14.
I got up and dusted myself off. My elbows were scraped and bleeding and stung as I wiped them on my shirt to get the dust out. Fortunately, my guitar wasn’t even scratched. I checked my phone. No signal, and I was so far from LA I couldn’t have afforded an Uber anyways. With nothing else to do, I started walking back down the highway.
There were no landmarks anywhere, just the endless desert and the empty road stretching into the darkness. Occasionally a car would pass by, but I didn’t try to flag them down. My mom had always warned me and my brother against hitchhiking because we might get kidnapped or killed or even worse. I hoped a police car would pass by. I was getting thirsty and was nervous about my scrapes since I hadn’t been able to put disinfectant and band-aids on them. I was also getting tired and thought about sleeping by the side of the road, but I worried I’d get bit by a rattlesnake or stung by a scorpion. It was hard to keep going, to keep putting one foot in front of the other with no end in sight. My legs hurt. I thought about giving up, but instead I slung my guitar strap over my shoulder and started playing “Hearts Collide”.
.
Tell me how you feel inside
And we can let our hearts collide
Didn’t know we’d meet tonight
And that’s the way hearts collide
.
A revved up pickup truck blasting Spanish hip hop came hurtling through the night. I sang and played even harder, even though my arms hurt, as I was blinded by the light. It ripped on past, the wind almost knocked me over, but I kept the song alive. Then I heard it turn around and I started running, but it caught up and pulled up beside me.
“Yo!”
I ignored the driver and kept playing.
“Hey! Bro! What the fuck are you doing, man?”
I kept going.
.
I’ve been searching for a love like this
To heal the pain inside
Didn’t realize that if I just stopped trying
Fate would let our hearts collide
.
The driver and his friend burst out laughing.
“Bro, are you good? Bro! I’m talking to you, man! Do you need help?”
I stopped. Every voice in my head told me it was a trap. But I did need help.
“Um, sorry. Yeah, I’m kind of lost.”
The two guys laughed again.
“Obviously, bro. You want a ride?”
“Um, okay. Yes, please.”
“Alright, man, get in.”
I opened the small back door and squeezed into the back seat with my guitar.
“What’s your name, homes?” asked the driver, who I could now see was a buff Latino guy with a lot of tattoos wearing an Angels cap and jersey. The guy in the passenger seat was a skinny White guy wearing a hoodie and a beanie with a lot of air in the top.
“Winston.”
“Alright, Winston. Nice to meet you, bro. I’m Carlos and this is Pete.”
“Um, nice to meet you.”
They each reached back and I reached over my guitar to shake their hands.
“Where you headed?”
“Um, back to LA.”
“LA?! Man, you’re gonna die trying to walk that. Where you coming from?”
“Well, um, I was going to Las Vegas, but my friend and I had an argument and he threw me out of the car.”
Pete shook his head. “Man, that ain’t no friend.”
“I guess not,” I said.
“Nah, bro. That foo was tryna kill you!” said Carlos.
“Um, maybe.”
“Yeah, man. Well, we’re not really heading towards LA, but we’re going to a desert show if you want to come.”
“A desert show?”
“Yeah, bro, we can play loud as fuck out here and nobody cares. Pete’s brother’s playing. You down?”
“Um, sure.”
“Trust me, bro, you ain’t never been to a show like this.” Carlos cranked the music and whipped the truck around and we tore up the highway.
Eventually Carlos turned onto a dirt road. We drove for miles with nothing in sight. Despite their friendliness, my fears of being kidnapped were starting to return until Pete lowered the music and I heard heavy guitar, drums, and singing echoing in the distance.
“You hear that?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Almost there.”
Soon I saw lights and trucks and motorcycles and generators and a crowd watching the band play on the desert floor. Carlos parked the truck and we got out.
“You can leave that in the back,” he said.
“Okay.” I laid my guitar across the seats and shut the door.
There were all sorts of people there, mostly White and Latino. Punks and more normal looking teenagers, pretty girls and goth girls, who were also pretty but sometimes fat, guys in work clothes and tattooed gangsters with guns tucked into their pants.
“Don’t worry,” said Carlos when he saw me looking at them. “They’re just here to enjoy the show.” He tapped his nose and laughed.
“Um, okay.”
We went deeper into the crowd towards the stage, Carlos and Pete saying hi to people they knew along the way. I’d never really listened to much metal, but to my surprise, something about the heavy riffs and the charged up crowd resonated with my emotions—Kevin’s betrayal, everything I’d sacrificed, all the frustration I’d buried, all leading up to getting thrown in the dirt—before I knew it I was in the thick of the mosh pit, colliding with sweaty tough guys twice my size, screaming along to lyrics I didn’t even know. I kept getting knocked over, but people were always quick to pick me up, though after a few spills some guys pulled me back into the standing crowd. I kept jamming out, admiring the energy of the musicians giving it their all, their raw passion. A cute girl with black bangs and heavy eyeliner was glancing over at me. I smiled and she looked away, then looked back. I was trying to think of a way to talk to her when I felt someone tapping my shoulder. It was a bald Mexican guy in a leather jacket, grinning.
“Hey homie. You need some more coke?”
“What?”
“I said do you need some more coke?” He pulled out a small bag of cocaine and dangled it. “Thirty bucks.”
“Oh, um, no thanks.”
He looked confused. “Aight.” He slipped back into the crowd and I worried that I might have offended him.
The song ended and the crowd cheered.
“Holy shit. You guys are going crazy. That’s what’s up,” said the singer, who was also the bassist, who I guessed was Pete’s brother. “We’ve got a special guest coming on for this next one. This is our first time playing it live. Make some noise for Mustafa Ali!”
The crowd went wild as a wiry Black guy wearing a keffiyeh, a Clippers jersey, and lots of gold chains jogged onto the stage and took the mic.
“Yo, yo, yo! What’s good, y’all?”
The crowd cheered.
“I said what’s good y’all?!”
The crowd cheered louder.
“That’s what’s up. That’s what’s up. We bout to take this shit to a whole other level. This joint’s called ‘Desert Travels.’”
The crowd roared and some guys near me were jumping up and down and grabbing each other’s shoulders shouting stuff at each other. The band started playing a mysterious groove that was still pretty heavy. Mustafa rapped with strong autotune.
.
Trappin’ through the desert
Gotta drink that H2O
I been sippin’ on a camelback
Squeezing water from a stone
I been chewing on a cactus
Hoping it’s peyote
I done seen a blue roadrunner
Fleein’ a coyote
He dropped an anvil on that nigga
Thought I’d seen a damn mirage
My sweat stains gettin’ bigger
Whip the Porsche out the garage
Pull up to an oasis
Then I start seein’ faces
And my Porsche done disappeared
And this cactus tastin’ weird
Yeah we out here in the desert
Y’all can’t do it like we do it
Wearing scarves on our heads
Y’all ain’t never been through it
Yeah I’m out here on this journey
Y’all know I can’t lose
The sun ain’t finna burn me
Ain’t no sand in my shoes
And after three days of my travels
I’m gettin’ visions from Allah
He said—
.
Shots rang out. Blood spurted from Mustafa’s shoulder and he dropped the mic. The crowd screamed and scattered and I almost fell down in the stampede but stumbled my way through it. More shots, the band dropped their instruments, feedback screeched through the speakers. I glanced back to see Mustafa’s crew, which apparently included Pete, taking cover behind amps and generators, shooting it out with some Mexican gangsters retreating to their trucks and motorcycles. They drove off and Mustafa’s crew fired a few more shots. Pete’s brother grabbed the mic.
“Show’s over, get the fuck outta here!”
I smashed into Carlos, but he didn’t even notice me. We sprinted back to the truck and he got in the driver’s seat and I slipped into the back. He started the engine and kept glancing in the side mirror, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel.
“Come on, come on!”
The crowd and the stage were nearly invisible beneath the cloud of dust. Suddenly Pete emerged, jogging toward us, hunched over with his gun by his side. He opened the door.
“Yo, we’ve gotta load some stuff.”
“What?” asked Carlos.
“Hank’s taking Mustafa and JR to the hospital, we gotta load his gear.”
“No, dude, we gotta get the fuck out of here.”
“No, it’s okay, they’re gone.”
“You don’t know that!”
“Seriously, man, we chased them off. It’s over.”
Carlos breathed in deep through his nose and shook his head. “Fuck! Okay, fine. Get in.”
Pete got in and Carlos slowly drove over to the stage.
“What the fuck was that about?”
“I’m not sure,” said Pete. “Mustafa must have some kind of beef with the Mexicans.”
“Fucking cocaine, man.”
“Probably.”
“Fucking bullshit.” Carlos parked and they opened their doors.
“Um, do you need me to help?” I asked.
“Bro, what the fuck? I didn’t even see you back there. Yeah, sure, let’s go.”
We got out and I helped them load amps and instruments into the back. Some other guys were taking care of the generators. When I threw the mic stand in, I got blood on my hands.
“Um, do you have any napkins?”
“What?” asked Carlos.
I showed him my hands.
“Shit, man, I don’t think so.”
“Here.” Pete took off his beanie, his long messy hair crackling with static.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’ll just wash it.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I took it and wiped my hands off, then handed it back. He stuffed it in his hoodie pocket.
“That everything?” asked Carlos.
“I think so,” said Pete, taking one last look around.
“Alright.” Carlos closed the back and we hopped in the truck and drove off.
Pete cracked a beer. “You want one?”
“Definitely,” said Carlos. Pete handed it to him and cracked another one.
“Um, sorry, but I don’t think you’re allowed to drink that while driving,” I said.
“It’s cool, man. After what we just went through I’ll drive better with the edge off.”
“Um, okay. Sorry.”
Pete pulled out another one and handed it to me.
“Thanks.” I cracked it and took a sip, then drank most of it. I’d forgotten how thirsty I was. I finished it and burped.
“Um, could I please have another one?”
“There we go!” said Carlos.
“Of course, man.” Pete grabbed another one and passed it back to me.
“We need some music,” said Carlos.
I took a sip and the speakers jolted as Pete plugged the aux cable into his phone. He scrolled for a bit, then put on Astroworld.
“Alright!” Carlos cranked the volume up and put the pedal to the metal.
Before I knew it, I’d drank five beers and we were in Victorville pulling into a driveway as “COFFEE BEAN” finished playing. The lights were on inside.
“Home, sweet home,” said Pete.
We got out and Pete unlocked the door and we walked in on a doctor in a lab coat pulling bits of bullet out of Mustafa’s shoulder as he lay on the couch clenching a towel in his teeth, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Pete,” said Pete’s brother. “We didn’t know where else to go.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Hold still,” said the doctor, digging the tweezers deep. Mustafa’s muffled screams made my skin crawl, and it took three of his friends to hold him down. “Just a sec, man. Keep still.” The doctor dug deeper and Mustafa howled like he was dying, his neck arched, his eyes squeezed shut. “Done.” The doctor’s tweezers emerged holding the last of the bullet and Mustafa collapsed, breathing heavily. His friend took the towel out of his mouth.
“It’s over, man.” The friend gently slapped him a couple times. “Hey, you good?”
“Leave him be,” said the doctor, pulling some disinfectant and bandages out of his bag. “He’ll come to in a bit.”
“Man,” said the friend. “Would have been better if he’d passed out at the start.”
Everyone laughed and the tension dissipated as the doctor wrapped some gauze around Mustafa’s wound.
“Could I have some, too?” I asked.
The laughter died down.
“Some gauze?” asked the doctor.
“Yeah, and disinfectant.” I showed him my elbows.
He squinted. “That ain’t that bad.”
“Please, I got thrown out of a car.”
“For real?”
“Yeah,” said Carlos. “We picked him up walking down the fifteen playing guitar and singing his head off. Thought he’d like the show.”
“Damn, bro, you’ve had a bad fucking night,” said one of Mustafa’s friends. “Well, not as bad as this nigga, but, you know.”
“I’d say you’re both extremely fucking lucky given the circumstances,” said the doctor.
“For real.”
“Um, I guess.” I didn’t feel lucky at all, but I didn’t want to start an argument about it.
Mustafa groaned, scrunched his eyes and blinked.
“Yo, welcome back,” said another friend, grinning.
“Is it over?”
“You’re good to go,” said the doctor. “But take it easy, and not just physically, man. Lay low for a while. You’re lucky to be alive.”
Mustafa smiled. “I know. And I will. Thanks Wilbur.”
“Any time. But let’s make this the last time I pull a bullet out your body.”
“You got it, doc.”
“I hope so.” The doctor picked up his bag. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to bed.”
Everyone thanked him and dapped him up and wished him a good night as he left.
Mustafa sat up and looked around the room. “We got a mic in here?”
“A mic?”
“Yeah, man, I almost died tonight, but I made it. Allah’s tryna inspire me to go harder.”
“I got you,” said Pete, possessed with duty. He went into his bedroom and came back with a mic and a bunch of cables and a Scarlett 6i6 and a dented laptop covered in stickers and dumped it all on the coffee table.
Mustafa was already in a trance, mouthing words to some beat in his head.
“You need any paper?” asked Pete’s brother.
Mustafa shook his head, lost in the flow. We were all silent as Pete finished setting up the mic and his computer and handed Mustafa his headphones.
“I need a beat.”
Everyone looked at each other hopefully.
“Anyone got a beat?”
“Damn, my computer’s at home.”
“My fucking hard drive died last week,” said Pete.
“What about YouTube?”
“Nah, man, we not on that YouTube type shit tonight,” said Mustafa.
“Um, I might have one,” I said.
Mustafa opened his eyes. “For real?”
“Um, I think so.” I pulled out my computer and logged in. “There was this one time I was listening to Joji and tried to make something warm and melancholic like—”
“Just play it, man.”
“Okay, um, one sec.” The project file took forever to load, and I was worried everyone was thinking I was a fraud, but it finally rendered and I hit play. “The mix isn’t—”
“Shh!” Mustafa was bobbing his head, squinting like he was staring into the soundwaves. “Mhm. Yeah. This is the one. This is fate, bro.”
“Okay, cool, um, do you want me to send you the file, or—what’s the WiFi password?”
“I’ll just record on your shit.”
“Okay, um, yeah, that works.” I handed Pete my computer and he set it up while Mustafa closed his eyes again and waited deep in the zone.
“It’s ready.”
“Run it.”
Pete pressed record and Mustafa went right in. We were all in awe. The room started to glow. Maybe it was all the beers I’d drank but it really did glow. His friends all looked at me like I was some legend who’d kept his true identity concealed until the right moment.
.
They tried to kill me on stage tonight
Two flashes from his piece I give thanks for the light
Thanks to Allah I’m still here to fight
Still here to write
Still here with y’all to bring life to the mic
Nothing but love to all my family and my brothers
Nothing but love to my present and past lovers
Nothing but love to all my haters acting tough
And to the man who just shot me I can’t thank you enough
Though Imma still fuck your girl for fucking me up—
Ah—
I’m just playing, everything’s all peace
I love you too, man, get home safe so we can meet
One day
In peace…
Peace
.
He took his headphones off. “My brother.” He got up and we hugged each other tight. “Allah brought us together, tonight.”