The Blues Club

Hey all, this is from a work in progress about activism, single fatherhood, and the big beat of love. I’m sharing chapters that, beyond reasons of worthiness in their own write, might never make it to the final story but mean something to my life and will resonate with yours if you have ever felt the longing of watching your kids and loved ones fly away.

The pandemic has practically destroyed any life in downtown when I pass Grant Street and start up the hills to the beaches. Rupert is clearly up to the task, though I am keeping my foot on the brake as we creep downhill.

The heat mellows and the roads flatten. I reach the bluffs above the sea. I am able to find a place for Rupert by a park with silver bleachers and field of grass. I am getting out when Allie, my oldest son, in his middle twenties, comes down the steps with a strong toothy smile his beard frames. I don’t get to see Allie as much as I need. He shows me his new motorcycle. It scares me.

“I can get you a car.”

“It’s better for the city,” he says.

“Let’s get something to eat,” I say.

We stroll down Ocean Boulevard, the ocean breeze pushing in against our cheeks, smiles on both our faces erupting. We are together and one, and everything smells delicious, foreign and wonderfully scented with turmeric, lemongrass, and ginger, perfect for foraging.

Allie leads me inside Pho Ha Tien.

“Try the Hu Tieu, Mìubun, the seafood noodle soup. It’s got crab, squid, and fish. I like the won ton noodle or pho beef soups, too.”

We are the only persons to be seated at the one table that remains, and everybody is masked with eyes peering at us as they pack styrene takeout containers for all of their to-go and delivery customers.

“I just broke up with my girlfriend.”

“Oh no.”

“She wants to be in a relationship with another girl.”

Allie’s long thin fingers cradle the back of his left hand. He has fine fingers that can span the fret board. I’m glad he stopped martial arts when he did, though he was a red belt and could have tested for black. He was kind of sullen and quiet then, and his mom was already gone. It was so difficult to reach him. I tried talking. He didn’t much want to. He knew he wanted to play music. My hands are gnarled. I boxed. An asshole who replaced my grandmaster for a few weeks kicked the hell out of one of my fret fingers, and I’ve had to invent my own style to make chords. Yes I hate that person. But I got my black belt. It was my community then. I wanted it so badly even with everything happening. It was peace. It was nonviolence. It’s why not matter what their mom says it isn’t true, I will explain when they are all here. I could hurt somebody very badly.

“I want a relationship that lasts.”

“I know. But you’re so young. This is just part of the process. You will find the right person. I promise. But don’t get hurt so badly, please. I’ve done it. I’ve tried it. I’m doing it.”

I looked at the menu.

“I met someone else. She’s from India. Her father is from Iran. She’s here on a student visa.”

“There’s more,” he says.

“What’s that?”

“Mom is dying. She has lung cancer.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Yes, but it was difficult. I feel so alone, like I’m losing the people I love. I want to go to see her.”

“I think you should.”

“You’re not mad? I thought you might be mad. I talked with Siobhan, and we thought you might not want us to talk about mom, much less see her.”

We reach his place. He leads me upstairs into a small two-room apartment with a living room and window overlooking the park across the street. He sits on the chair. I sit on the couch. I look into his brown eyes and strong square face.

The ocean breeze blew in, and it was deep and salty.

“She called a few months ago. We talked, and she got incoherent and started asking about things in 2003.”

I strum.

“I want to go to India.”

My heartbeat intensifies.

“It’s so far away.”

“I want to study there.”

“I know.”

“I want to study with masters.”

“India scares me.”

“I’ll be safe.”

“I worry.”

“What about graduate school?”

“It’s where I want to study,” he says firmly.

“Grad school would set you up economically.”

“Please don’t push.”

“I’m making you feel worse,” I say.

He’s holding his guitar.

“It’s the way you bend it, but you can’t do that on the heavy strings of a guitar, but you can redo the tuning with really light strings and get the sounds,” he says. “The Hindu scale has nano embellishments that make it a little more complex than simply climbing the stairs, you know?”

“I know it’s the way you bend the notes. But all I need to do is go down South to bend mine. But my baby boy, he wants to go to India. Oh Lord, oh my, yes, yes, yes,” my voice deepens.

I’m strumming a Fender acoustic and playing in the key of C and three hits of G with a final F chord riff called “China Cat Sunflower” by The Grateful Dead, coaxing myself to relax, and get with it, and using the same beat. He’s so good and talented. I love when he plays the blues with me or goes into his own jazz riffs. He knows how to stay with me, and I stay with him. It’s total interaction and beyond words. That’s him and me. It’s all good.

We sang hard, and we played hard, and I played every note and took him along on a slow and easy blues ride, songs that he had absorbed living in San Francisco and everything came out a little bit like Jerry Garcia.

“Honey, I love you.”

“I love you too.”

We stand in the heat on the street.

“I should head out,” I say. “It’s beautiful here. I love how you live next to a park. You can get out and exercise if you want.”

“Am I going to get sick like Mom did?”

“No, of course not.”

“I don’t mean with lung cancer. I mean with mental illness.”

“No.”

I walk to Rupert and hug him one more time.

“I want you to come home when you’re back, and I want to be able to tell all of you the story about mom and me. I don’t want to tell it multiple times. I want to tell it once to you straight. Since there are three of you I want you all to hear it at the same time. ”

“How is Agnetha?”

“She’s in New York.”

He nods.

“Is Agnetha coming back?”

“She says so. “

It’s not how I want to leave because, first of all, I don’t want to. I want to play music with my son.

— 30 —

After a year of interviewing some of the most heroic parents in America today, I’m delighted to announce advance copies of Raising Healthy Kids: Protecting Your Children from Hidden Chemical Toxins are available. Be sure to visit https://tinyurl.com/4a9ctywu or your favorite independent bookseller.