by Jason Myers
Just being able to sit at this table again and hear James Morgan talk about life a little bit is unbelievable. I’m sure he’s been a fuckhead and a drag to some people, but then again, those people who feel that way have probably been the same things to someone else.
Snorting another line of coke, James slides the mirror in front of me. “Just one,” he goes.
“I prolly shouldn’t, man.”
“Just get rad once with me in the Whip Pad, dude. One line. I mean, my favorite fucking Kendrick Lamar song is playing, dude. Hi fucking power. Kill that rail, Tiger Stitches. Do it for me, man.”
Taking the straw from James’s hand, I slide it up my right nostril and plug my left one with my finger and bang it right up there as Kendrick Lamar (and James Morgan) sings . . .
“I’m standing on a field full of land mines, doing the moonwalk, hoping I blow up in time . . .”
Immediate fucking charge to my brain and my body. Like, damn. I’m really fucking high and it happened so fast.
“Whoo,” I snort, sliding back in the chair. “Jesus Christ, man.”
“Right,” says James.
“Right,” I say back, giving him a high five. “Damn.”
“What are you doing tonight?” he asks me.
“This chick I’ve been hanging out with a little bit since I got here, her band is opening for King Krule at Slim’s.”
“Nice,” he says. “What’s her band?”
“Vicious Lips.”
“And she’s your age and opening a show that big?”
“She’s sixteen,” I say.
“Same fucking thing when it comes to that. You kids,” James says. “You ambitious little brats. You’re figuring it all out now. Using the media culture perfectly to your advantage. Good job on that.”
“There’s no need to wait for people to come to us anymore. We’re coming for them, for you, and we can post as many songs as we want, as many pictures of our paintings as we want, as many videos as we want, and if it’s good, people are gonna grab onto it and devour it and pass it along to the rest of their world without some label or PR company or manager taking twenty percent just to do what we can do, what I can fucking do while drinking a Corona in my underwear and listening to the Fresh and Onlys or Mazzy Star.”
James laughs and smacks his hands together. “I love it, homie. Fucking Tiger Stitches.”
We fist bump and he goes, “There’s a show on Thursday night at the Great American Music Hall.”
“Who?” I ask.
“Youth Lagoon is playing, man.”
“For real?” I ask. “Like, they’re playing on Thursday? I love that band to death.”
“Me too,” says James. “But it’s a twenty-one-and-up show, man.”
“Fuck,” I groan. “Why’d you tell me that?”
“Really,” says James. “That’s all you got? Like at the very least, you can stand outside and listen to the show from there. You can hear it clear as the night. Come on, man. That’s better than nothing.”
“You’re right.”
“I was in Seattle with this girl Caralie I used to love for a long time. While we were there, we found out the Black Angels were playing a free show, so of course, we’re like, we gotta do this, ya know. They’d just released Directions to See a Ghost, so we showed up early to get in line cos it was first come, first serve. But while we were waiting, they fucking sound checked their entire set and we could hear it like we were in the front row, man. And both of us had seen them at least three times before, so we rocked gnar in line and when they were done, we bailed. We’d just heard the set and to this day, that remains one of my favorite shows or sets or afternoons ever. Just standing outside with all the real fans and listening to a band you love play their set. It’s fucking awesome. And that’s why I told you.”
He does another line and then passes the mirror back to me.
“Well, thanks for the heads-up, man.”
“You gotta show up for something like that while you’re here, man. While you have that kind of access you will never get back in Joliet.”
“I know.”
“Good,” he says.
I pound another line right as Gerry walks into the room.
“Damn, man,” he goes. “You really do have a habit of getting teenagers high on coke.”
“Kid’s fucking dope, man,” James snaps. “He can handle this shit.”
“Absolutely, I can,” I say.
“It’s time,” says Gerry. “We gotta bounce and check out that space for the party next month.”
“Cool,” says James. Looking back at me, he goes, “Do you think your dad has fucked Savannah?”
I shake my head. “No. Not at all. I think he wants to and he would, but I don’t think that’s happened. Why?”
“Cos she hasn’t fucked me yet.”
“So what?”
“I like that girl.”
“Maybe she just wants to be your friend.”
“Maybe,” says James. “But I think it’s something else with her. It’s almost like there’s someone she doesn’t wanna let down or make them think less of her by fucking me, and I thought it might be your dad, since he flew her out here and was pretty hands-on the other night.”
“I’m sure they haven’t, dude. That dude’s been in bed with his wife every night since I’ve been here.”
“All right,” he says. “I was just wondering.”
“Word.”
Both me and James stand up, and he gives me a hug.
“Have fun at the show tonight,” he says.
“Thanks, man. Thanks for everything. This is awesome.”
As I’m about to leave the room, James goes, “Only you can make the right choices for you, Jaime. The ones you can live with. Don’t let anyone else dictate your happiness, man.”
“It’s not that easy, though,” I say.
“Oh, I know. It’s probably the hardest fucking thing in the world. But it’s your life, dude. Those other people ain’t gonna be around when you’re fifty and miserable and wishing you’d done what you knew what was best for you thirty years earlier. If you haven’t made the right fucking choices for your life, it’ll be just you and a lot of misery, and that’s no way to live. Misery is something you destroy, not dwell in, dude. Tiger fucking Stitches.”
70.
BRANDON’S PARENTS LET US SHRED for an hour tonight. The three of us, me, Eddie, and Brandon, we decide to call our project Skullburns. It’s a lot more melodic and poppy than the Devil Feeder stuff, but it’s still tough as nails.
We work on the four songs from last night three times each and then decide that tomorrow night in Eddie’s neighbor’s garage (it’s soundproofed), we’ll record them live and throw ’em straight up on the Internet with a logo that Brandon drew and some pictures we’ll take with our phones.
It’s that easy. It really is. And if the music is any good, people are gonna listen and share it and talk about it.
Kids in Florida and Idaho and Texas. Kids in Japan and Australia.
Kids everywhere.
They’re gonna be so stoked. Another piece of the blueprint presented to them. Another reason to stop making excuses and start doing shit and start taking their lives and their art seriously.
Before we bounce to the show, we skate the two blocks to the beach (Brandon has an extra board for me).
The sun is setting. This is why we’re here. Because when we opened the garage door after destroying, for the first time in a day and a half the sun finally broke through the threshold of gray to say hi.
“This is the best part of living way out here,” said Brandon. “Getting to see this over two hundred days of the year.”
“It’s so epic,” I said, my eyes huge and excited. “It’s just massive and perfect.”
Eddie put his arm around me and went, “Come on then, homie. Let’s grab the best fucking seats in the world then.”
We take off our shoes, and I roll my jeans past my ankles and we run t
hrough the soft sand to the edge of the beach.
Everything is so much clearer right now, right here. The wind is crisp and clean and the sound of the waves crashing touches my fucking soul. It really does.
I could stay here forever. There’s no bitterness, no hurt feelings, and no ulterior motives.
Everything right here is real. There’s nothing phony or fake about the ocean, the beach, and the sun and the birds and the huge cliffs that poke up through the fog a mile away.
There are no lies here. No fucking lies. And nobody is angry.
People should be more like the ocean. More people should try to be as beautiful and kind and nice as the setting sun is to them.
After the three of us share a tall can and a joint, Eddie walks over to the huge brick wall separating sand from street.
“This is perfect,” he says. “Right here, dudes. Perfect.”
I look at Brandon and he shrugs and then Eddie takes a can of black spray paint out of his backpack.
He shakes it up and then starts spraying in this pretty killer script.
“He’s good,” I say.
“He’s been doing graffiti since he was eight, man. That’s kinda how me and him met. We both got popped on the same night three years ago for tagging in totally different parts of the city, and we both got brought into a juvie holding facility. We met in a holding cell.”
“That’s pretty sick, man.”
“Devil Feeder was born that fucking night.”
“Righteous.”
When Eddie finishes, the word “Skullburns” tattoos the wall now.
“Come on!” he yells, waving us over. “Hurry up before the pigs show up.”
Me and Brandon run over, and then Eddie yells at some random stranger to come over too.
After we all converge on the wall, Eddie hands the stranger his digital camera.
“Let’s do this,” he says.
“Do what?” I ask.
“First band photo,” he says. “It’s fucking dope.”
So the three of us get situated. Brandon sits down with his back against the wall. Eddie stands next to him with his arms folded across his chest. And me, I stand a little farther away from the wall and, like, five feet from those dudes with my hands shoved into the back pockets of my jeans.
The guy takes the photo, and the three of us run over to him to see it.
It’s so perfect.
“This is really happening now,” I say.
“Of course, homie,” says Eddie. “This is fucking life. Life happens. And when it does, you better have something happening too or it’ll swallow you right up and destroy you.”
“Fun days, fun days,” Brandon goes.
“Rad days,” I say back.
And Eddie says, “Rad days are fucking here, my man. Skullburn ’77.”
71.
DOMINIQUE CALLS ME WHILE WE’RE riding the train back toward downtown and SoMa, where Slim’s is.
“Do Eddie and Brandon need to get listed?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “They got tickets awhile ago. But thanks. We just nailed those four songs down too. We’re calling our project Skullburns. Recording tomorrow night at Eddie’s neighbors.”
“You sound so happy, Jaime. The excitement in your voice, oh my gosh, it’s thrilling,” Dominique says.
“I am happy,” I tell her. “I’ve never been this happy.”
“See,” she says. “All the more reason to stay.”
“Nice try,” I go.
“Think about it,” she says. Then, “So what’s up with Kristen?”
“What do you mean?”
“She hasn’t returned any of my texts or calls. Is she okay?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “She’d been up for a couple of days when I saw her last night.”
“She’s prolly crashed out then. Bummer.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be. Trust me, I had a backup wardrobe plan, and I think you’re gonna love it.”
“Can’t wait,” I say. “Can’t wait to see you and watch your band.”
“It’s so exciting. This is the dream, ya know, the reason we fucking kill it every day and work so hard,” she goes. “Anyway, we’re about to sound check, so I’ll see you soon. And also, after the show, if you’re not busy, there’s something I have to show you. Just me and you. That I need to show you and you need to see.”
“I’m totally in. So stoked.”
Click.
I text Kristen and write . . .
Hey, just hoping you’re okay, doll. On my way to the show with Eddie and Brandon. Eddie thinks you’re a babe too! Anyway, hopefully I run into you at Slim’s! :)
Putting my phone away, I say, “Dominique is, like, the nicest person in the world.”
Eddie, who’s brown-bagging a tall can, he nudges Brandon and goes, “Look at our boy . . . he’s glowing.”
Brandon’s laughing.
“Just fucking glowing.”
“I am,” I say. “It’s just been so different here, ya know. You guys, Dominique, Kristen . . . you guys have been really nice to me and genuine. It means a lot. Not a whole lot of people have ever been kind to me, ya know. So when someone or some people finally do, it means a lot. It’s been really cool to actually enjoy meeting new people for once and to enjoy fucking talking to kids. I’ve always hated it since I started school. Nobody’s ever been nice to me at all, and I don’t know what I did but it’s just the way it’s been, so I’m grateful for you guys.”
“Then stay here,” rips Brandon. “Stay in San Francisco.”
“I can’t do that. I will never do that to my mother.”
“Sure you can,” says Eddie. “And she’d understand, I’m sure.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” I snap. “It would kill her if I told her I was living with my father. It would actually kill her, or she’d kill herself.”
“Shouldn’t be that way,” Eddie goes. “Parents are the worst sometimes. So fucking selfish, and they don’t listen even though they say they want to.”
“If something happened to her, I’d never forgive myself.”
“You’re gonna have to leave her sometime,” Brandon goes.
“Probably. But it’s me living with my father that would slam the nail into her coffin. Me telling her I’m living with him and not her.”
“But you hate him too,” Eddie goes. “You’d be in San Francisco because of us, your bandmates, and Dominique. She’ll get that.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head wildly. “No, she won’t, and that’s all that matters. Me staying here is me picking him over her and if that happens, she’s done.”
“That’s so fucking stupid and selfish,” Brandon says. “Parents, adults making kids pick between them. Like, fuck you guys for falling out of love like that and squashing your romance. That’s what it is, ya know. They’ve lost the romance and the passion between them. Once you lose the passion with anything, your life gets darker and darker and darker. It’s like a freefall or something, and these people just drown themselves in their misery and want everyone to live in their pity parties. Fucking assholes.”
“It is what it is,” I say. “And she’s my best friend and she’s the reason I’m even playing music and making sick art.”
“She’s also the reason you can’t be happy,” Eddie says. “And if she really fucking loved you the way she says she does and is supposed to, then she’d support anything you do in order to be happy.”
“I know, man,” I snap. “I know. But I can’t break her heart. It’s that simple. If it breaks again, it’ll be for good and she’s over. I can’t do that to her. Not after everything she’s done for me and saved me from. I can’t do it. I won’t fucking do it.”
72.
WE SKATE FROM VAN NESS and market to slim’s. About a block before we get there, though, we stop and hide in an alley and share another tall can and a joint and I pop an entire blue.
Side note: When I was grabbing my take fo
r the day from the bottle, I noticed I only had eleven left, and it’s made me very nervous and edgy and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since the second I did the count.
Anyway, Slim’s. There’s a huge line out front, and the scene is totally alive. Tons of kids since it’s all ages. Pretty kids and smiling kids and dancing kids and kids with great hair and nice eyes and stoked lips and lovely clothes.
Dominique is standing with a grip of people on the sidewalk out front. I recognize Mark and Keisha from the pictures on the band’s Tumblr page. I see Dominique’s mother too—wonder if she knows me and her daughter have been kicking it so tough and would be angry if she found out, since my father “saved” her and is responsible for them not having to move out of their house.
The three of us, Skullburns now, head straight for them. Dominique looks up and sees us coming at them and she yells, “Yes! My boy and his band are here!” Then cuts straight through the small circle and jumps at me.
I catch her, but barely, and I’m thinking if her mother didn’t know before about us, well, she definitely knows now.
She kisses the side of my face over and over and over again as I set her down.
“Yay,” she says. “Hi!”
“Hey.” I look at what she’s wearing now and I go, “Wow.”
I go, “Nice, Dom. You really did have a wonderful backup wardrobe plan.”
“See,” she says. “I knew you’d love it.”
“Obviously.”
“You look really cute too.” She grabs my waist and leans into my ear. “Hot,” she says.
What I’m wearing is a pair of skinny tight black jeans with a black bandanna dangling from the right back pocket. Plus a navy-blue T-shirt of one of my favorite bands ever, A Place to Bury Strangers, which says Kill on the front of it with a stencil of a pig. I’ve got my Members Only jacket on and a pair of black slip-ons, and I’ve tied an American flag bandanna around the ankle of my jeans.
Now here’s what she’s wearing. This pair of see-through and shredded black stockings that run all the way up to the top of her thighs, all-black Chuck Taylors, this black cardigan, this dope gold chain that hangs to the bottom of her stomach with a pair of mini golden binoculars attached to it, and then this huge white T-shirt under the cardigan that runs past the top of her stockings. On this T-shirt, though, is a black-and-gray stencil of a tiger face with stitches all over it, and under the face, spray painted on in black, are the words Tiger Stitches.