From The First Verse - M. Robinson Page 0,2
didn’t become a rock star for the countless pussy, the infinite amount of money, the endless booze and drugs. I was Cash Motherfuckin’ McGraw for my God given talent, and I never let anyone fuckin’ forget it.
I was music.
Music was me.
We were one and the same.
I needed it like I needed air, like I needed water, like I needed a reason to live.
It was my home when I didn’t have one.
Shit...
It was still my home even though I now owned an arsenal of them.
Furnished to the nines.
Decorated by the best.
Imported this, imported that.
Except, I couldn’t tell you the fuckin’ address I lived at.
That was how much it meant to me.
Nothing.
Until finally...
The crowd gets to come.
Nice and hard.
All from the first verse I sang in the microphone, “What do ya strive for when you have everythin’?”
However, this wasn’t just a song.
It was a question I asked myself.
Constantly.
Chapter 2
“With a guitar I would be able to express the things I felt with sounds.”
-William Christopher Handy
<>Cash<>
Then: Thirteen-years-old
“CASH!” My old man pounded on my bedroom door.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
“Turn that thing down!”
I rolled my eyes, turning the amplifier up louder, before I hit the distortion pedal on my guitar. Rocking out with Metallica’s song, “Whiplash.” The heavy metal tune rumbled the walls and rattled the door my father was still pounding on.
“CASH! I mean it! Turn that damn thing down!”
I was just getting to the good part.
Dave Mustaine was about to do his solo, a fast chopping heavy metal progression.
“CASH! Open this door! Now!”
Strumming chords from E to G, I jammed out with them. Hitting every note perfectly, as if we were actually playing together.
Eyes closed.
Head banging.
I bounced all around my room, kicking things over, jumping off my bed like a true rock star.
Singing, “Whiplash,” every time Dave did.
Not paying any attention to my father whatsoever. I was used to his bitching, it never stopped. He was always harping about one thing or another when it came to me—his only son. Going on and on about my grades, my future, the life he wanted me to lead.
Do you think he noticed how I kept up with Metallica’s talent?
How I didn’t miss a beat.
How it flowed effortlessly through my fingers.
How I played like my entire life depended on it.
Hell no.
He didn’t give a shit about any of that. All he cared ’bout was whether or not I did my homework or studied for whatever test I had comin’ up in school.
“CASH! If you don’t open this door right now, you’re grounded for the rest of the we—”
I opened the door, locking eyes with him as I backed away, still rocking out.
“Cash—”
Unable to hold back my stubbornness, I didn’t hesitate to slide to my knees in front of him just to prove the point he never cared to see.
Scraping the edge of the pick on the strings, I let my guitar do the talking. Producing this ear-piercing, high-pitched vibration between us. Causing my surfing trophy to smash to the ground.
Good.
I hated surfing.
He made me learn the sport, saying some shit about it building character.
When I saw his jaw clench, I didn’t hesitate leaning back on my heels while my fingers soared from one chord to the next. Keeping up with the professional like the badass I was. The breakdown of the song moved my fingers faster and faster with no end in sight.
I shut my eyes again, pretending like I was playing for a sold-out arena and not in my bedroom with my old man who didn’t understand me at all.
The imaginary crowd chanted my name...
“Cash! Cash! Cash!”
When all of a sudden, my guitar was ripped from my arms, and the reality of my actions came into focus.
My father, none other than Oak Island’s Detective of the Year, Dylan McGraw, loomed over me.
Pissed as shit.
“Cash,” he snarled. “How many times have I told ya to keep it down in the house?”
“More than I care to remember,” I bit back.
The biggest problem wit’ my old man and me was we were so different yet exactly alike.
His stubbornness.
His controlling ways.
His trait of always having to be right no matter what.
Though when he loved, he loved with everything inside of him.
Yeah, I checked all those boxes too.
Not to mention, we even looked the same.
Deep-set hazel eyes. Wavy, shoulder-length dirty blond hair. A small nose, thin lips, slim jawline and a killer shit-eating grin that often spoke for itself without having to say one word.
From the stories I heard about him growing up, my father was quite the ladies’ man. He was also