Blazed (28 page)

“Your dad still acting like a troll digger?”

“More like a blubber cheek,” I say. “It's just all weird.”

“Families, man. Shit is so tough. Like, I always wanted chicks or shitty friends to be the roughest parts of my life to navigate through, but it was always family. Isn't that bizarre? That the people you share blood with, who know more about you than anyone else will ever know, who brought you into this world, are usually the people who make your life insanely difficult and complicated.”

“It is,” I say. “But what do you do about it?”

James lights a cigarette and says, “The first thing you do is make sure you're never like them. We can't do anything about looking sorta like them, but we can do something about acting like them.”

“Right.”

“Then after that it's different, man. A lot of people make amends and brush all that bad shit under a big, bloody rug and it works for them. Wouldn't work for me but did for a lot of people I love and respect.”

“What'd you do?”

“I took all that anger and bitterness and resentment and I channeled it into my art. Like, I was never gonna be unhappy like them. So discontent even though from the outside, it looked like they had a wonderful life and all their shit was so together. But it wasn't. So I bailed, man. Being an artist wasn't a way to pay any bills or make a living to them, so I was dead fucking set on proving them wrong. And in that process, I found a better family out here, man. And sure, there's problems still and there's fights but in the end, none of these people look down on each other, none of them will refuse to support what you're doing, and none of them will ever hold bloodlines over your head and think you owe them something because they brought you into this place. You owe them nothing, man. And you owe everything to yourself and the people who believed in what you were doing.”

Just being able to sit at this table again and hear James Morgan talk about life a little bit is unbelievable. I'm sure he's been a fuckhead and a drag to some people, but then again, those people who feel that way have probably been the same things to someone else.

Snorting another line of coke, James slides the mirror in front of me. “Just one,” he goes.

“I prolly shouldn't, man.”

“Just get rad once with me in the Whip Pad, dude. One line. I mean, my favorite fucking Kendrick Lamar song
is playing, dude. Hi fucking power. Kill that rail, Tiger Stitches. Do it for me, man.”

Taking the straw from James's hand, I slide it up my right nostril and plug my left one with my finger and bang it right up there as Kendrick Lamar (and James Morgan) sings . . .

“I'm standing on a field full of land mines, doing the moonwalk, hoping I blow up in time . . .”

Immediate fucking charge to my brain and my body. Like, damn. I'm really fucking high and it happened so fast.

“Whoo,” I snort, sliding back in the chair. “Jesus Christ, man.”

“Right,” says James.

“Right,” I say back, giving him a high five. “Damn.”

“What are you doing tonight?” he asks me.

“This chick I've been hanging out with a little bit since I got here, her band is opening for King Krule at Slim's.”

“Nice,” he says. “What's her band?”

“Vicious Lips.”

“And she's your age and opening a show that big?”

“She's sixteen,” I say.

“Same fucking thing when it comes to that. You kids,” James says. “You ambitious little brats. You're figuring it all out now. Using the media culture perfectly to your advantage. Good job on that.”

“There's no need to wait for people to come to us anymore. We're coming for them, for you, and we can post as many songs as we want, as many pictures of our
paintings as we want, as many videos as we want, and if it's good, people are gonna grab onto it and devour it and pass it along to the rest of their world without some label or PR company or manager taking twenty percent just to do what we can do, what I can fucking do while drinking a Corona in my underwear and listening to the Fresh and Onlys or Mazzy Star.”

James laughs and smacks his hands together. “I love it, homie. Fucking Tiger Stitches.”

We fist bump and he goes, “There's a show on Thursday night at the Great American Music Hall.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Youth Lagoon is playing, man.”

“For real?” I ask. “Like, they're playing on Thursday? I love that band to death.”

“Me too,” says James. “But it's a twenty-one-and-up show, man.”

“Fuck,” I groan. “Why'd you tell me that?”

“Really,” says James. “That's all you got? Like at the very least, you can stand outside and listen to the show from there. You can hear it clear as the night. Come on, man. That's better than nothing.”

“You're right.”

“I was in Seattle with this girl Caralie I used to love for a long time. While we were there, we found out the Black Angels were playing a free show, so of course, we're like, we gotta do this, ya know. They'd just released
Directions
to See a Ghost
, so we showed up early to get in line cos it was first come, first serve. But while we were waiting, they fucking sound checked their entire set and we could hear it like we were in the front row, man. And both of us had seen them at least three times before, so we rocked gnar in line and when they were done, we bailed. We'd just heard the set and to this day, that remains one of my favorite shows or sets or afternoons ever. Just standing outside with all the real fans and listening to a band you love play their set. It's fucking awesome. And that's why I told you.”

He does another line and then passes the mirror back to me.

“Well, thanks for the heads-up, man.”

“You gotta show up for something like that while you're here, man. While you have that kind of access you will never get back in Joliet.”

“I know.”

“Good,” he says.

I pound another line right as Gerry walks into the room.

“Damn, man,” he goes. “You really do have a habit of getting teenagers high on coke.”

“Kid's fucking dope, man,” James snaps. “He can handle this shit.”

“Absolutely, I can,” I say.

“It's time,” says Gerry. “We gotta bounce and check out that space for the party next month.”

“Cool,” says James. Looking back at me, he goes, “Do you think your dad has fucked Savannah?”

I shake my head. “No. Not at all. I think he wants to and he would, but I don't think that's happened. Why?”

“Cos she hasn't fucked me yet.”

“So what?”

“I like that girl.”

“Maybe she just wants to be your friend.”

“Maybe,” says James. “But I think it's something else with her. It's almost like there's someone she doesn't wanna let down or make them think less of her by fucking me, and I thought it might be your dad, since he flew her out here and was pretty hands-on the other night.”

“I'm sure they haven't, dude. That dude's been in bed with his wife every night since I've been here.”

“All right,” he says. “I was just wondering.”

“Word.”

Both me and James stand up, and he gives me a hug.

“Have fun at the show tonight,” he says.

“Thanks, man. Thanks for everything. This is awesome.”

As I'm about to leave the room, James goes, “Only you can make the right choices for you, Jaime. The ones you can live with. Don't let anyone else dictate your happiness, man.”

“It's not that easy, though,” I say.

“Oh, I know. It's probably the hardest fucking thing in the world. But it's your life, dude. Those other people
ain't gonna be around when you're fifty and miserable and wishing you'd done what you knew what was best for you thirty years earlier. If you haven't made the right fucking choices for your life, it'll be just you and a lot of misery, and that's no way to live. Misery is something you destroy, not dwell in, dude. Tiger fucking Stitches.”

BRANDON'S PARENTS LET US SHRED
for an hour tonight. The three of us, me, Eddie, and Brandon, we decide to call our project Skullburns. It's a lot more melodic and poppy than the Devil Feeder stuff, but it's still tough as nails.

We work on the four songs from last night three times each and then decide that tomorrow night in Eddie's neighbor's garage (it's soundproofed), we'll record them live and throw 'em straight up on the Internet with a logo that Brandon drew and some pictures we'll take with our phones.

It's that easy. It really is. And if the music is any good, people are gonna listen and share it and talk about it.

Kids in Florida and Idaho and Texas. Kids in Japan and Australia.

Kids everywhere.

They're gonna be so stoked. Another piece of the blueprint presented to them. Another reason to stop making excuses and start doing shit and start taking their lives and their art seriously.

Before we bounce to the show, we skate the two blocks to the beach (Brandon has an extra board for me).

The sun is setting. This is why we're here. Because when we opened the garage door after destroying, for the first time in a day and a half the sun finally broke through the threshold of gray to say hi.

“This is the best part of living way out here,” said Brandon. “Getting to see this over two hundred days of the year.”

“It's so epic,” I said, my eyes huge and excited. “It's just massive and perfect.”

Eddie put his arm around me and went, “Come on then, homie. Let's grab the best fucking seats in the world then.”

We take off our shoes, and I roll my jeans past my ankles and we run through the soft sand to the edge of the beach.

Everything is so much clearer right now, right here. The wind is crisp and clean and the sound of the waves crashing touches my fucking soul. It really does.

I could stay here forever. There's no bitterness, no hurt feelings, and no ulterior motives.

Everything right here is real. There's nothing phony or fake about the ocean, the beach, and the sun and the birds and the huge cliffs that poke up through the fog a mile away.

There are no lies here. No fucking lies. And nobody is angry.

People should be more like the ocean. More people should try to be as beautiful and kind and nice as the setting sun is to them.

After the three of us share a tall can and a joint, Eddie
walks over to the huge brick wall separating sand from street.

“This is perfect,” he says. “Right here, dudes. Perfect.”

I look at Brandon and he shrugs and then Eddie takes a can of black spray paint out of his backpack.

He shakes it up and then starts spraying in this pretty killer script.

“He's good,” I say.

“He's been doing graffiti since he was eight, man. That's kinda how me and him met. We both got popped on the same night three years ago for tagging in totally different parts of the city, and we both got brought into a juvie holding facility. We met in a holding cell.”

“That's pretty sick, man.”

“Devil Feeder was born that fucking night.”

“Righteous.”

When Eddie finishes, the word “Skullburns” tattoos the wall now.

“Come on!” he yells, waving us over. “Hurry up before the pigs show up.”

Me and Brandon run over, and then Eddie yells at some random stranger to come over too.

After we all converge on the wall, Eddie hands the stranger his digital camera.

“Let's do this,” he says.

“Do what?” I ask.

“First band photo,” he says. “It's fucking dope.”

So the three of us get situated. Brandon sits down with his back against the wall. Eddie stands next to him with his arms folded across his chest. And me, I stand a little farther away from the wall and, like, five feet from those dudes with my hands shoved into the back pockets of my jeans.

The guy takes the photo, and the three of us run over to him to see it.

It's so perfect.

“This is really happening now,” I say.

“Of course, homie,” says Eddie. “This is fucking life. Life happens. And when it does, you better have something happening too or it'll swallow you right up and destroy you.”

“Fun days, fun days,” Brandon goes.

“Rad days,” I say back.

And Eddie says, “Rad days are fucking here, my man. Skullburn '77.”

DOMINIQUE CALLS ME WHILE WE'RE
riding the train back toward downtown and SoMa, where Slim's is.

“Do Eddie and Brandon need to get listed?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “They got tickets awhile ago. But thanks. We just nailed those four songs down too. We're calling our project Skullburns. Recording tomorrow night at Eddie's neighbors.”

“You sound so happy, Jaime. The excitement in your voice, oh my gosh, it's thrilling,” Dominique says.

“I am happy,” I tell her. “I've never been this happy.”

“See,” she says. “All the more reason to stay.”

“Nice try,” I go.

“Think about it,” she says. Then, “So what's up with Kristen?”

“What do you mean?”

“She hasn't returned any of my texts or calls. Is she okay?”

“I don't know,” I tell her. “She'd been up for a couple of days when I saw her last night.”

“She's prolly crashed out then. Bummer.”

“I'm sorry,” I say.

“Don't be. Trust me, I had a backup wardrobe plan, and I think you're gonna love it.”

“Can't wait,” I say. “Can't wait to see you and watch your band.”

“It's so exciting. This is the dream, ya know, the reason we fucking kill it every day and work so hard,” she goes. “Anyway, we're about to sound check, so I'll see you soon. And also, after the show, if you're not busy, there's something I have to show you. Just me and you. That I need to show you and you
need
to see.”