MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY

I WALK UP TO THE DOOR OF LUIS’S APARTMENT.

I think about turning back. But before I can run, he opens up.

“Listen, Luis. I’m gonna do this, but I’m doing it my way. Up against a wall. If you think it’s funny, then it’s over.”

He doesn’t say anything.

I step inside, slam the door, and march into Luis’s room. I walk up to the wall and cup my hands around my forehead and eyes. I breathe a couple deep breaths.

I deliver my poem line by line. Just me, my words and the wall. I finish it off and turn to Luis. “There!”

“That worked. Where’d you get that idea?”

“Kurt Cobain,” I say, still facing the wall.

“Cool. Stay right there and let’s do the whole poem.”

But instead of starting the poem, Luis walks smack up to the wall and stands by me.

He cups his hands around his face just like I’ve got mine.

And he starts singing way down low, going dom, dom, dom, right into the wall. I can’t figure out what the hell he’s doing. Then it becomes perfectly clear: He’s singing a Krist Novoselic bass line.

I join in with the doms because, of course, I know the song.

Then without a word or nod between us, we bust out our best Kurt together.

Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be.

As a friend, as a friend, as an old enemy.

Take your time, hurry up, choice is yours, don’t be late.

Take a rest, as a friend, as an old memoria.

Luis has it memorized.

So we sing the whole damn thing.

We blast that song at the top of our lungs!

Then we say our poem.

Complete with solos.

Right into the wall.