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trying to find

  that sugar sweet.

  But, it wasn’t sweet.

  It was salty

  bitter

  and it coated

  my mouth

  in numbness.

  I woke up

  in the ICU

  frightened

  and embarrassed

  by my father,

  who sat by

  my bedside

  crying

  in handcuffs.

  Hollywood Report

  Rutherford Morrison has kept rock alive for twenty-five years.

  His band, The Great Whatever, is credited with

  introducing a new flavor of

  Hard Rock to America with the release of their triple-

  platinum album,

  The History of Headaches. Even after an acrimonious

  band breakup,

  Morrison continued to have an illustrious solo career,

  selling thirty million albums worldwide.

  His music has lasted the test of time . . . until now.

  Eight years ago, he was arrested for reckless

  endangerment of his child,

  and he hasn’t released an album since.

  Most recently he’s managed three DUIs, and a drug

  overdose

  that almost sent him to a rock-star reunion with

  Kurt Cobain and Amy Winehouse.

  Rutherford may not have much time left before

  he falls flat on 12:00. Midnight can be so cruel.

  Who doesn’t feel sorry for his kids,

  left answering the hard questions, like

  How does it feel

  to be the daughter

  to be the son

  of a fallen rock star?

  Who Am I?

  I am

  the wretched son

  of a poor

  rich man.

  I do not hate

  my life.

  I am not like

  Sebastian Carter,

  who found

  his father kissing

  his girlfriend

  and now hates

  his life.

  My life is, hmmm,

  inconvenient.

  But

  if it weren’t for Chapel . . .

  Are You Sure They Aren’t Coming Home?

  Chapel and I are about to take flight,

  two souls on fire

  burning through sacred mounds of

  fresh desire.

  Our lips are in the process

  of becoming

  one

  in her hammock,

  like two blue jays nesting.

  Feeding each other

  kisses of wonder.

  I’m sure, she answers.

  Hands of curiosity.

  What are you doing?

  Kissing you.

  Slow down, Blade.

  Why?

  Woo me.

  Woo you?

  A song.

  Come on, babe, we don’t have time for that.

  But we have time for this? she says,

  puckering her lips, and

  hypnotizing me

  with eyes blue

  as the deep blue sea.

  Those Eyes Will Be the Death of Me

  My gravestone will read:

  Here lies a young man

  who died inside

  the gaze of a woman.

  I watch the river

  in her eyes gallop forth

  fall into them

  dive into them.

  She smiles.

  Those eyes.

  I can’t escape

  the depth of them.

  The song has ended,

  but the melody still rings

  from her mouth.

  I can’t hear a word.

  I’m lost

  in these two comets

  that move across

  my universe.

  I remember

  the first time

  she looked at me

  like this.

  Two years ago

  before he hit

  an all-time low,

  Rutherford threw

  one of his

  Hollywood Rocker House Parties

  which became Storm’s

  pool party

  SLASH sweet sixteen

  SLASH get-all-the-kids-at-our-school-drunk-so-they-

  could-listen-to-Storm’s-mixtape-and-think-it-is-hot

  party.

  While they dove deep

  in shallowness,

  I found a quiet corner,

  a vintage Rutherford Morrison guitar

  took it off the wall

  and started playing

  American Woman

  and any tune

  with a hard groove

  to soften

  the dull.

  Minutes

  or an hour

  went by

  before I looked up,

  and there she was

  sitting

  in the chair

  across from me,

  her legs

  with dancer calves

  entwined

  like twin yellow flowers.

  Her skin, amber sun.

  And those pretty blue eyes

  just watching me

  like she cared.

  Amazing. Keep playing, she said. Don’t let me interrupt

  you. And

  then she got up,

  sauntered off

  glancing over her shoulder,

  leaving me

  thunderstruck.

  Those eyes.

  Those blue eyes.

  Later, I bumped into Storm

  in the kitchen,

  making grapefruit

  and vodka smoothies

  for her already drunk friends,

  and she introduced me

  to the new girl

  in school.

  Those eyes.

  My name’s Chapel, but you can call me American

  Woman, she said, winking

  at me.

  Your brother’s a musical genius, she continued, at which

  Storm laughed.

  Yeah, he’s a legend in his own mind!

  Chapel winked

  at me again,

  and just as I was

  about to turn

  and leave,

  she reached

  in my pocket,

  grabbed my phone,

  and took a selfie

  then texted

  herself

  the photo.

  That was the moment

  I knew.

  And I stayed up

  all night

  writing a song

  about it.

  Trance

  Well?

  Huh?

  Where’d you go?

  Just thinking.

  About what?

  I don’t know—everything, graduation, family. I’m just

  worried.

  Family sucks.

  So true.

  Is he coming to graduation?

  Yep. He says he’s been clean for nine days.

  That’s great.

  Yup.

  Tomorrow, this time, you’ll be a college freshman.

  Actually, I’ll be in-between. No longer high school, not

  yet college.

  No longer, not yet.

  At least we’ll be together every day then.

  You’ll have me whenever you want.

  That’s why I love you.

  Okay then, sing my favorite song, please.

  Chapel, I really don’t feel like—

  Blade, are you my heart?

  Uh, yeah!

  Then sing to me . . . Van would have.

  Let’s not talk about your untalented, nefarious, wack

  ex-lover.

  Chambers

  if I am your heart

  imagine me inside

  beating, pumping, loving


  Relentless

  Don’t haiku me, Blade. I want an epic.

  I don’t have my guitar.

  You always have your guitar.

  It’s in the car, but I—

  I’ll get it, she interrupts, jumping

  off the hammock so fast,

  I tumble and eat dirt.

  Excuse Me

  Excuse me

  I mean, what did you say?

  I’m sorry

  I’m just a little blown away

  ’Cause your eyes . . . Oh, your eyes.

  Excuse me,

  Didn’t quite get that

  You talking to me?

  I just gotta get my breath

  ’Cause your eyes . . .

  Your eyes, they mesmerize me

  Yes, your eyes hypnotize me

  Your eyes are . . .

  Bluer than the deepest part of the deep blue sea

  Excuse me

  I don’t mean to intrude

  I’m sorry

  Your eyes are too blue

  Forgive me

  I just wanted to be sure

  Your eyes, that shade.

  Isn’t that what they call azure?

  ’Cause your eyes . . .

  Your eyes, they mesmerize me

  Yes, your eyes hypnotize me

  Your eyes are . . .

  Bluer than the deepest part of the deep blue sea

  I’m sorry

  I don’t wanna take your time

  I have to say this

  And I hope that you don’t mind

  Your eyes, they mesmerize me

  Yes, your eyes hypnotize me

  Your eyes are . . .

  Bluer than the deepest part of the deep blue sea

  Excuse me

  I don’t mean to intrude

  I’m sorry

  Your eyes are too blue

  Forgive me

  I just wanted to be sure

  Your eyes, that shade,

  Don’t they call that azure?

  ’Cause your eyes are mesmerizing

  Your eyes are hypnotizing,

  Your eyes are truly drowning me

  I’m drowning in a blue that’s way bluer than the deep blue sea

  ’Cause your eyes . . .

  Your eyes are mesmerizing

  Your eyes are hypnotizing

  Your eyes are drawing me to you

  © BLADE MORRISON

  She Melts Right in Front of Me

  That was beautiful.

  Thanks.

  It really makes me feel special when you play for me.

  You are special.

  Here’s your phone. Come kiss me.

  What are you doing with my phone?

  You left it in your car.

  Oh. Thanks.

  Why is Principal Campbell blowing your phone up?

  Huh?

  Come here, babe.

  Let me ask you a question.

  Enough talking. Hurry up and kiss me. They’ll be home

  soon.

  Aren’t you sick of sneaking around?

  The alternative sucks.

  True.

  We should just run away.

  I would do that in an LA second. I love you, Chapel.

  Then come over here and let me mesmerize you.

  First, let me check my phone. Dude left me like five

  messages.

  Seriously, Blade. Now you’re all patient.

  Just gimme a sec.

  Voice Mail

  Blade, this is

  Principal Campbell calling

  you about twelve hours

  before you march

  across the stage.

  Congratulations!

  You’ve overcome

  some serious odds,

  and I’m sure

  your family is proud.

  So, I’m calling because

  I’m afraid that

  our valedictorian

  Alice Johnson

  has been bitten

  by a mosquito,

  and her face

  has blown up

  the size of

  a cantaloupe.

  Thusly, she refuses

  to stand

  in front of

  the graduating class

  and their families

  to deliver

  tomorrow’s commencement speech,

  which means

  the salutatorian

  will have to fill in.

  What do you say?

  Salutatory

  Blade! WHAT? You’re going to deliver the speech! I’m so

  proud of you. Of us.

  Of what? I haven’t written anything yet. So don’t be too

  proud.

  You’ll be amazing.

  Not if I don’t get home and write the thing.

  Stay here with me. I can help you.

  Write an entire speech before your parents find us? Not

  likely.

  Who says it has to be a speech. It could be a song.

  Hmmm. That might be cool.

  You could write one about me.

  . . . .

  (I laugh.)

  (She pouts.)

  I’m serious.

  Babe, it may not be the audience for that kind of love

  song.

  But it would be the most romantic thing you’ve ever done

  for me. And people would be talking about it for months.

  Let me think about it. But first, I should really get home

  and actually write it.

  Fine.

  Just know I won’t sleep one millisecond tonight because

  I’ll be thinking about you the entire time, Chapel.

  Okay. Make us all want to sing with you, babe.

  I grab

  my guitar

  and kiss her

  goodbye.

  Tell your dad to pray for the salutatorian, just don’t

  mention his name.

  I wonder if anyone has

  ever delivered

  a graduation speech with

  a six-string guitar?

  Close One

  I pull out of

  the driveway,

  onto the street,

  and duck

  as far

  as I can

  ’til I’m barely able

  to see

  her father’s black Mercedes

  turn the corner

  and pull into

  the driveway.

  Whew, that was a close one.

  Secret

  Chapel’s father

  forbade her

  to see me

  after Rutherford

  got arrested

  again

  last year,

  for crashing

  into a stop sign

  inches away

  from two kids

  crossing the street.

  He was lit

  and careless

  and it was all over

  the news.

  He is runnin’ with the devil.

  They will destroy themselves.

  They will not destroy you.

  This is not up for discussion.

  You. Are. Never. To See. Him. Again.

  And so we sneak.

  I Can’t Say I Blame Him

  My family

  stands for

  too much

  and not enough.

  Too much celebrity

  not enough dignity.

  Too much excess

  not enough kindness.

  Too much Yes.

  Not enough No

  to drugs

  to crude behavior

  to breaking the law

  to rock & roll.

  Too much.

  Not enough.

  So yeah . . .

  we sneak.

  Texts to Chapel

  10:32 pm

  I made it home.

  Just hours

  to spare bef
ore

  10:32 pm

  I either nail it or

  embarrass myself to death

  and walk off the stage

  10:32 pm

  never to show

  my face again.

  But it’s just a song, right?

  10:33 pm

  Can you believe

  it’s almost our

  big day?

  10:35 pm

  I know I won’t

  get to see you except

  from a distance.

  10:36 pm

  But I’ll look for you

  10:36 pm

  from the stage

  when I perform

  a song about

  10:36 pm

  how we are the chords

  that make music

  the language of love.

  Conversation

  Blade, whatcha doing?

  Does anyone knock anymore?

  An open door is an open invitation. Sounds like you’re

  struggling.

  I am. Writing a song for graduation tomorrow.

  I heard. Congratulations, little bro. How’s it coming?

  It’s not.

  You could write about love.

  Everybody wants me to write about love.

  You and love songs go together like Mick and Jagger.

  You’re stupid.

  I’m serious. Write a love song.

  I need some inspiration.

  What about Mom?

  What about her?

  Maybe you could write a love song about her.

  . . . .

  But not on that busted guitar, get the one Dad gave you.

  The Bridge

  Rutherford gave it to me

  in grand fashion

  on a black velvet bench

  for my thirteenth birthday—

  a custom-built

  Eddie Van Halen

  Frankenstrat,

  made of

  body—ash

  neck—maple,

  with pickups tweaked

  by EVH himself.

  Legend has it

  that Eddie was gonna give it

  to some king

  in Africa or something,

  but my dad convinced him

  to gift it to me.

  And that’s real cool,

  I get it, but

  what mattered

  to me

  was that when I strummed,

  it sounded

  like Mom

  laughing.

  So I named her Sunny,

  after my mother.

  And there hasn’t been a day,

  no matter how crazy

  or wicked

  or cruel,

  that I haven’t held her

  knowing it’s

  the bridge

  that connects

  heaven

  and earth.