Chapter Text
1971-72
I had been fighting with my parents for as long as I could remember, but this night was different. It didn’t feel like another spat that would blow over with slammed doors and frosty silence at breakfast. It felt like a wall had gone up between us, brick by brick, and there was no way I could keep climbing it anymore.
My dad stood in the living room, arms crossed, his face tight with anger. The record player in the corner still spun a worn-out copy of Abbey Road, but the music was drowned out by his booming voice.
“You think you’re gonna make a living with that guitar? You think the world owes you somethin’ because you can strum a few chords?” he yelled. “You’re seventeen years old, Moe. Seventeen! And already throwin’ your life away.”
I clutched the handle of my guitar case closer to me, holding it like a lifeline. My throat was dry, but I forced the words out. “Not everyone wants to sit behind a desk their whole life. Not everyone wants to be stuck in a suit, staring at the clock. I don’t care about that stuff, Dad. Music’s all I care about.”
My mom sat on the couch, lips pressed thin, her disapproval almost worse than my father’s shouting. She didn’t yell—she never yelled—but the way she looked at me, like I was already a disappointment, still cut deeper than any words.
“You can’t even support yourself,” my dad continued, pacing now, voice climbing higher. “Do you think Dylan, or Jagger, or whoever the hell you look up to—do you think they started by runnin’ away from responsibility? They worked for it. They had talent. You—”
“Enough!” I snapped. My voice surprised even me. It trembled, but it carried. “I’ve been working at this every day. I’ve been teaching myself because you won’t pay for lessons. I’ve been writing songs while you tell me it’s a waste of time. And maybe I’m not Dylan or Lennon, but I’ve got somethin’ in me, okay? I can feel it.”
My dad stopped his pacing, stunned for a moment, then narrowed his eyes. “You don’t know what you feel. You’re just a kid.”
Maybe that was true. But I knew one thing: staying here meant dying slowly, again and again. Without another word, I grabbed my coat, slung the guitar over my shoulder, and walked out the front door. I could hear my dad shouting after me, my mom’s voice soft and pleading, but I didn’t care. I needed an escape.
The night air hit me like a shock. It was late, and the neighborhood was quiet, streetlights buzzing with that electric hum. I ran until the rows of identical houses blurred behind me, until the neat sidewalks gave way to cracked pavement. My chest burned, my legs ached, but I didn’t stop until the glow of the city spread out before me, buzzing with promise and danger all at once.
New York City in the ’70s isn’t glamorous, definitely not the way it looked on TV. The streets smelled of cigarettes and hot asphalt, the alleys cluttered with trash. Neon signs blinked over diners and bars, and from somewhere far off, the faint echo of a guitar solo floated through the night—maybe Hendrix on someone’s radio. It only made my heart pound harder. This was where people came to make something of themselves. Maybe this was where I was supposed to be.
But by the time I ducked into a narrow alleyway, my body gave up. I dropped against the cold brick wall, pulling the guitar case into my lap. My fingers trembled from the run, my mind racing with thoughts of what I’d just done. I’d left home with nothing but a dream and a guitar. No money, no plan. Just pure stubbornness.
I leaned my head back, trying to catch my breath. That was when I heard them—footsteps. Three sets. Steady, confident, growing louder. I tensed. I was no fighter, and the alley didn’t leave me much room to run.
The figures emerged from the shadows like they’d stepped straight off a stage.
The first one looked like he belonged in a Rolling Stones spread. Olive skin, curly black hair tumbling past his ears, and dark shades hiding his eyes even in the dark of night. He moved with an ease that told me this wasn’t a guy who gave a damn about what people thought.
Beside him was a taller, broad-shouldered guy with long blond hair that brushed his shoulders. His blue eyes were sharp and unflinching, like he could cut through a lie before it was even spoken. He carried himself with a sternness that made my stomach knot.
And then there was another one. Curly red hair, freckles across his nose, and a face that seemed softer, younger than the others. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen, and I could see it right away—the same boyishness in his features along with the flicker of nervousness in his expression that I’d been wearing all my life. He didn’t quite fit the hardened image of the other two, but he stood with them all the same.
Shades tilted his head, his voice smooth, almost amused. “What’re you doin’ out here all alone, kid?”
I hesitated, glancing at each of them. They didn’t look like muggers, but they didn’t look harmless either. Still, the truth slipped out. Maybe they could help me. “I… had a fight with my parents.”
The three exchanged glances. Blue Eyes crossed his arms, expression unreadable. The redhead leaned forward a little, studying me like he was trying to decide if I was telling the truth.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Seventeen.”
That’s when I saw his eyes widen slightly. He turned his head and whispered to the first guy, though his voice carried just enough: “We do need another singer…”
The one with shades raised an eyebrow, rubbing his chin in thought. After a moment, he looked back at me. “Can you sing?”
My grip tightened on the guitar case. “Yeah.”
“Can you sing well?”
The corner of my mouth lifted, sarcasm bleeding into my tone. “I can carry a tune or two. But I’m no John Lennon.”
For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy in the alley. Then the first guy chuckled, low and genuine. Blue Eyes’ stern expression cracked, and the redhead laughed outright.
“You’re alright, kid,” Shades said with a grin. “Tell you what. We’ve got a gig at this diner in a few nights. Place gets packed—kids from all over, truckers, even some folks with cash to burn. You come, show us you can back up that talk, and maybe you’ve got yourself a spot.”
I blinked, hardly daring to believe what I was hearing. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” Shades extended his hand, his grin widening. “I’m Pablo, by the way.”
Slowly, I got to my feet, brushing dirt off my jeans. I set the guitar case down just long enough to grip Pablo’s hand, my own trembling slightly.
“This here,” Pablo said, jerking a thumb toward the tall blond guy standing just behind him, “is Skipper. Don’t let that pretty-boy hair fool you—he’ll cut you down with those eyes before you’ve even opened your mouth.”
Skipper pushed his long blond hair back from his forehead, his blue eyes narrowing just enough to make me believe Pablo wasn’t exaggerating. He didn’t smile, didn’t even move much—just crossed his arms like he was holding back judgment. “Don’t listen to him,” Skipper muttered, voice steady and low. “I just don’t waste time.”
“And this,” Pablo went on, clapping a hand on the shoulder of the redhead beside him, “is Caesar. Kid looks like he got lost on his way to Sunday school, but don’t let that worried mug fool you. He’s sharper than he looks.”
Caesar’s curly red hair glowed faintly under the streetlight as he gave me a tentative half-smile and raised a hand in a small wave. “Nice to meet you,” he said, his voice softer than the others’.
I shifted the strap of my guitar case higher on my shoulder. “I’m… Moe. Moe Morris.” My voice came out hoarse, rougher than I meant it to. “Guess I don’t got much else to say.”
“Well, that’s alright,” Pablo said, nodding. He turned toward the end of the alley, motioning for the others to follow. “C’mon. We’ll take you to our place. It ain’t the Plaza, but it’s home.”
So I slung the guitar case back over my shoulder and followed. Skipper walked behind us, silent but watchful. Caesar kept glancing at me like he wasn’t sure what to make of me yet. But I didn’t pay it much mind, because for the first time that night, I felt like maybe I wasn’t running away anymore. Maybe I was running toward something.
And as the four of us stepped out of the alley into the buzzing neon glow of the city, I felt, for the first time, a small flicker of hope fill my chest.