Jimi & Me by Jaime Adoff 1st chapter boxes Everywhere I look, I trip over them, and land on more. Our life now -- nothing but boxes. Everything we own, everything we can grab -- miles of tape close up our past. Mom cries as Aunt Berny puts her arm around her. Mom pulls away, cutting another piece of tape. I watch it all happen, like a silent news reporter. Taking everything in, not able to really deal. Not able to deal with it at all. I'm alone now. Lost without Dad. All alone, just me inside my head. Mom says everything is going to be different now. Mom says everything has changed. Mom says a lot more with her eyes than her mouth. Her eyes so sad all the time. Looking down, looking anywhere but here. NOW, this time that came so fast, snuck up on us and took away my Dad. Took away our life. I hate here I hate now I hate all these boxes. whisper house Our house used to be all loud and everything. Music blasting, singing-laughing. Now we have the Whisper House. Just whispers everywhere. Mom thinks I can't hear what she's saying, but I can. Like how the bank is going to take our house, and what happened to all the money we had? Our life savings gone in a flash. And how are we going to make it? Whispers drift in on pain and worry. Mom thinks it's gonna be real hard on me. Thirteen, growin' up without a dad. The whispers are so loud. Louder than the music used to be. That's hard to believe; but it's true. the music that was everything. This house was music. Dad downstairs, in the studio. Dad lookin' for the next big thing. The new hot band. A hit, so he could retire. Always talkin' about retiring. But Dad did well. He liked to teach me about the music biz. "Just a little school for ya," he'd say. Made his money with his music publishing deals. Royalties from songs on the radio. I thought ASCAP was the name of Dad's best friend, the way he would tear open the envelopes to get his checks. Dad had bands that he got signed to record deals. He got paid from that, too. Dad did alright for himself and for us. I always had the best stuff, the hottest games and coolest toys. Dad was in his heyday when I was younger. He was rollin' in the dough-I can still see him droppin' to the floor, rollin' around the carpet. Laughin' like he just said something so funny. Then he'd get up quick and deliver one of his famous lines: "You never know in this business; one day you're hot, one day you're not. So enjoy it while I got!" Mom said he'd be a music producer till the day he died. Mom was right. Boomin' and thumpin' bass sneakin' through the soundproof walls. Just enough to make your head start movin' while you were watchin' TV. The sound track to my everyday. Pretty cool compared to what most dads do. I can still hear that bass sometimes. When it's quiet. Like now. I can feel it in my chest. In my ears-straining to hear the music from the studio. As quiet as Dad is now. Still like Brooklawn cemetery. Dad's final resting place. have you ever been (to electric ladyland) I have. Dad took me once. Electric Lady Studios, downtown on Eighth Street. Used to be a club, then Jimi came along, waved his magic wand and turned it into one of the greatest studios ever. Jimi Hendrix. The greatest guitarist who ever lived. Dad's favorite artist of all time. I could listen to Jimi all day and night. Jimi and me are a lot alike: left-handers who love to write poetry and music. Both of us falling in love at a very young age. Falling in love with our six-string girls. Jimi was part Cherokee. Dad said he was, too. I can hear Dad tellin' me to get close; "Check out my high cheekbones." Dad's voice in my head sounding so clear so close so real. Dad and Jimi were like brothers who never knew each other. Black hippies with big souls and even bigger smiles. Peace and love and all that other stuff nobody talks about anymore. Both died way before their time. Jimi at twenty-seven. Dad made it to forty-nine. Still, way too young to die. Jimi did it to himself. Or so they say. (I think it was just a tragic mistake.) Dad never saw it comin'. Guess in the end it doesn't matter, does it? Dead is dead. And Jimi said: The magic carpet waits for you so don't you be late Is that what you ride when you die? I know Jimi was talkin' about love; but I'm talkin' about death-on my mind all the time, now. Maybe Dad and Jimi are up in Heaven, havin' a big-ass jam session. Or maybe Dad's just dead. Cold and dark. No sound no air no nothin'. reality sucks that's probably why we dream. Why our bodies need sleep. So we can escape. Escape this earth, at least for a little while. Every night, we get to go away. Sleep is the only time I feel safe. The only time I can leave this place. This reality that feels like needles sticking into my flesh. This hell that is so hot it makes my hair sweat. Makes my mind melt. In my sleep I hear music, I see faces, songs and smiles and Dad hugging me tight. Never letting me go. Telling me to be strong. Telling me not to give up hope. Sometimes I wake up crying. Sometimes I wish I didn't wake up at all. it comes in waves like the ocean. No. More like electricity. Shocking me, making me want to hurt myself or someone else -- We interrupt this regularly scheduled program to bring you Keith James, destroying everything in his path . . . dubbed the hurricane of death. . . . James is described as a seemingly shy kid who, by all accounts, just snapped. More on this story at eleven. . . . See, that's what I'm talking about. That was a wave. More like a tidal wave. Always hits when I least expect it. Thinking about death and revenge. Making someone else feel my pain, my hurt makes me feel better worse makes me feel something. More on this story as it develops. . . . dad's words "You have to channel your energy . . . Turn a negative into a positive." Dad's voice in my head all the time now. Freaks me out but I like it, too. "Channel your energy/your pain/your hurt. Violence never solved a thing. Just listen to what Jimi sings. . . ." Violence never solved a thing. Maybe not, but it might feel good. Who am I kidding? Don't have the stones to really do something. Not like in Rolling but balls/cajones. I'm not a lover or a fighter. I'm just a singer in a rock 'n' roll band. Well, not exactly. I try to be a singer. Guitar player, too. But no band. Need to talk to people, make friends to start a band. "Life isn't a spectator sport. . . ." Dad talkin' again. Givin' out wisdom from beyond the grave. See what happens when you get in the game? You get yourself shot. Shot dead. That's what happens. Sorry, Dad, I didn't mean that. sometimes it hits me It was my fault. I killed my dad. It hits me hard and takes so long to go away. Hours trying to justify that I had nothing to do with it. Hours trying to understand how I could have let this happen to him. I couldn't even save my own dad. I didn't do a damn thing. I should have woken up; Mom should have woke me up, told me Dad was going out. I shouldn't have gone to bed that night. I should have just stayed up. Should have just stayed up until everyone was safe; until I knew for sure Dad was okay. I should have stopped him, I could have stopped him. Guilt stops me cold. Hits me hard. It was my fault. I killed my dad.