The Music Trilogy (57 page)

BOSTON 2001

CHAPTER 1

The
Singing Pub
was filled to capacity with people of all ages and walks of life. Sam looked at the crowd in front of her as she quickly tuned her guitar. Robert, her fiancé, sat at a table in front of the platform. ‘Two more hours’ she mouthed to him. He nodded back and blew her a kiss. She smiled, strummed for a moment and spoke into the microphone on the stand in front of her.

“How are you tonight?” She asked the crowd.

“Good!” They answered back.

“Alright, who’s going to sing for us? Do I have any volunteers?”

The Singing Pub was a famous Boston landmark. Located near the Berkley School of Music, the establishment had been around for almost a century, having hosted professional and amateur musicians, local enthusiasts as well as international celebrities. The walls were entirely covered by photographs, all of them with people singing on stage from every decade since the twenties. Some sang into high tech microphones, others had no mics at all. Some of the photos were in beautiful color, others in black and white, older ones in tones of sepia. Most of them were unknowns, others enormously famous.

Any one passing through its front door, whether they had a singing voice or not, knew that one of the criteria for being in the pub, other than to have a drink and a good meal, was that at any moment one of the staff could come up and point to the stage—which meant that it was time to sing. The patrons didn’t mind and they figured they were pretty safe as chances were high that a student from Berkley, or even a world famous singer would gladly get on stage and serenade them with a song. Tonight was no exception. As soon as Sam asked her question a very enthusiastic young woman went up to her.

“Hi, what’s your name?”

“Gloria.”

“Hi Gloria.” Sam turned toward the crowd. “Everybody say hi to Gloria.”

“Hi Gloria,” they chanted.

“So Gloria, what do you do?”

“I’m a student at Berkley.”

“Nice. Voice? Instrument?”

“Both. Graduating next year.”

“Very good, congratulations. Okay, what are you singing for us tonight?”

“Do you know…”

Sam had talent and a great repertoire. If she didn’t know one of the requests she would ask the singer to sing a few notes. She could then immediately follow without ever having heard the tune before. It was a gift not too many people possessed and this talent had helped her secure the job at the pub, a job she never thought she would need, but very much enjoyed.

♫

WASHINGTON, D.C.

MARCH 2001

CHAPTER 2

Davina was in the kitchen cooking, making her beloved Alejandro’s favorite dish, a delicious paella, when Max walked in.

“Hey, Mom, I’m going to join the Marines.” There, he thought, it was out. He had said it, and nothing was going to change his mind. He could only imagine how furious his parents were going to be.

“What do you mean you’re going to join the Marines?” Davina exclaimed. “Besides, you’re not the military type. You like the good life, the freedom to do whatever you want, whenever you please. And you certainly aren’t very good at taking orders. Hell, you don’t even listen to me anymore!” She said with chagrin, remembering how the last few years had been difficult—a typical teenager from a famous and wealthy family who had it all, who wouldn’t listen to his parents, and who managed to get into more trouble than she cared to remember.

“Mom, listen…,” Max started.

“Why should I listen, you don’t!” Davina retorted, thinking that Max was concocting another harebrained scheme that would get him yet again into some sort of mischief.

“Mom, please. You’re right. I’ve been a real jerk with you guys, and I’m trying to change. I’m really sorry at the way I’ve been behaving and I think the Marines would be good for me.”

“Well, you don’t have to go to extremes and join the military, and the Marines!” Davina closed her eyes, took a deep breath. “Listen, I’m sorry too. Let’s make a fresh start. Surely we can work on this together.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do. Please, Mom, I
need
to do this. I have to prove to myself, and everybody else for that matter, that I’m worth something, and not just a spoiled brat.” Davina was stirring the rice. Max went up behind her and put his arms around his mother. “You’ve given me the world, and no child is as lucky as I am for the family that I have. I actually really know this.” Davina put the wooden spoon down, turned and looked at her son.
Was he finally growing up? Was a little maturity finally seeping in?
What Davina didn’t know was that Max still had a drug and alcohol problem, and the boy could only see a future by enlisting. Max knew his mother was smart and she might pick up on the real reason for enlisting, and if he didn’t he knew he wouldn’t last long on this earth.
“Mom, if I can get through Marine Corps boot camp, I can do anything.” Davina thought about this statement. He had a point, and it was good to know how to defend oneself, and trained by the best professionals in the world was a definite plus. But it wasn’t, as a mother, what she had dreamed for her son, for her only child. Max was an incredible musician, played a myriad of instruments and she knew, whether as a musician or a mother, she wasn’t sure, that someday he would follow the ancestors of his family. It was a gene he had undeniably inherited, and could go far with his music. She also knew, however, that she wouldn’t, nor any other member of their family, be able to change his mind.

♫

PARRIS ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA 2001

CHAPTER 3

Max didn’t know much about the military. He respected the men and women in uniform, but had no idea what these people had to do to get through boot camp and earn the right to be called a soldier, sailor, airman or Marine. He was, however, embarking on that road right now. Max was on a plane heading to Savannah on his way to Parris Island. He settled into his seat and as soon as they were in the air he brought out a green denim-covered journal and opened it to the first page, which was blank. He pondered on the last few years of his short life and started writing.

SALEM, MASSACHUSETTS 1999

It was Halloween and as typical American teenage ‘druggees’ my buddies and I needed to find the most extravagant way to get fucked up. A group of us heard stories from older kids and big brothers about all the fun in Salem on Halloween. Salem is known for its historical witch trials, black magic and just the unknown. We decided there would be no better place to spend our Halloween. Jimmy, Jason and I flew out of Washington, landed at Logan airport and took a train on that Halloween night with high hopes of an insanely good time consisting of smoking pot and getting drunk. Jimmy and I went back a long way. Anything I have ever done in my life that I would tell my kids not to do I’ve done with Jimmy. We smoked pot with each other for the first time. He was the first person I was arrested with (for jumping off a bridge). All our experiences weren’t negative though, and he was there when I got my first girlfriend.

The excitement kept rising as did my blood alcohol content as we practically inhaled the rum and cokes we had with us. I told the guys that we needed to find some weed when we got into Salem, and of course the decision was unanimous. At least we had a goal, considering we didn’t know what the fuck we were actually going to do when we got there. We heard the conductor call next stop Salem and we hurried to finish our extremely strong mixed drinks, which I now realize is a trademark for teenagers. It’s funny watching people’s expressions as they swallow that big sip of some warm Captain Morgan. The train stopped and we stood up. I realized how drunk I was then and Jason’s face was beet red. Yup, I thought, this is going to be a good night. We followed Jimmy, as his older brother lived in Salem, and he knew the city pretty well. As we kept walking we saw a pretty shitty side of the town, which included crack houses and welfare shacks. As we moved closer to where Jimmy said we were going we could hear faint horns and cheers. Music came to our ears and the sounds of intoxication were in the air. Then, even louder, celebrations were heating up with tens of thousands of people, shoulder to shoulder, dressed up like vampires, ghouls or witches. And all getting fucked up in some sort of way. I looked at my two buddies and I remember yelling “fuck yeah!” in an immature, mischievous way. We decided to walk around the main street a little, see what there was to see, do a little people watching and maybe find some weed. We kept walking toward what looked like a park. Everybody knows that during the day a park is a nice relaxing place to take the kids, but after dark it’s a haven for the bad seeds of the city to congregate and do drugs. Definitely my type of place at the time. We turned around and noticed a kid a little older than us who looked like he was on his way to a Grateful Dead concert. He had shoulder length hair and a pretty thick beard. Over his nappy roots he wore a wool stitched beanie. His shirt was tie-dyed, accompanied by ripped jeans and a pair of Birkenstocks. I remember looking at him and thinking I bet he got some good nug but I didn’t even want to ask. As our paths crossed though, he said the word that would change my life forever. “Doses!” Then he said it again. The three of us stopped in our tracks. Now when you’re talking about drugs the word ‘doses’ could mean anything from mushrooms to ecstasy. But judging by his appearance I was sure he was talking about LSD. Better known to us little street punks as Acid. It was music to my ears, and before I even got his name I was asking him how much, which is actually a pretty stupid question. Street value for a hit of acid is almost always five dollars unless you are buying the mysterious ‘double dipped’ which means the paper carried twice the amount of the hallucinogenic chemical. I always found the double dipped to be bullshit anyway because to tell you the truth there was no way to tell if you were only eating one hit. He told us it was only five bucks a hit. I asked if it was good and he said it was the best acid he’s ever had. Told us it came from San Diego and one hit would knock you on your ass. We walked with our back to his vehicle which was a VW bus of all things. I thought it was pretty fitting. There was a girl in the front seat. She was pretty but I remember looking at her eyes and they were ‘pinned’. Her pupils were the size of needle tips. She was high on heroin, something that I would never mess with. When the kid took out the acid it was like he had opened up a treasure chest. It was a big sheet of tin foil and when he opened it up it revealed a sheet of about 8x8. The paper was a tie-dye design, almost identical to the shirt he had been wearing. We all stared at it, anticipating how fucked up we were going to get. We told him we wanted three hits. That’s all we had the money for and we gave him fifteen bucks. Instead of carefully cutting the paper with a razor blade or some scissors he just ripped off a piece which ended up working to our advantage. The paper was worth more than we paid. I put the acid in the cellophane from my pack of smokes and we said goodbye. I never liked to hang around too long after a drug deal.

We decided that the day after tomorrow would be a much better night to trip out. There was a teachers’ meeting at school and we had the following day off. I loved the anticipation. I couldn’t wait.

WASHINGTON, D.C., NOVEMBER 1999

On November 2
nd
of 1999 my life changed drastically, and I hadn’t even realized that it was the Festival of the Dead (maybe it was a sign of the things to come). When the greatly anticipated night finally came Jason came to my house. Jimmy was waiting for us at his. I remember pulling the cellophane out of the freezer. Supposedly the cold keeps the acid fresh and it doesn’t lose its effect. I took out my grandmother’s cutting board and placed the acid on it. I became so paranoid every time I heard the smallest of noises. I used a razor blade and cut the paper into the most even pieces I could. We were undecided if we should wait for Jimmy or not. We decided to just head down to his house to give him his piece. We put the acid on our tongues and felt that familiar texture of a little square of paper loaded with enough chemicals to take control of a human’s mind, body and soul. Little did I know at that moment how true that would be, and in only a few hours. I put Jimmy’s shit in my pocket and washed the cutting board. I would never forgive myself (even though it was nearly impossible) to have my grandmother cut something on that board, eat it, and start tripping. I put the cutting board back exactly the way I found it and flushed the razor blade down the toilet. Everything was good. All we needed to do was give Jimmy his dose and the night would be started.

“Did you bring it?” Jimmy asked me.

“Yeah, man. Hold on. What if your Mom’s looking at us or something?”

“She’s not here, Dude. Why are you always so paranoid?”

I was. I would always be the one looking around. I was the one who worried most about cops, or parents. It got to the point where sometimes I felt like no matter what I was doing, which nine times out of ten was something wrong, people were watching, even if I was completely alone. I gave Jimmy his hit and he gobbled it up.

“You guys already take yours?” We stuck our tongues out showing Jimmy that it had been just a little while ago, even though it was now mush on our tongues. We all lit up a smoke and sat in silence while our minds played tricks on us, well Jason and mine, at least. It had only been about twenty minutes since we’d taken it. Under normal circumstances acid usually took forty-five minutes to an hour. We flicked our cigarettes and went to Jimmy’s living room to watch TV. Every five fucking minutes Jason would ask us it we were feeling it yet. By the fifth time he asked us I was getting pretty bored with the question. We all just sat, Jimmy flipping through the channels, I was fidgeting with something I felt underneath the arm of the seat and Jason was twirling his hat on his finger. When the next five minutes came I expected Jason to ask again but he didn’t. I looked over at him with anticipation of the question but he just seemed to really be into his hat. And then I realized how much I was into whatever the fuck I was fidgeting with. This time it was my turn to ask: “Jason, you feelin’ anything?” “I don’t know, but my hat’s pretty fucking cool right now.” This statement was followed by so much laughter it made my stomach hurt. I felt my breaths getting cleaner and deeper.

Jason and I were tripping and Jimmy was following right behind. We realized Jimmy was tripping when we noticed him watching some documentary on the learning channel with intense interest. I asked Jimmy kind of jokingly. “You feeling it man?” He turned to look at me, his eyes as round as a half dollar. He had a funny look. I asked him what was up and he said he had a surprise. “I got some from my brother this morning. You guys wanna smoke?” What a perfect start to a perfect night, I thought. We ran up to Jimmy’s room and took our usual seats. Most of the pot I had smoked in those years was in that room, and our designated seats were even named. I had the seat by the window—‘Max’s window seat.’

Jimmy sat on his futon and reached behind it to reveal a bag of weed and a one foot orange bong he made. We called it ‘King Kong’. We had so many memories with this bong that next to our pictures in the senior yearbook the words ‘King Kong’ were etched in. As I watched Jimmy pack the bong I realized that the effect of the acid had really taken over me. I had such an incredibly strong body high and I was so much more in tune with my thoughts. I looked at the futon Jimmy sat on and wondered how long it would take to make one, and did the owner of the factory where it was made liked to eat chocolate ice cream. Bu then I knew he couldn’t have because the owner of the factory was phony. Everyone who wasn’t with the three of us (in our state of mind) was phony. No, I thought, I bet he eats vanilla. And, as a hallucination goes, I was absolutely correct and I knew this was a brilliant thought. It was so brilliant I had to share it with the other two in the room.

“Hey,” I said. They both looked up at me. “Do you think the owner of the factory where Jimmy’s futon was made likes chocolate or vanilla ice cream?” Before they could answer I thought how brilliant I was for asking such an in depth question related to so many things in our lives and the lives of others at that time.

“Dude, what the fuck are you talking about?” They asked laughing. “You’re fucked up Max.”

I snapped back into reality for a second. “That was a stupid question.” I told them. “But do you think he’s phony?”

“Alright, man, I’ve never thought about the owner of the factory where this futon was made, or if he liked strawberry ice cream or whatever the fuck you said,” Jimmy replied. We all laughed some more, and I realized just how good the acid was. We’d already been in Jimmy’s room for twenty minutes and still hadn’t smoked.

“Light that shit,” Jason said, and the night really began. I couldn’t even feel the smoke going down. I knew I was smoking it because it came out, but did it go in? That’s what President Clinton truly meant when he said ‘I didn’t inhale.’

After a couple of hits the LSD intensified. My mind was racing more now but my body had calmed down from the pre-trip jitters. I always felt like I had butterflies in my stomach for the first hour of a trip. We chilled out and smoked cigarettes. Jimmy tossed me his CD case and told me to pick one out.. I grabbed a Doors CD. I put on Rider in the Storm. Jim Morrison began talking to me and I listened with the closest attention. I closed my eyes and listened. Even when I’m straight it’s hard for me to listen to good music with them open.

“Jim Morrison is a fucking genius,” I said out loud.

“That I will agree with you on,” Jimmy replied. “But what do you think he means by that line?” No one could answer. It was Jim’s own drug induced thoughts that made sense to no one but him. I respected him for that.

As the song became more intense Jason yelled: “The soccer game!” from a complete calm atmosphere. The biggest confusion arose. I stood up trying to find my hat. Jimmy threw me his bag of weed and told me to hide it. I couldn’t find a place to put it. The room was spinning and the music from the stereo was grabbing me. Jason was looking in wonder at himself in the mirror and Jimmy was scurrying to hide his bong. Everything became loud and polluted like we were in the city. Jimmy was screaming at us and I knew we had to get out of the room. I hid the bag of weed in the breast pocket of one of Jimmy’s suits in his closet, grabbed my hat and got the fuck out of Dodge. Ran downstairs and put my jacket on. When I got outside I realized Jimmy and Jack weren’t with me. Should I go back to get them? I had to. I couldn’t leave them in there alone. When I turned around to walk back in the house they were right there. We all went outside.

I remember asking Jimmy on the walk to the game if I looked proportioned to him. I couldn’t get comfortable. My mind was starting to fuck with me. “You look fine, man.” As soon as he said it I got comfortable. When entering a high school event fucked up I always got paranoid. The stadium was always loaded with cops during the games, and there were teachers, especially the ones of the classes you had just skipped that day. Luckily this time we had no problems getting in and the cops weren’t that bad. I loved the feeling of being at a game. It was a place where all your friends would meet up and talk about parties that were going on, or looking at girls you thought were looking at you. Just being a teenager at a high school game was the true essence of that time in my life, and I rarely appreciated it as much then as I do now. We proceeded to watch the soccer game. I can’t remember too much from that game at all. The acid had taken its full effect and everything became a blur. I do remember asking Jason why there were five soccer balls on the field. I don’t think he took me seriously because he didn’t answer. Or maybe he was pondering the same question. In any event our next stop was a party.