Five Flavors of Dumb (17 page)

With the image of Jimi playing on one side of the screen, I pulled up his biography in a new window on the other. As with Kurt Cobain, it made for uncomfortable reading, and I wondered how he’d survived being raised in a home so profoundly broken. By the time I looked up again, six pairs of eyes were locked on me, and Ed was heading toward me, his face tinged with concern.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, I . . . I just got a message from my secret admirer.”

Ed nodded. “So where are we off to this time?”

“No, Ed. We’ll go some other time. I need to call it a day.”

“Uh-uh. I sense the second voyage of the Magical Mystery Tour is about to set sail. Anyone else ready to get educated?”

Kallie nodded enthusiastically, while Tash looked confused.

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I insisted. “I mean, someone’s sending me on a tour of Seattle’s dead rock stars, that’s all. Apparently, Hendrix is next.”

“Then count me in,” said Tash. “You coming, Will?” she added, masking her hopefulness with an air of indifference.

Will shook his head, his indifference all too genuine. Josh tried to suppress a smirk as they left the room together. Maybe seeing Tash’s advances rebuffed took some of the sting out of his own rejection.

“Come on. Let’s go,” sighed Ed.

I glanced at my watch. “I really shouldn’t. My mom got annoyed last time.”

Finn waved my cell phone in the air. “Dad says it’s okay. Mom’s got some dinner thing at work.”

I looked in my bag, wondering when Finn had managed to filch my cell phone. I wanted to ask for more details too, but by then he was heading out the door with the others.

Eventually only Tash remained. She stood by the window, staring into space. I knew what was bothering her, but I wasn’t sure what to say, so I figured it was probably best to leave her alone.

Just then, Kallie returned. She padded over to Tash and placed a hand on her arm. I was sure that Tash would pull away, but she didn’t. Instead she sighed, just once, then followed as Kallie led her from the room.

USS
Immovable
labored up Capitol Hill. In the rearview mirror, I saw three women in matching Lycra tops powering space-age bicycles, matching us step for step. They were grimacing, and I think it was because we were holding them up, rather than from exertion. I floored the gas and
Immovable
wheezed angrily, but our speed didn’t change. I patted the wooden dash encouragingly and prayed that we’d make it all the way to the top.

Finn waved from the backseat, where he’d assumed his now-customary position sandwiched between Tash and Kallie.
Should we get out and push?
he signed.

I stuck my tongue out and he smiled, although it probably had more to do with the aforementioned sandwich than anything I had done.

With a Seattle city map in his hands and a GPS system seemingly hardwired into his brain, Ed directed me straight to the 2000 block of South Jackson Street. It was only a couple miles from Kurt Cobain’s house, I realized, but the addresses belonged to different worlds. Instead of mansions designed to maximize views of the lake and mountains, Jackson Street was home to apartment buildings and a mishmash of nondescript warehouses and stores. Instead of the serenity of Cobain’s intensely private community, several people loitered on street corners. But the most obvious shift, as subtle as a slap on the face, was that almost everyone was African American. I didn’t feel weird about being there, but I had to admit that I couldn’t recall having passed through the neighborhood before.

Ed pointed to the side of the road and I pulled over. He prodded the map so sharply I thought his finger might pierce it. “2010 should be here,” he groaned.

I looked through his window, but there was only a low wall fronting an overgrown plot of land with a large FOR SALE sign.

“Well, let’s find it,” I said encouragingly, but everyone took their time getting out of the car.

Tash sloped toward the wall. “Welcome to Jimi Hendrix’s invisible house,” she deadpanned.

We walked up and down the block, but it was clear that this was where the house misleadingly known as 2010 S Jackson should have been.

Finn waved to get my attention.
I’m going to ask someone what’s going on,
he signed.

While I was waiting, I jumped over the wall and onto the plot, which was engulfed by tall weeds. If a building had ever been there, it had disappeared years ago. I kicked at the ground in frustration, but then something caught my eye.

I knelt beside a bush at the edge of the plot. It looked like someone had dumped trash under the branches, but I knew it wasn’t trash. The cardboard boxes had been flattened and covered with moth-eaten blankets, torn wrappers from a Happy Meal licked clean and stashed to one side. Everything was sodden from rain, but someone had lived there for a while, in the cold and wet, on ground that Jimi Hendrix may or may not have ever known.

Ed touched my arm, startling me. “I hope they’ve found somewhere warmer now,” he said.

I nodded as I touched the thin blanket. I couldn’t imagine it provided enough warmth to get someone through summer nights, let alone fall.

“Seems symbolic, doesn’t it?” I sighed.

Ed crouched down beside me, touched the blanket too. “How so?”

“Jimi Hendrix grew up in poverty,” I explained, reciting what I’d learned just an hour earlier. “His mom left when he was young. He often had to scrounge food from his neighbors. I guess it’s possible there were days he slept outdoors like this. Same with Kurt Cobain. He got thrown out of so many houses he ended up sleeping in a cardboard box.”

Suddenly I could picture them both with painful clarity: two cold, malnourished boys desperately seeking escape from the harsh reality of their lives, whether through music or drugs. Until a month ago I’d never given either of them any thought, and even if I had, I’d have seen only the fame and wealth, never suspecting that fame and wealth were just a veneer—Band-Aids over gaping psychological wounds.

I’d managed to convince myself that Dumb was about a college fund, a simple business decision. But kneeling among those damp weeds, trying to make sense of everything around me, I realized that it had become so much more than that. My college fund was a veneer too, and everything beneath was slowly bubbling to the surface. There was nothing I could do to stop it. And I wasn’t even sure I wanted to anymore.

“Come on,” said Ed, helping me up. His hand was warmer than mine, and he didn’t let go until we got back to the sidewalk, where Finn addressed us with all the enthusiasm of an undertaker:

“It’s true. Hendrix’s house used to be here, but this isn’t where he grew up. In fact, you’re not going to believe what I’m about to tell you.” That really got everyone’s attention. “Jimi Hendrix grew up in a small house a few blocks from here, but that land was sold to a developer to build condominiums. Some fans arranged to save his house, and the city let them move it here. But after a few years, the city wanted to sell this plot, so they told the group to move the house again. Just as the city was about to demolish it, a Hendrix fan picked up the house, stuck it on a truck, and drove it away.”

There was stunned silence while we looked at one another, waiting to see who’d bust out laughing first. It turned out to be Tash.

“You are shitting me,” she said with customary eloquence.

“Tash, I am so not shitting you,” Finn assured her.

“So where is it now?” I asked.

Finn shook his head. “I don’t know exactly, although the guy I spoke to said he thought it was across the road from the Hendrix memorial, which is in Greenwood Memorial Park in Renton.”

“Renton? That’s way the other side of the lake!”

Tash stepped forward. “Yes, it is. And we’re going there now.”

Ten minutes later, we joined the rush hour traffic heading east on I-90 across Lake Washington, fighting a stiff breeze that whipped waves against the bridge. I peered in the rearview mirror occasionally, but no one on the backseat was talking. Whatever thoughts we were lost in, we were lost in together.

Ed turned the Seattle map over and examined the streets on the eastern side of the lake, his finger drifting over Bellevue and down to Renton. I could see him tracing our route, but it was several miles before he pointed to an exit sign and I pulled off the highway. As we turned to face another long, grueling incline, I could feel
Immovable
vibrating oddly, and I almost felt sorry for her. Hilly Seattle is a cruel city for a car that should have been retired years ago.

After another mile I saw a cemetery on the right—nothing but headstones and manicured lawns, flanked by evergreens. I signaled to turn, but then Finn jutted between the front seats and pointed to the left instead. I didn’t have time to ask why, and as soon as I’d crossed the oncoming traffic and realized he’d directed me into a trailer park, I wanted to curse. But by then he was telling me to stop.

I jammed on the brakes and glared at him, waiting for an explanation. Finn just pointed past me to the shack outside my window: a tiny, dilapidated clapboard house surrounded by a flagging chain-link fence.

“You don’t mean ...” I began, but Finn was nodding.

I dragged myself out of the car and felt my entire body deflate. Tufts of weeds filled holes in the cracked asphalt, and I kicked up stones and dust as I stepped toward the fence. I laced my fingers through the chain-links, icy-cold and battered. The house inside had been painted once, but it was flaking off. In its place, someone had spray-painted graffiti, but that only made the shack appear more neglected.

I was able to walk the entire perimeter of the fence in about twenty seconds. I did another circuit, hoping somehow that I might mysteriously stumble upon the rest of the house—the part where a family could live without being on top of one another the whole time. But there was nothing more to see. The house was tiny, smaller by half than Josh and Will’s garage. Whatever the source of Jimi Hendrix’s genius, it evolved in a place of poverty.

The rush of cars on the busy road beside us provided a wall of white noise, drowning out the crunch of footsteps and the scratch of voices. Somehow it felt right, so I closed my eyes and savored the peacefulness. When I opened them again, Tash stood beside me, slouching, like the bristling energy that kept her alive had seeped out somewhere between the car and the fence. She wrapped her arm around me and leaned her head on my shoulder.

“He grew up in there,” she said, her words distinct so close to my ear.

I nodded.

Tash took a deep breath, exhaled hard. “The greatest rock guitarist in history grew up in this house. Do you understand that?”

I didn’t, of course, not really; but at the same time, I did. I got the notion of someone transforming the way an instrument could be played just like I got the way that Andy Warhol and Jackson Pollack could change art, and William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway could change literature. I told her so.

Tash snorted. “Yeah, well . . . let me know if their houses are falling apart, stuck on the edge of a trailer park, okay?”

“It’s not fair,” I agreed.

“No, it’s not. His home should be a museum. It’s a holy relic. It’s ...” She squeezed her left hand through a gap in the fence, willed herself a few inches closer. “Nothing’s sacred, you know?”

“I know.” I wrapped my arm over her shoulder and pulled her closer. “How did he die?”

Tash cleared her throat. “Drug overdose. He was only twenty-seven, same as Kurt Cobain. Can you believe it? Twenty-seven years old.” She bit her lip. “What would you do if you knew you only had nine more years?”

I stared straight ahead, tried not to blink as my eyes dried out in the cold wind and the house became blurry. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow around the place. It reminded me that we’d turn the clocks back the next night, and if we hadn’t visited now we’d have missed out on this scene. I didn’t want to miss out on moments like this.

“If I only had nine more years,” I said, “I’d make the most of every day. Every single one.”

Silence again. We kept looking at the house, like we were expecting something to happen—a miracle, perhaps. I thought about all those hours Jimi had spent playing air guitar on a broom. I tried to picture the moment in eighth grade when he received his first guitar, a banged-up instrument with only one string. I imagined him practicing inside those thin walls, in a space so small the only way to be alone, to lose yourself, was through music.

How did he keep playing when money got really tight, and there was no more food in the house? How did he play on when it became clear he was flunking out of school? Was music really enough when the whole world seemed to be collapsing around him? Or was it just the only thing left?

I felt Tash shudder against me, and I knew she was fighting back tears. I would have cried too, but then I pictured Jimi bringing his guitar to life, his whole body transported by the pure power of music. And he didn’t look sad or regretful—he brimmed with energy, savoring every stolen moment of untainted joy.
Live in the moment
, he seemed to be saying. And for once, I heard the words perfectly.

Live in the moment
. I could do that.

We could all do that.

Tash remained in her silent funk all the way home. Ed had tried to convince her it was a promising sign that fans had bothered to save the house at all, but for once he should have let it go. Tash was beyond seeing the silver lining, and I understood why.

I dropped Ed and Kallie off first. Tash said her mom wouldn’t be home until much later, so Finn suggested she head back with us. She even seemed relieved. I guess she didn’t want to be left alone with her thoughts.

The house was almost completely dark when we walked in, the only sign of life an overpowering odor of Chinese food. I switched on a light and lifted the lid on each carton, uncovering every variety of meat cooked in every conceivable way. Apart from fried rice (with pork, of course), there wasn’t a single grain or vegetable to be found. Dad clearly didn’t want the massacre of innocent vegetables on his conscience.