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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.