little rock and

  roll started in these mean streets.

  I know, I know.

  Sit down—you need a lesson, and school’s about to be in

  session.

  Track 3: Cross Roads Blues

  ROCKER: ROBERT JOHNSON / ALBUM: THE COMPLETE RECORDINGS / LABEL: VOCALION / RECORDING DATE: NOVEMBER 1936 / STUDIO: GUNTER HOTEL IN SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS

  Youngblood, don’t you know

  rock and roll

  is just the blues

  minus the hope

  plus a bunch of screaming

  electric guitars?

  All these good ole boys

  just borrowed

  from gospel

  and the blues.

  But, don’t tell them

  I told you so.

  Zeppelin, Clapton,

  all the greats,

  they just channeled

  Howlin’ Wolf and Chuck Berry,

  and the O-riginal Robert Johnson.

  Did you know

  before Robert Johnson

  was called

  one of the fathers

  of rock and roll,

  he stood at the crossroads

  and sold his soul to the devil

  traded in his eternal residence

  for guitar-playing powers

  that would rock the world.

  Sounds like Rutherford.

  Out of Gas

  That was fun.

  That guy is real special. I always feel good when we hang.

  We make a left on Crenshaw when my car sputters and

  the engine nearly shuts off.

  Blade, I told you we were almost out of gas.

  It’ll be fine. There’s a station right over there.

  Did you hear that? Is the car even on?

  I tell myself everything is going to work out fine.

  But I am wrong.

  So wrong.

  Crisis at the Pump

  What are you doing here?

  Mom?

  WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE, CHAPEL?

  She looks at me and then at her daughter.

  Blade and I went to see his friend perform at—

  Chapel, you know the deal. This right here CANNOT

  happen. Blade, you seem like a nice boy and I’m sure this

  is hard . . .

  Mom, you know how much we care about each other.

  Your father and I made a decision and it’s final. Now say

  your goodbyes. Five minutes. I’ll be in the car. Don’t keep

  me waiting. I would hate to tell your father.

  Chapel and I embrace

  frozen in fear

  of this moment

  we’ve tried to hide from.

  Come on, Chapel! her mother yells from the car.

  And like that

  she’s stripped away again.

  She won’t even look

  out the window of the car

  as they drive off.

  I fill up my car

  and try to fill up

  the emptiness

  in my spirit

  on the long drive home

  across a world

  of canyons.

  Don’t fret

  Mom would say

  whenever I was sad.

  My fingers glide

  and press down

  on the frets

  of my guitar,

  secret sounds

  of pain

  burning my ears,

  stinging my eyes.

  Hands shaking

  like caffeine itself,

  and it doesn’t stop.

  And I start thinking about

  how dangerous this feels,

  to love someone so much

  when they can’t be with you.

  The Beginning of a Song

  This is what I know

  In this cavalcade of stars

  She is Polaris

  Her love shines

  Brighter than one hundred suns

  Sure, others are visible

  But in this orbit

  She is nearest

  And we are bound

  Together

  Forever

  I thought . . .

  © BLADE MORRISON

  I REALLY Got to Start Locking My Door

  What are you doing in here?

  How about knocking?

  The door was cracked.

  That wasn’t an invite.

  More love songs for your secret lover?

  Get out.

  Just don’t let her dad catch you.

  He won’t.

  They all say that.

  Seriously, what do you want?

  Have you called Rutherford?

  For what?

  To see how he’s doing. It’s been three days.

  I’m sure he’s fine. Probably figured out a way to sneak in

  some weed.

  I don’t have time for this. Look, I’m having a party

  tomorrow night.

  I heard.

  Good, so you know not to be anywhere near here.

  Actually, I w
as told to be right here.

  Over my dead body.

  Well, keep following in Rutherford’s footsteps and you’re

  on your way.

  Jerk.

  Sometimes, I think we’re all cursed.

  You’re such a drag.

  The kiss of death envelops us.

  Who even says that kind of stuff?

  I’m sorry.

  For what?

  For wallowing in the despair that is our life in front of

  you.

  Why do you hate us so much?

  I don’t hate us so much.

  You suck.

  Rutherford’s a drug addict. Our mother’s dead. And we’re

  headed nowhere fast.

  Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not

  condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and

  you will be forgiven.

  Something your shrink told ya?

  You’re an idiot. It’s in the Bible.

  Since when do you read the Bible?

  We’ve all got stuff, Blade. Suck it up. Life’s too short.

  What Bible verse is that?

  After she finishes

  telling me

  how ungrateful I am

  and how any fool

  in their righteous mind

  would be more than happy

  to trade places

  with me

  and my privileged, flashy life,

  she slams

  my bedroom door

  loud enough

  for Mick

  and Jagger

  to start barking.

  Hope

  I plop down

  by the pool

  stare at the ripples

  and torchlight dancing

  off the water.

  I wonder.

  About me.

  I don’t think I’ve hoped

  for enough.

  Maybe that’s what too much money does?

  Why am I so ungrateful?

  I have

  everything:

  the cars,

  the guitars,

  the mansion,

  the view,

  the girl.

  Something’s not right.

  There’s a vacancy

  inside the rooms

  of my soul.

  That sounds way corny,

  like a bad love song,

  but I’ve always assumed

  my hope

  would end

  badly.

  So why hope

  for anything

  when all the money

  in the world

  can’t buy

  a happy ending.

  Hope never drowns.

  That’s what Mom used to say

  when I was afraid to swim.

  Hope swims.

  I drift off, dream

  of swimming

  toward

  a sacred shore.

  Today is the Day

  I wake to the feeling of

  wet tongues mopping up salt

  from my cheeks

  and sleep from my eyes.

  Instead of being ticked off

  at Mick and Jagger,

  I hug them, tell them

  how I’m really going to miss

  their insanely annoying

  high-pitched yaps

  and the ear-piercing songs

  of their mother goddess, Storm.

  But I’m going to do this.

  I’m leaving LA.

  I’m going to pick up Chapel

  and we’re going to

  make a run

  for the highway

  and get this adventure started.

  Today is the day

  that hope wins.

  Conversation

  I tell Storm

  let’s Jumpin’ Jack Flash

  this joint—a final hurrah.

  Speak English, she says.

  The party. I’m gonna stay, help you out. Then, I’m ghost.

  Oh lucky me!

  How to Throw a Sick Party (According to Storm)

  Invite every guy you’ve ever met

  (including your exes, apparently)

  and every girl you hate.

  Fly DJ Goldie in

  from Miami

  and have her mix

  your music

  with music

  everyone actually likes.

  Have bartenders

  and cocktail waitresses

  pop bottles

  and tubs

  of shrimp

  and Doritos

  and hootch

  (the kegs are literally labeled

  hootch).

  Show off

  the $4000 statue

  that you replaced.

  Bring out

  Kid Cudi, then

  the dancers

  you hired to perform

  Bharatanatyam:

  the “dance of bliss,”

  which, actually, is

  pretty

  sick.

  After the Dance

  Here I stand

  in a random gallery

  barely noticed

  by the odd-shaped faces

  the loud conversations

  surrounding me.

  My temples pulse

  like little drums

  my eyes paint

  scenes

  each a masterpiece

  of Chapel.

  I wish you were here, I text

  to no response,

  just as Cammie Wood,

  who’s been sweating me

  since sixth grade,

  comes up

  in a shoestring bikini

  and smacks me

  on the butt.

  Conversation

  Hey, sexy.

  Hello, Cammie.

  How’s it hanging?

  You tell me.

  You and choir girl still together?

  You mean the love of my life, Chapel?

  Yadda, Yadda, Yadda!

  Nice to see you.

  Wait, don’t go. Let’s dance.

  I’m good.

  Your loyalty is cute. But where’s hers?

  What are you talking about?

  She’s not even here. She’s probably somewhere with

  someone else.

  Whatever. Nice chattin' with ya.

  Don’t be dense, Blade. Don’t let church girl fool ya.

  Okay, thanks, Cammie. Later.

  What she won’t know won’t hurt her.

  But it’ll hurt me.

  I promise to be gentle.

  I have a girlfriend, Cammie. Bye!

  She takes

  my shades off,

  gets so close

  her breath tangos

  with mine.

  She gently kisses

  my cheek,

  moves around

  to my ear

  whispers

  tasteless things

  that get a rise

  out of me

  then she nibbles

  on my earlobe.

  I close my eyes.

  Try not to think

  about the thrill

  growing.

  Try to push her away

  out of my mind

  just before she kisses

  me so hard

  I’m kissing

  her back.

  Bliss Interrupted

  Van DeWish

  crashes the mic

  and screams

  MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION!

  This hater

  is a wack rapper,

  with rich parents

  and no record deal,

  who used to date

  my girl,

  and thus

  a hater.

  Ever since Storm’s album

  flopped,

  debuting at

  the last Billboard spot,

  he’s dissed her

  on social med
ia

  every chance he gets.

  But tonight is, by far, the worst.

  It’s live.

  He gets everyone’s attention,

  mocking Storm’s song,

  then

  roasts her

  in front of

  Her. Entire. Party.

  What’s the difference between you and a lawn mower? You

  can tune a lawn mower. And your dad, Rutherford, is old

  news.

  Storm stands there

  in shock,

  ready to strike back. She

  looks at me,

  like I’m supposed

  to do something.

  I’m just glad Cammie’s tongue

  is no longer in my mouth.

  Hey, Storm, Van hollers, going in for the kill, you should

  leave your band and sing solo . . . So low we don’t hear

  you!

  The laughter erupts

  like a chorus

  of mad singers,

  and Storm runs . . .

  she just runs,

  knocking over people

  and chairs

  and hootch

  to escape.

  PARTY’S OVER

  I scream

  on the DJ’s mic.

  I don’t care

  where you go,

  but you got

  to get the heck

  outta here.

  We came to par-tay! Van chants, and

  now everyone joins in.

  WE CAME TO PARTY!

  I pull the plug,

  and make my way over

  to him.

  Get out.

  It’s just jokes, Blade. It’s just jokes, dude.

  Yeah, whatever. Party’s over, everyone, I turn and say

  to the posers.

  I thought we was cool, Van says.

  We’re not.

  Your girl thought I was cool, he says, laughing.

  C’mon, Van, Cammie says, pulling him away before I do

  something I won’t regret.

  It’s a lame party anyway, he adds.

  I clear everyone out,

  make my way to the front,

  where a mob

  of partiers

  are gawking at—

  Wait, this can’t—

  A stretch limo pulls up

  and out jumps

  a scruffy

  Rutherford Morrison

  with two giddy girls

  in matching

  zebra-print

  miniskirts,

  whose combined ages

  are less than

  his.

  His eyes look like

  they’re swimming

  in water.

  When he comes up