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 before 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.
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