He wanted me to play football so I quit the team and got a job at a music store. The shop was owned by a talkative old guy who used to tour with Hendrix in the sixties. I learned so much from Mel! Working there every day was totally worth enduring my father’s disappointment.
Then there was the college situation. Who knew that my college choice could start WWIII in our house? I wasn’t really interested in doing anything my father wanted me to do, including go to college. Dad wanted me to go to Northwestern so I applied to Berklee College of Music.
He almost had a coronary when I told him that I had gotten into Berklee. He refused to send his son to some “preppy school for hippies”. Since he wouldn’t pay for me to go to Berklee and I refused to even apply to Northwestern, I tried everything in my power to come up with tuition on my own.
It was useless.
I didn’t make nearly enough money at the music store to pay for college.
My guidance counselor had actually laughed when I told him that I wanted to apply for a music scholarship. He reminded me that I had not taken a single music class since fifth grade and colleges don’t give scholarships to kids who play an instrument on their own without devoting some time and effort into studying their craft.
I decided to not go to college at all. I was just going to work and save my money in order to move to Chicago. Chicago is just as good as any place to play music and the blues scene was killer!
My dad was beyond pissed. He didn’t speak to me for a month.
My mother cried when I told her that if I couldn’t go to Berklee I wasn’t going to college. She tried to convince my father that Berklee was just as good a school as any. He still refused to pay.
“If Aiden wants to be an uneducated pseudo rock star, let him”, were my father’s exact words.
Mom pleaded with me every day to find another school. Emory seemed as good a choice as any. Paulie had gotten in and without the distraction of football, my GPA improved enough to qualify so I submitted my application and waited for my rejection letter.
To everyone’s surprise, I got in. I was more surprised than anyone in my family. My essay sucked. My transcript wasn’t all that great. I figured that letting me in was God’s idea of a joke.
Ha ha, Aiden. You’re going to college now.
At least I’d be in Atlanta, a great place to play music.
I don’t think there is a freshman on this campus who struggled more than me this year. While Paulie made the Dean’s list both semesters, I barely maintained a 2.0 GPA, partly because I didn’t try that hard. This place is boring! At least in high school I had lots of friends to clown around with.
I pretty much just threw in the towel. Grades don’t really matter because I’m not coming back here. School is a waste of time when all I really want to do is play my guitar. My dad was so happy when I told him that I wanted to stay in Atlanta for the summer that he deposited seventy-five hundred bucks in my account to pay for tuition. I never told them I was staying in school for summer semester. I said I was staying in Atlanta. Thanks for the cash, Dad.
Now I have enough money to get a one bedroom apartment and focus on my career. Now I can really start looking for gigs and finally get a record deal. Hopefully, it will happen before my parents find out that I’m not in school. If they find out what I’m up to, I’m dead. They will drag me back to Mt. Vernon and force me to go to Northwestern.
I’ve gotten a few gigs since I’ve been here but not nearly enough or the kind that I really want. Playing at frat parties doesn’t satisfy the need I have to play good music. These kids don’t know what good music is. They don’t understand what it takes to write a good song.
They really don’t understand the blues.
Why would they?
They’re exactly like me...or like I was. They come from the same type of place that I come from; white bread communities in suburbia. Of course they don’t get it. They sing and dance to Kanye West’s Gold Digger and have no clue that he remade a Ray Charles classic.
I’m losing my mind and that’s why I can’t come back here. I crave the feeling I have whenever I’m playing the music I want to play. I can’t even write in these dorms without some interruption. If it was easier to go to college and pursue my dream, I’d do so I wouldn’t have to lie to my folks. But it’s impossible so I have to move on.
I have so many ideas about the direction I want my music to go in. Ever since I played my first chord, I’ve been playing other people’s songs. I have a million melodies in my head but no words to put them to.
What can I write about?
The question that plagues me, night and day. But I’ll have nothing but time on my hands to write...time to discover my sound.
****
There’s something extremely aggravating about the pitter patter of toddler footsteps walking around above you. It interrupts my train of thought when I’m sitting in the middle of my living room floor surrounded by empty beer cans, burger wrappers, and my music equipment.
I’m trying to write a song, damn it!
My barely furnished apartment is my musical haven. For five hundred bucks a month, I have a living room, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, and a patio; all I need. For the last two days, I haven’t left my apartment, except to walk to the corner store for beer and cigarettes.
Up until two days ago, I haven’t written anything. Now that I’m actually in a great creative space where I’m not just writing words on paper, but actually composing songs, my damn neighbor won’t put her rugrats to bed!
When I found this apartment in the Apartment Guide book I thought I’d gotten lucky by finding a cheap apartment. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. At least she’s the only one who bothers me. My other neighbors are cool and keep to themselves.
Sometimes, if it’s quiet out, I’ll take my guitar outside and play on the patio. My neighbor Juan will come by and have a few beers while I’m playing.
I’ve only seen the girl who lives above Juan a couple of times. She comes and goes like a thief in the night. She doesn’t speak to anyone. Her face is usually hidden behind a pair of sunglasses and a mean frown.
The woman above me is a pain in the ass. She’s loud and obnoxious. Her kids are loud and misbehaved, and her boyfriends are drug dealers who don’t get along with each other.
It’s like a damn soap opera in her apartment but she has the nerve to get mad at me for playing my guitar and waking up her “damn kids”. I wasn’t surprised when she started banging on my door at eleven o’clock. I pushed my notebook to the side and answered the door.
“What?”
Tameka stood in the hallway with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face.
“Look man,” she said in a slow country drawl. “I don’t know what you’re doin’ down here, but that shit sounds terrible and my babies are tryin’ to sleep.”
“I can hear your kids running around up there so I know they aren’t sleep.”
“You callin’ me a liar, white boy?’
At that moment, her oldest, a little girl all of three years old, stood at the top of the steps and began yelling for her “Mama”. I waited for her to leave.
“Anyway,” she said. “You been playin’ that same shit for two days. Cut it out before I get Jay to come down here and whoop your ass.”
This isn’t the first time that Tameka has threatened to send her gold toothed, gun wielding boyfriend downstairs to kick my ass, but I know enough about Jay to know that he isn’t coming anywhere near my apartment. Two things keep him away; drugs and warrants.
“Look, I’ll turn down the amp but that’s it. You don’t hear me complaining about the noise you’re making upstairs.”
I shut the door quickly but not quick enough to miss her comment about calling the leasing office in the morning. Let her.
If I get one more noise complaint from the leasing office, I’m going to call DFCS. I’m sure they would love to know that she has her kids hanging around drug dealers.
<
br /> I sat back down, cracked open another lukewarm beer, and picked up my guitar. Life isn’t perfect, by far, but I’m not complaining. It’s going to get so much better than this little apartment and nosy neighbors.
Money is tight though. Seventy-five hundred dollars doesn’t go very far. I spent all the money I saved from working at the music store on new guitars and more equipment. Now I’m just living off of my parents’ money.
I thought I’d have enough for rent, food, and the basic essentials that I’d need for at least six months. I had completely forgotten about the necessities that I’d taken for granted for the last nineteen years, like electricity, running water, phone, and cable.
All of my life those things had just been there. I never thought about it. I never considered that these things were bills that have to be paid every month just like my rent.
Sooner, rather than later, I’m going to have to get a job. It shouldn’t be too hard. There are a million places to work in Atlanta. I’m not looking for a career. I already know what I want to do with my life. I just need something that’s going to pay my bills and leave my nights open to perform.
I’ve finally worked up the nerve to perform my original songs in front of people. I’ve book myself for a couple of Open Mic shows and songwriter showcases this month. The first one is in a week.
O’Neal’s is a small bar but I have to start somewhere. I don’t expect that this thing is going to be a walk in the park. But I’m in the South now, the home of the blues. I can’t lose.
Chapter 9
“You’re Aiden Tyler, right?”
I felt a tap on my shoulder and looked up into a pair of sparkling blue eyes. The blonde tapping my shoulder is pretty cute...too cute to be working at a hole in the wall joint like O’Neal’s. There’s a reason why she works here. Her personality sucks ass!
“That’s me,” I told her.
“You’re up next.” She frowned as she eyed the empty seats next to me. “Where’s your band?”
“There’s no band. It’s just me.”
Blondie’s expression went from surprised to worried and finally settled on annoyed.
“But it says here,” – she looked down at her clipboard – “that you’re a guitar player.”
“Yeah...and?”
“You do know that we don’t use the house band for Open Mic nights, right?”
I spun around in my chair. What the hell is she talking about?
“But I talked to Carl and he said the band would play with me.”
Blondie shrugged her shoulders. “Carl’s new,” she replied as if that was a satisfactory explanation. “Do you still want to go on?”
What the hell am I supposed to do now? I hadn’t prepared for this. I don’t even have the right guitar to play alone.
“Do I have time to run home and get my other guitar?”
“If home is five minutes away,” she replied.
“Oh, come on!” I groaned. “Cut me some slack. You guys are the ones who screwed up.”
“Listen kid, I don’t make the rules,” she said. “Open Mic is over at eleven. I’ll move some of the other acts around. You get back here before eleven and you can play. If not, come back next week.”
I jumped out of my chair and jogged out of the bar to my car. My apartment is twenty minutes away. If I don’t get pulled over, I’ll be able to get back before eleven.
When I pulled into my apartment complex, I knew I wouldn’t make it back to O’Neal’s tonight. Bright red and blue police lights lit up the parking lot. Cops were holding back a crowd of nosy residents and this was all happening in front of my building.
What the hell is going on?
I threw the car in park and started towards my apartment, only to be blocked from the walkway by a Dekalb County police officer. I saw Juan standing off to the side.
“Juan, what happened?” I yelled as I jogged over to him, hoping he knew enough English to tell me what the hell was going on and why I couldn’t go into my house.
“Some guys and the...how you say...old boyfriend,” Juan answered in broken English. “They come for her -” he pointed to the apartment above mine – “new boyfriend. They fight. Old boyfriend pulls out gun. New boy gets shot...you know, the one with the teeth.”
I groaned. This is unbelievable. I never thought that this kind of shit happens in real life.
“Is he dead?”
Juan shrugged. “They took him away...to hospital. Other boys run. La Policia come. No one can go inside.”
Someone yelling at the cops made us turn around.
“I don’t give a shit who got shot! He isn’t my damn boyfriend!”
It was the girl who lives above Juan. Even though it was dark out, she was wearing the same dark shades and her usual frown.
“What the hell do you mean; I can’t go into my apartment? Do you pay my fuckin’ rent?” she continued to scream at the cop. “No, I don’t know shit! Can’t your dumb ass see that I’m just getting home?”
She was loud and feisty, but the cop wasn’t backing down. The police were very adamant about not letting any of us into our building and the girl wouldn’t stop grumbling about it.
I felt like an extra on the set of Boyz N da Hood as the police continued to go in and out of the building, eventually coming out with bags of weed and other drugs. The girl stormed over to where Juan and I were standing.
“What the hell happened now, Juan? What did that dumb bitch do this time?”
“Looks like Manny shot Jay,” I spoke up but clearly it was the wrong time to speak.
“Was I talking to you?” she muttered. “This is bullshit.”
“Tell me about it,” I decided to try again. There’s something about this girl that I like. Besides, it’s the first time I’ve ever heard her voice. She’s kinda cute.
Her sundress and sandals were nice. I don’t know what kind of work she does for her look absolutely flawless this late at night, but whatever it is, she looks good.
Her skin is usually the color of caramel but I could tell that the sun had darkened it since the last time I saw her. Her Halle Berry inspired hair cut was streaked with gold highlights that glimmered in the flash of the police lights. Up close, this chick is hot!
“You’re still talking to me?”
“Hey,” I laughed. “Don’t get mad at me. I didn’t shoot anyone. I’m just as pissed as you are. I had a gig tonight. I just came home to get my other guitar.”
For the first time, the girl looked directly at me, even though I couldn’t see her eyes through her dark sunglasses, I could feel them boring holes into my head.
“You’re the one who keeps us up all night with all that noise?” she asked angrily.
“What surprises you about that?” I asked. “That I’m white?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” she said sarcastically. “A white boy who plays the guitar...shocking!”
“Well, it seems to come as a shock to most people,” I muttered.
“Most people are stupid,” she answered and went back to glaring at the police.
“What kind of music do you play?” she asked without even turning around. I stepped around to face her. I don’t want to have a conversation with her back.
“Mostly blues covers, but I’ve been working on my own stuff.”
“Was this gig at Rabbit’s?”
I shook my head. “No, what’s Rabbit’s?”
“You call yourself a blues player and you haven’t heard of Rabbit’s Blues Lounge? What kind of blues player are you?” She chuckled. “Oh, I know; a wannabe.”
“You don’t even know me,” I argued.
“Believe me, baby, I don’t have to know you. I know your type. I’ve been around musicians all of my life and if you’ve never set foot in Rabbit’s, you ain’t no kind of blues player in Atlanta.” She shook her head and walked over to a crowd of police officers.
I watched as she asked a question and apparently wasn’t satisfied with the answer they gave her. She
spun around on the heels of her sandals and marched off towards her car.
I wondered if she’s in the business. She looks like she could be a singer. Maybe that’s why she keeps such late hours and always looks camera ready. This is Atlanta. There are millions of people down here who are an aspiring this or that.
I definitely have to check out this place she referred to, Rabbit’s. Sometimes it’s hard for me to check out the really popular places because I’m underage. Even when I promise not to go near the bar, bouncers rarely let me in. If what she’s saying is true, going to Rabbit’s is definitely worth the effort.
Chapter 10
I am such a schmuck.
I can’t believe I’ve been waiting for my neighbor to open her door for at least five minutes. I barely know this girl and judging by her irritated yell that she was ‘coming, God damn it!’ this was probably a bad idea. But after weeks of playing gigs at barely known bars, I need to do something else or I’m going to lose my mind.
Hopefully, she’ll do me this one favor.
I should be grateful for the gigs, knowing that I could be playing guitar in my apartment alone. I’m grateful. I’m grateful that people are starting to come to my shows just to see me. The other night I was playing at a small club in Athens and I recognized quite a few people from bars in Atlanta that I’ve played at.
When people are traveling to hear you play, that’s a good thing. But they’re not coming to see me play the kind of music that I want to play. They’re coming to hear the stuff that I just make up on the fly while I’m sitting at home. They’re good songs or else I wouldn’t play them but there’s another side of me that I want to show. Whenever I start playing anything remotely close to the blues songs I’ve written, I lose my audience. There are so many different kinds of music in my repertoire but they only want to hear the pop songs.
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