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    Solo

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      Just gimme a sec, Storm.

      It’s kinda unhealthy.

      What?

      You’re always with her, and when you’re not, you’re texting

      her. I get that you’re in love and all that, but you really

      should get a life.

      I do have a life.

      What about Trenton and Roman, your best friends?

      What about ’em?

      You never even see them.

      What are you talking about? We went to see Giraffe

      Tongue.

      That was like a month ago.

      Things change. I’m just into some different stuff.

      Yeah, Chapel. It’s unhealthy the way you’re all up under

      her. Be careful, Blade.

      Whatever.

      What about the band? I thought y’all were gonna record.

      They’re more into punk now. I’m just—

      Into soft rock—yeah, don’t remind me.

      Anyway, what do you think about the dream?

      Weird dream. You been smokin’?

      No. What do you think it means?

      No idea.

      Seriously.

      Look, some dreams don’t mean anything. They’re just

      stupid.

      Great, thanks, now get out.

      Okay, how about this: The spider is Dad, and you think he

      hates you and is trying to destroy your life, and Mom is the

      only person who can save you, but she really can’t because,

      you know, she’s dead, and so you stuff yourself with hordes

      of unhealthy foods to hide the pain of whatever journey

      you’re on.

      Journey?

      Yeah, “Don’t Stop Believin’” journey.

      That’s deep, Storm. But journey where?

      You tell me. It’s your dream, Spider-Man.

      And, what about Mom?

      Well, that’s easy. You miss her. We all do.

      You think that’s it?

      Nah, you were right. It’s ridiculous.

      Thanks for nothing.

      I changed my mind.

      What?

      Your room doesn’t stink. You do. Take a shower.

      Knock, Knock

      It’s been two days

      since graduation.

      Two days since I’ve

      seen his face

      or smelled the smell

      of his rock & roll decay.

      And he’s knocking,

      knocking the heck

      out of my door

      like he does

      when he has a “grand”

      announcement.

      But what does he

      have to say to me this time?

      What can we possibly

      say to each other?

      How do you forgive

      a person who ruined

      what was going to be

      one of the best days of

      your life?

      I can’t imagine

      what kind of peace

      offering he’ll bring me.

      Stop knocking, I finally say.

      Just come in

      or go away.

      He walks in

      and stands at

      the foot of my bed,

      his arms spread out

      like a fallen angel.

      Conversation

      Blade . . . I’m sorry, son.

      . . . .

      I’m leaving for a month or so.

      Okay.

      Don’t you want to know where?

      I don’t.

      Rehab.

      Surprise.

      Got my Marvels and the axe. Ready to rock!

      . . . .

      I think the band’s really getting back together.

      . . . .

      Look, I’m sorry for what happened.

      You think that’s enough?

      It’s all I got.

      I really don’t wanna talk. Good luck.

      Watch out for your sister while I’m away.

      Storm can take care of herself.

      She’s fragile.

      What does that mean?

      It means her album tanked and she just needs some cheer.

      Keep an eye on each other.

      . . . .

      I told her she could have a party. It’ll help.

      Great.

      I need you to be there.

      Dude, I got a life. You’ve got your rock and roll and your

      drugs and alcohol, Storm’s got her pretend career and—and

      I’m heading to college in a few months, to get as far

      away from here as possible. So, how about you guys help

      yourselves.

      How ’bout you stop acting like a JACK!

      There’s the Rutherford I know. Welcome back.

      I’m still your father.

      Lucky me!

      Pretty lucky, I’d say. Look around. Five-star living not

      good enough for ya?

      Money doesn’t buy happiness.

      Yeah, but it bought you a pimped-out Range Rover that

      you and your girl make out in. And, it paid for your posh

      little private high school.

      And the Harley you ruined my graduation with. Just get

      out. I’m done. Good luck with rehab.

      When the limo arrives

      to take Dr. Feelgood

      to rehab

      he’s all crocodile tears.

      They’re trying to take my edge. If I don’t make it back—

      Stop, Daddy, you’ll be fine, Storm says.

      And now she’s crying.

      You can do this, Daddy! We’ll write kick-ass songs together

      when you get back.

      Rutherford looks at me. But I got nothing:

      No empathy.

      No sympathy

      for

      the devil.

      Phone Conversation

      Hey. Babe!

      Yeah, hey.

      Everything okay?

      Sure.

      You sure?

      I’ve been better.

      Why do you sound so salty?

      Why do you think?

      I’m sorry I couldn’t see you after graduation. And, I’m sorry

      about what happened.

      Just forget about it. I’m okay.

      . . . .

      Just wish things were different. That I was nobody in

      Nobody’s Land.

      Yeah.

      So, what’s up?

      What’s up is stay off social media and don’t—

      Go to stores, look at newsstands, I know.

      Yeah.

      I won’t have to if we’re together.

      Awww . . . I can’t right now, Blade.

      Why? Come on, babe. Meet me at the park. I’ll take you

      shopping or something in Rutherford’s Maserati.

      You know I’d LOVE that, but my parents are throwing me

      another dinner with friends tonight.

      Tonight? That’s nice. How come I didn’t know?

      I mean, it was kind of spur of the moment.

      Who’s invited?

      Just a couple girls . . . and some people, uh, friends. Just a

      group of friends.

      People like who? Van? Is Van going?

      Blade, my parents told me to invite all my friends. You

      know you would be the first person on my list if my parents

      didn’t forbid me from seeing you.

      But Van, really?

      My Favorite Guitarist

      Sometimes

      when I feel

      like time is

      a speedway

      and my mind

      races

      round and round

      so fast,

      I walk

      the dogs

      to clear

      my head.

      Then,

      I go to

      Santa Monica.

      Soundboard

      I walk

      the boardwalk

      looking for Rober
    t,

      a magician

      who turns worries

      into songs.

      In between gigs

      he sits

      under a

      palm tree, smiling

      with the few teeth

      he’s still got.

      Tourists leave

      green

      in his black trumpet case,

      while he

      melts the blues,

      bending the notes

      like a storytelling machine,

      and wailing

      like the music’s

      gonna save him,

      and us too

      if we’re lucky.

      Conversation

      Youngblood, you look like you got the blues.

      Family stuff.

      Yeah, how’s that?

      Rutherford finally did it. Lived down to his expectations.

      I hate Rutherford. I loathe everything he stands for.

      Whoa . . . Take a breath, Youngblood.

      He’s ruined everything in my life.

      Everything? Sounds serious.

      Graduation was a disaster to end all disasters.

      How is that?

      The one day I stand up to deliver a speech I wasn’t

      even supposed to give in front of my entire class and

      everybody’s grandmother, brother, and sister, Rutherford

      flies in like an alien lunatic and embarrasses the life out

      of me and everyone there. Even the crows were gawking

      of embarrassment from the trees.

      Sounds like a challenging moment.

      I didn’t sign up for this circus.

      None of us do. It’s family.

      I just can’t wait to get outta here.

      Be careful what you ask for. You can run, but you can’t hide.

      You’re at the crossroads, Youngblood, looking for a ride.

      One of your songs?

      That’s life, son. Gotta be thankful for the hard and the

      easy. The good and the not-so.

      Hard to be thankful when you’re living in hell.

      Let me get this straight. You’re living up in Hollywood

      Hills with a pool and tennis court, and a lady to clean

      your underwear and cook you tacos on Tuesdays, and

      you’re living in hell. You got first world problems,

      Youngblood.

      . . . .

      You can run, but you can’t hide. You can run, but you can’t

      hide, you’re at the crossroads, Youngblood, looking for a ride.

      Tell me something, Robert—why do you give all your

      money away to homeless people?

      So they can eat, buy a book or two.

      But what about you?

      What about me?

      Couldn’t you use the loot?

      A wise man said, “You will be enriched in every way to be

      generous in every way,” so I’m good.

      If you ever need a place to crash, we got plenty of space.

      I try to avoid hell, Youngblood.

      Look, here’s a little something for you, I say, handing

      him a wad of hundreds.

      I don’t do charity, Youngblood.

      What happened to enriching and being generous?

      You keep that, buy your girl some flowers or something.

      You could get a new trumpet case or something, I add,

      trying not to show what I’m really suggesting, but he

      knows. Robert knows everything.

      You still stunting on my teeth, Youngblood?

      I’m just saying, it’s pretty cheap these days to get ’em

      fixed.

      In another life, my first wife wanted new teeth. She asked

      all her friends and family for twenty-five dollars to help her

      find her smile. I didn’t give her a dime. The marriage didn’t

      last long, but good gracious did she get some pretty teeth.

      Wanna play something?

      I pick up my guitar.

      He picks up his trumpet.

      And when the song’s over,

      and he’s not looking,

      I throw my wad of cash

      in his case

      and hope he’s not mad

      at me later.

      Texts Conversation

      11:14 am

      Good morning, babe.

      I miss you.

      Guess what?

      11:18 am

      What’s up!

      11:19 am

      I got my assignment. My

      dorm’s next to yours. WOOHOO!

      Also, shopping today???

      11:19 am

      Hint. Hint. Wink. Wink.

      You could pick me up

      in your dad’s Maserati.

      11:19 am

      He won’t even know.

      What time

      should I be ready?

      11:22 am

      Oh . . .

      Not sure

      about today.

      11:22 am

      My parents are gone

      all day. All night.

      Their anniversary.

      11:23 am

      Wow. Good to hear

      you have the day

      open for me. Finally.

      11:24 am

      Blade!

      Seriously?

      What’s up with you?

      11:25 am

      It’s just kinda weird.

      It seems all I’m good for

      is buying stuff.

      11:33 am

      Hello, you there?

      11:35 am

      That was rude.

      I can’t believe

      you’d even suggest

      11:35 am

      something so shallow

      and beneath my

      goodness. You offered before

      11:36 am

      so I just thought.

      Never mind . . . TTYL.

      11:37 am

      Chapel, I’m sorry.

      My bad. I’m just not

      myself right now.

      11:40 am

      You there?

      Come back.

      Voice Mail

      Maybe tomorrow

      we can cruise

      to Malibu

      have a picnic

      by the sea.

      I’ll even bring

      my strings

      and sing you

      that graduation song.

      Or we can feed

      each other sorbet,

      hit Rodeo Drive.

      But only if

      you forgive me . . .

      Texts from Chapel

      9:37 am

      Okay. Morning!

      I forgive you.

      Get out of

      9:37 am

      your PJs pls and take

      your girl for SORBETTTTTT

      and Rodeo Drive!

      Deliver Me

      On my way

      out the door

      two delivery guys

      show up

      with a marble statue

      of a naked goddess.

      I cower.

      I don’t belong here,

      and the months-long

      wait

      ’til college

      is too long.

      Can you deliver me

      someplace else,

      please . . . now? is what I want

      to say

      to them.

      I sign

      for the Goddess Lakshmi

      while Storm

      unpeels

      the protective plastic

      marches around

      her marble legs

      and marble breasts,

      comparing her figure

      to stone.

      Her four hands represent the four goals of life, she says,

      rubbing the breasts, as if they’ll bring her wisdom or luck.

      Oh, okay. Thanks for sharing.

      Dharma and Kama, and the other two I forgot.

      So, what, are you practicing Hindu now?

      She
    ’s the goddess of Wealth and Prosperity. Me and Dad

      ordered her for my party.

      . . . .

      Isn’t she beautiful, Blade?

      My sister is beautiful

      but not in the way she thinks.

      She’s beautiful because

      she still believes

      our father’s

      her hero.

      She trusts

      in his dreams

      for her.

      She naively believes

      she will be the next big thing

      and that her position in life

      is set in “stone.”

      This makes me feel

      sorry for her

      because she’s clueless.

      She picks up

      Mick and Jagger

      to celebrate the arrival

      of yet another Morrison absurdity,

      ceremoniously dancing

      around the statue,

      but the dogs get freaked out

      by Lakshmi’s four arms

      jump out of Storm’s

      and smash

      right into her,

      sending the goddess

      tumbling

      off her base

      and crashing

      to the floor

      shattering

      Storm’s dreams

      into a million little

      marble pieces.

      Phone Conversation

      What’s taking you so long?

      Had a minor emergency at our house. Leaving now,

      babe.

      Everything all right?

      Is it ever?

      We’re at Rudy’s

      the best ice cream

      in Hollywood,

      and I’m telling her

      how I honestly believe

      my old man

      could finally be changing

      for the better

      and that he swore

      to us

      he’d complete rehab—

      no more drink

      no more drugs—

      when a white van

      pulls up

      and out jumps

      fire-breathing paparazzi

      with loaded cameras,

      pushed into our faces.

      How’s it hanging, Blade?

      Doing great. Now leave us alone.

      We just got word Rutherford’s back in rehab.

      Yep.

      Good to know he’s getting help. We want him to live. It

      would be a rock-and-roll tragedy if . . .

      Really. That’s enough.

      We keep walking into Rudy’s.

      But they follow us in like

      hyenas laughing,

      dragons stalking.

      Did you think your life was over when your old man

      crashed your graduation? He really knows how to liven up

      an event, another one chimes in.

      Does it look like I think my life is over? I come at them

      with fists, but Chapel pulls me back.

     
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