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 was 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.