Yas Morgen v1.2 (Viginia Cigarettes)

When the Grains of Rice had a tour through Virginia, Rhode Island, and New York, Tom picked seven people for the show. I was one of the seven, of course. I had become Tom’s go to guy. I went on every tour. He called me his “golden boy”. That made feel like I was the shit!

Out of the seven, only two smoked. Me and Yas Morgen. Out of the seven, he was the only one I’d never spoken to. I mean, we spoke, but we never really talked. It was usually just a head nod, or a ‘sup’ then a head nod. But nothing artistic or philosophical or anything like that. Just like strangers on the street going opposite directions. This was after two years of being in the same theatre company.

But because we were the only two out of the seven who smoked, we ended up having to share the same hotel room. The entire one week tour, Yas and I would be roommates.

Yas Morgen was originally from Chicago. He was half-Japanese and half-German. He rode BMX bikes and studied karate. He never talked. And I mean never. And for a theatre group, that was odd.

I remembered the first night. He was on his bed reading a book, a smoking a cigarette. I was on mine writing a poem, smoking a cigarette. Neither one of us talked. He read for hours, I wrote for hours. We did that until it was time to go to bed.

“Hey, Xavier.” He said in a most gruffest of voices. “I’m gonna hit the sack.”

“Okay.” I said. I turned off the lights. And I hit my own sack.

A week later, seven smoking hotel rooms later, five shows later, thousands of audience members later, three states later, dozens of stories later, we find ourselves back in Virginia, in the same hotel, in the same hotel room. Smoking.

I completed my seventeenth tour across America. Performing. Falling in love, all over again, this magical discovery of saving the world through art. As always,  it was truly an exhilarating experience. There was nothing quite like the energy that a live, captive audience could give. That feeling was a lot like a relationship. Like talking. Like friends. The connection to the space, to the cast members, to the people sitting in the seats, everyone laughing, crying, listening, feeling. It really was magical! It was so different from the life I had before. No video-games, no Dungeons & Dragons, no unheard declarations of The Dice Rebellion, just the beautiful art we collectively created with thousands of people across America. I felt, finally, like I was a part of something. Like I belonged. And that I was accepted. As a someone.

“Hey, Xavier.” Yas said, in his monotone gruffness, not taking his eyes off the book he was devouring. “Do you read?”

“Huh?” I said, putting my pen down, looking over at him. “Do I read?”

“Yeah.” He said, turning to me. Looking at me. With these intense, unwavering, challenging eyes. “Books?”

“Uh…” I stammered. “Yeah. I like Shakespeare poetry. I read a little Vonnegut.”

“You’re from the Valley, right?” He asked.

“Yeah.”

He threw the book he was reading at me.

I caught it.

COLDWATER CANYON
by Mickey Bailey

“Tell me what you think about it.” He said. Then he turned on his side, put his head down on the pillow. “I’m gonna knock out. Cheers.”

“Cheers…” I said in response.

I had a funny feeling, I was going to like this guy, Yas Morgen.