“Can’t Stop It”, the first episode in the Jimmy Rogers Chronicles, draws inspiration from the true events of author and serial entrepreneur J. H. McIntosh’s life. Blending a poignant coming-of-age journey with a gripping murder mystery, the story centers on Jimmy Rogers, a high school senior grappling with an emotional battle to escape his father Red Rogers’ dark and haunting philosophy: “Life is a cruel joke, barely worth living.”
If Jimmy loses this battle, he’ll not only succumb to his father’s bleak worldview but may also take his own life. And with him would die the truth behind the mysterious deaths of his best friend David Perkins and David’s girlfriend Cathy Carlson.
This episode brims with raw emotion, punctuated by original songs like Deep Down Inside I Cry, written from the depths of anguish when hope feels irreparably lost.
For Jimmy, this moment arrives in a whirlwind of despair: discovering his girlfriend, Marie Scappelli in the arms of another, just after learning of David and Cathy’s deaths—and then hearing that the Langford Factory, where he has a part time job and where his father Red was fired, had burned to the ground.
In that moment, Jimmy’s Father’s words echo louder than ever, may it’s true, “lifes a cruel joke, barely worth living”?
Jimmy stands at a crossroads, wrestling with life’s ultimate decision: to embrace hope and purpose despite life’s heartbreaks or to spiral into a world of despair and meaninglessness.
The stark contrast between Jimmy’s Mother and Father is at the heart of “Can’t Stop It”, episode one in the Jimmy Rogers Chronicles written by author J H McIntosh.
Jimmy’s mother, Esther Rogers, represents unwavering strength and compassion, while his father, Red Rogers, embodies despair and cynicism. As cascading events unfold, Jimmy is forced to make a choice that will define his future, and his very survival. Will he follow the darkness that consumes his father or rise above it?
Torn between the optimism of his mother, Esther Rogers, and the crushing nihilism of his father, Jimmy must decide which path to take, and whether life itself is worth fighting for.
After the high school dance, Jimmy, the entire band, and their dates headed to Remember’s for burgers and shakes. It was there, amidst the bustling chatter and clinking glasses, that Jimmy saw her. When Marie Scappelli walked in, she wasn’t just another face in the crowd—she was magnetic. Jimmy froze mid-sentence as he tried to order.
Waitress Pat stood beside him, pencil poised over her pad. “What’ll it be, Jimmy?”
Jimmy managed to say, “I’ll have The Professor’s jumbo burger, fries, and a mocha…”
Before he could finish, Marie walked past his table and slid into a booth alone. Jimmy couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Pat raised an eyebrow, her patience thinning. “Mocha…?”
“Huh?” Jimmy mumbled, dazed.
“Mocha what?” she pressed.
“Oh… uh… mocha malted shake,” Jimmy finally managed, his gaze never wavering from Marie.
“Is that everything?” Pat asked, exasperated.
“Sure is,” Jimmy said absently, still transfixed.
Jimmy’s cousin, David Perkins, leaned in with a knowing smirk. “You okay, cuz?”
Jimmy tore his eyes away just long enough to stammer, “Who… who is that girl?”
David glanced over his shoulder. “Who? Her? No idea, but I’d lov—”
Cathy Carlson, David’s girlfriend, gave him a playful shove. “That’s Marie Scappelli,” she said, shooting David a mock glare. “Eyes front and center, Buster.”
Jimmy blinked, still stunned. “How come I’ve never seen her before?”
“She’s new,” Cathy said. “Remember Mrs. Davis, our sixth-grade teacher?”
“How could I forget?” Jimmy asked.
“That’s her grandmother,” Cathy explained. “Marie and her mom just moved here, she’s staying with her grandma until her parents work things out.”
Jimmy’s heart raced. “Marie…Scrappedi lives here?” Jimmy asked.
“Yes,” Cathy said, drawing out each syllable. “Marie Scap-PELL-i. Not ‘Scrap-pedi.’”
Jimmy repeated it carefully, almost reverently. “Scap-PELL-i.”
Jimmy asked, “She going with anyone?”
Cathy said, “Well lickity split Jimmy; she’s only been here three days.
Jimmy tilted his head, intrigued. “What did you just say?”
“Marie and her Mom moved in with Grandma three days ago”, Cathy answered.
“No, before that”, Jimmy continued.
“What”, Cathy asked. “That split thing you said?”
“Lickity split”, Cathy asked.
“Yeah… lickity split,” Jimmy murmured, testing the words. “I like that.”
“It’s just an expression,” Cathy said, shrugging. “You know, like ‘quick as a wink.’”
But Jimmy was already somewhere else, scribbling on a napkin and repeating, “Lickity split… lickity split…”
By the time everyone had finished their meals, Jimmy had written an entire song. Without hesitation, he persuaded Hand Jive, The Rhythm Kings’ drummer, to join him on Remember’s small stage. Under the warm glow of the café lights, Jimmy strummed his guitar and sang the playful, upbeat tune he’d just written:
I’ve been trying to find you, you got no where to hide.
My love is burning, deep down inside.
And if I can’t find you, I think I will die.
I just wanna hold you, here by side.
Oh baby, lickity split, lickity split, I think I’m going down quick.
Lickity split, lickity split, I think I’m gonna get sick.
Lickity split, lickity split, I can’t take it like this.
Lickity split, lickity split, I really need a kiss.
The room burst into applause as Jimmy finished, his grin wide and hopeful. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t just the quiet kid in the corner. He was Jimmy Rogers, the boy with a song in his heart and a spark in his eyes.
Teenager Jimmy Rogers had an ear for music that set him apart from his peers. With a keen sense of hearing and an innate ability to replicate melodies, he quickly became skilled with the guitar. Hours spent listening to the radio turned into an accelerated education, and before long, Jimmy was composing his own songs. His first creation, Can’t Stop It, became not only a reflection of his calling but also the title of the first episode in the Jimmy Rogers Chronicles. The lyrics offered a foreshadowing of the unstoppable events to come:
“Now if you listen to the beat, it will get you out of your seat,
Jimmy Rogers is here to say, our kind of music ain’t never gonna die, it ain’t never gonna go away.
Feel it in my soul, I think I’ve even got control, I don’t wanna stop it right now.
That everybody’s rockin’, boppin’ and doing it in a modern way.
The world is our bandstand we all say our music’s here to stay, yea, yea, yea.
I just can’t stop, baby, can’t stop it right now.”
Jimmy had an unforgettable time writing the song. Even though he was still just a teenager, the lyrics were undeniably catchy, and the rhythm pulsed with an energy that felt larger than life.
And beyond its vibrant melody, the song hinted at something deeper, an inevitability, the unstoppable pull of fate, and a profound belief that music wasn’t just a passion for Jimmy. It was his purpose, a calling he couldn’t ignore, as if the notes themselves had chosen him to bring them to life.
It was that same heightened sense of hearing that led to one of the defining moments of Jimmy’s young life: rescuing a crow he would later name Buster. It was a day etched into his memory not just because of the rescue but because of his father, Red’s, words: There is no God. That’s just a fool’s fairy-tale. And even if there was what makes you think he would care about a buck-tooth kid like you?”
This sent Jimmy running out the back door, down the hill, across the brook and into the woods with family dog, Blue, close behind. Jimmy took a sharp turn heading for his secret spot when he heard the unmistakable sounds of distress in the woods. The desperate cries of an animal pierced the air, drawing Jimmy deeper into the woods.
There, he found a wild bobcat tearing into a helpless Mother crow. Acting without hesitation, Jimmy scrambled up the tree to find just one baby crow, his heart pounding as the bobcat snarled below. The crow, frightened and alone, cried for its Mother as Jimmy carried it home.
Despite his father’s harshness, Red surprised Jimmy by building Buster a small shelter, not unlike a doghouse but tailored for a crow. The house had a round opening, just big enough for Buster to come and go but too small for predators like foxes to reach in. It was an act of practical care that hinted at a softer side of Red, one he rarely allowed to show.
From that day forward, Buster became Jimmy’s constant companion. The crow followed him everywhere, even to school, often waiting outside until the day ended. When the final bell rang, Buster would swoop down to greet Jimmy, as if celebrating his freedom from the classroom. The bond between them deepened, with Buster flying alongside Jimmy as he pedaled his red Schwinn bike to his part-time job at the Langford factory.
Buster wasn’t just a pet; he was a symbol of resilience and loyalty, a living reminder of Jimmy’s compassionate spirit. As Jimmy strummed his guitar and sang the words to Can’t Stop It, Buster would sit nearby, tilting his head as if he too were captivated by the music. In many ways, Buster represented the small but unyielding joys that kept Jimmy’s world intact—a world precariously balanced between his mother’s optimism and his father’s bitterness.
It’s captivating to learn how Jimmy Rogers first met the love of his life, Marie Scappelli, and how she became the inspiration for the second song he ever wrote, Lickity Split. The encounter unfolded the night Jimmy made his singing debut with David Perkins’ band, The Rhythm Kings. Oddly enough, despite being surrounded by friends who had girlfriends, Jimmy remained the outlier, a teenager yet to experience the thrill of a romantic relationship.
Jimmy had never experienced anything like it. Her presence was magnetic, pulling him in without effort. She wasn’t just beautiful, though she was stunning, but she had an elegance that seemed almost effortless. There was something about her, something that left Jimmy momentarily unable to speak or even think straight. He fumbled through his order, barely able to string words together as he watched her glide past his table.
Minutes later, Jimmy’s gaze was still fixed on her, and his heart raced as if he had just stepped off the dance stage again. With a napkin in hand and inspiration flooding his mind, he began jotting down lyrics. By the time their meals arrived, he had written an entire song, Lickity Split. The playful, upbeat tune captured not just the thrill of his first encounter with Marie but the overwhelming sense that meeting her was something inevitable, something fated.
Marie Scappelli didn’t just make an impression on Jimmy that night, she became a beacon, a counterpoint to his father Red’s belief that “life is a cruel joke, barely worth living.” In seeing her, Jimmy felt something shift within him, a joy so profound it defied the weight of Red’s bleak outlook. Nothing in Jimmy’s life had ever shifted his inclination toward his mother Esther’s joy filled view of life quite like seeing Marie Scappelli for the first time.
Her presence gave him a reason to believe in something greater, a force powerful enough to push back against despair. That night didn’t just mark the start of a new song; it was the start of a new chapter in Jimmy’s life, one that held promise to lead him to rise above challenges he hadn’t yet begun to fathom.
Can’t Stop It, the book and movie opens with:
“You killed him! You killed him! You killed my brother!” The words erupted, each syllable a stiletto forged from grief, her voice ricocheting through the abyss like a desperate plea to an indifferent world refusing to answer.
Even now, those words haunt me. My aunt’s voice—raw, unrelenting—remains etched into my soul. They press against me like a suffocating burial shroud, heavy and unyielding. Each cry, each syllable, a jagged blade, tearing through me again and again and again. Her wail wasn’t just a sound; it was anguish made manifest, slashing through every corner of my existence, obliterating hope, meaning, everything. In its wake, only the abyss remained, an endless void where even the echo of loss dared not linger.
The verdict still lingers in my mind, venomous and unyielding: “You killed him.”
Each word carves deeper into a heart already stripped raw. Time seemed to freeze that day, trapping me in the moment when all hope was stolen, leaving behind an inescapable, unending ache—an open wound refusing to heal.
That ache drags me back, over and over, to the moment it all began, but ended me. The stillness shattered by the piercing screech of tires, a sound that tore through the air like a desperate, unanswered cry. Then came the gut-wrenching crunch of metal—a brutal symphony of destruction that swallowed everything in its path. Chaos erupted in an instant, and I was left trapped in the unyielding grip of fate’s indifference, powerless to stop it.
I’ll never forget my father’s last words, spoken through ragged breaths as he bled out on the pavement: “There you are, son.” A fragile thread of recognition, stretched thin by the weight of finality, snapped as his voice faded into the abyss. And though I’ll never say it aloud—not yet, not now—part of me knows I should never have been where I was that day. A choice I made, so trivial at the time, now looms over me like a shadow, staining every memory with what-ifs I can never escape.
I jolted upright, heart hammering as the memory clawed its way to the surface, refusing to stay buried. The clatter of metal parts crashing onto the Langford factory floor yanked me further into the present, the harsh sound ricocheting off the cold, unfeeling walls like an unwelcome intruder. Frozen in my chair, I blinked at the dim gray world around me, a stark contrast to the vivid ghosts of that day. One moment—a single, unforgiving moment—had unraveled everything, leaving dreams shattered like glass. Their jagged edges still cut deep, still lay just out of reach, and still whispered a cruel truth: some broken things cannot be repaired.
With a weary sigh, I bent to gather the scattered parts, my hands trembling under the weight of the past. As I moved, the bottle of Old Grand-Dad slipped from my overalls and clattered onto the cold cement, its hollow echo spinning in lazy circles, like a compass without direction. It was nearly empty—of course it was—but even so, I reached for its contents, clinging to its fleeting numbness, knowing full well it offered no real escape. Just a futile shield against the unrelenting memory of the day when hope crumbled, and dreams drowned in despair.
The sound of footsteps broke through the haze. Steady, deliberate. My body stiffened.
Glancing up, I saw Mr. Thornton, my factory boss, and Phil Johnson, the foreman, striding toward me down the corridor. Their faces were etched with furrowed brows and tightly drawn lips, their disgust practically tangible. Each step they took reverberated with the weight of final judgment. Thornton’s nostrils flared, and Phil clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening with tension. Their approach was measured, deliberate, like hunters closing in on their prey.
My hand hovered over the bottle for a fleeting moment before my fingers closed around it. The cold metal of my wedding band pressed into my skin, a sharp, unyielding reminder of all I’d shattered—promises made and betrayed, dreams suffocated under the weight of guilt. A love teetering toward lost, nearly buried beneath the rubble of mistakes too heavy to carry.
Professor Remember’s voice on the radio filled the room, weaving through the air like a swarm of bees, each lyric stinging home with a raw, unvarnished truth. God gave me a mind for telling stories, and my baby she calls them lies. She’s been smoking my tobacco and the neighbors they got eyes; they know her kids ain’t got no daddy and my wife ain’t got no prize.
I straightened, my breath catching as raw fear surged through me, unrelenting. The haunting lyrics of Telling Stories drifted from the radio, each line cutting deeper, as if they’d been written just for me. The melody hung heavy in the air, but it was the weight of Thornton and Phil’s footsteps—slow, deliberate, and final—that matched the pounding drumbeat in my chest. Each step echoed louder, chipping away at the last fragile threads of my composure, leaving me exposed, vulnerable, and powerless to stop the reckoning that was bearing down on me.
In the factory parking lot, a scene unfolded that made Jimmy’s heart sink. Mr. Thornton and Phil Johnson, the factory boss and foreman, were forcing his father, Red Rogers, off the loading dock.
Phil’s voice rang out, dripping with scorn. “Look on the bright side, Red. Now you can sleep on your own time, all the time.”
Thornton’s tone was icy, each word a deliberate cut. “Collect your final check tomorrow. For now, get out.”
Red stumbled but quickly righted himself, his face a mask of humiliation. He turned, his eyes bloodshot and hollow, and began walking toward Jimmy, each step heavy with defeat.
As he passed, Red muttered, his voice a slurred whisper. “See what I’ve been telling you?”
Both the book and movie have parallel scenes. While Red Rogers was about to get fired from his factory job, his oldest son Jimmy Rogers, across town at Central High School, was weaving through the crowd.
Jimmy is on the cusp of manhood but somehow always a step behind his peers. His well-worn baseball cap sat snug on his dark hair; its frayed brim pulled low. Unlike his friends, who had already traded bikes for cars, Jimmy still rode his old red Schwinn, the squeaky chain and scratched frame a quiet testament to his slow rise in life.
He wasn’t the fastest, the strongest, or the best at much of anything. But today, none of that mattered.
Flanked by his closest friends—Bob “Speed” Bryant Jr., Paul “Hand Jive” Donaldson, Degamo “Frogman” Williams, Henry “Bud” Flowers, Leonard “Lenny” Goldstein and Jimmy’s cousin, David “Perkie” Perkins—Jimmy practically glowed with pride.
“Nice going, Jimmy!” Perkie clapped him on the shoulder, Perkie’s wide grin infectious.
Jimmy tried to shrug it off, but the grin creeping across his own face betrayed his excitement.
Hand Jive waved a rolled-up copy of the Langford Gazette. “Man, that hay baler scene was something else! I love how the bully gets his head stuck. So funny!”
Jimmy’s cheeks flushed as his friends laughed and teased. His creative writing piece—a story about an underdog farmhand outwitting a cruel boss—had taken first place in the local newspaper’s contest. For Jimmy, it was more than just a win. It was proof that he wasn’t invisible, that he had something to offer.
The certificate in Jimmy’s hand bore his name in bold letters, a symbol of his small but cherished triumph. Speed pointed to it, grinning.
“I hope you’re gonna frame it,” he said.
Jimmy gave a sheepish shrug, his eyes hidden beneath the brim of his baseball cap.
Before Jimmy could reply, Frogman tilted his head toward a commotion further down the hall. “Dean and his bandits at it again?” he muttered, his voice low and edged with disdain.
The group had turned the corner, their laughter fading as they saw up ahead, Dean Johnson, the school’s infamous gang leader, towering menacingly over Jediah Hudson, the janitor who was knelt down over his tool box. Jediah remained composed as he assisted Carlos Rodriguez, a nervous new student, in freeing the jammed locker.
Jediah is a descendant of an African slave who was a resilient leader in the Underground Railroad. Jediah’s steady hands and calm demeanor reflected the strength of a man who had endured wrongful imprisonment a decade earlier, yet remained a steadfast lifeline for others in their darkest moments.
Perkie hesitated for a moment, his feet glued to the floor. But his hesitation was fleeting; his innate leadership propelled him forward. Stepping ahead of Jimmy and the others, he embodied the initiative that had birthed The Rhythm Kings. Though uncertain of his exact words or actions, he knew he couldn’t remain passive; his drive to lead compelled him to act.
That drive wasn’t new—it was the same force that had shaped The Rhythm Kings into more than just a band. Perkie’s unwavering support for his bandmates had always been evident. He recognized Speed’s innate rhythm and gave him his first guitar, patiently teaching him the fundamentals of rhythm guitar and igniting a passion that would become central to their sound.
Even when Lenny struggled with stage fright, Perkie had been there, offering quiet words of encouragement and sharing techniques to overcome fear. He had a knack for inspiring confidence, for drawing out the best in everyone around him. It was that rare gift of leadership that turned a group of friends into a united force. Without Perkie, The Rhythm Kings would not be. Not in their music, and not in the bond they shared. He was the anchor they didn’t even realize they relied on, his presence shaping not only their sound but their lives.
As they neared the commotion, Perkie slowed his pace and the others matched.
“Looks like trouble,” Frogman muttered, his deep voice barely audible over the hallway noise.
Perkie said, “Dean and his boys always have a way of turning a good day into a disaster.”
Dean’s voice oozed mockery. “Hey, guys, I’ve been all wrong,” Dean drawled sarcastically.
Jerry, one of Dean’s lackeys, played along. “It can’t be.”
Dean’s lips curled into a sneer. “No, really. I thought they only taught how to make license plates in the State Pen. And here’s Mr. Jediah Hudson, showing us how to break into lockers like a pro.”
Artie chimed in, his tone dripping with mockery. “Go ahead, Mister Fast Fingers.”
Jediah didn’t flinch. His hands moved steadily; the creak of the locker hinges the only reply to their taunts.
Carlos Rodriguez, the new kid, stood beside him, his face pale with worry. Dean’s sneer deepened as he shifted his attention. “Hey, Nigga,” he snapped, his voice laced with venom. “Didn’t your mammy teach you any manners? Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
The locker popped open with a sharp metallic click, spilling its contents—bongo drums, a well-worn copy of Leaves of Grass, and a bottle of aspirin—onto the floor.
Herbie pounced. “Hey, check it out!” he jeered, pointing to the book. “We got ourselves a wetback who loves…” He struck a mockingly effeminate pose. “Poetry.”
Freddie shoved his face close to Carlos and sneered. “Roses are red, violets are blue, what’s a Nigga doing helping a Spic like you?”
Perkie moved first, stepping in front of Jediah and Carlos. His band mates and Jimmy followed, forming a protective wall between the bullies and their targets.
Perkie locked eyes with Dean, his voice calm but firm. “What have we got here? The welcoming committee?”
Dean stepped forward; his gang close behind. “What if it is?”
“Then you’re missing something,” Perkie replied.
Dean smirked. “What’s that?”
“The welcoming gifts,” Perkie said evenly.
Dean slapped his fist into his palm with a sharp whack, whack, whack. “Got ‘em right here,” he growled, his voice low and threatening.
“Anytime, Dean,” Perkie said, his tone unshaken. “Anytime.”
For a tense moment, the corridor fell silent. Dean’s smirk faltered. He glanced at the unified front of Perkie’s friends and took a half-step back.
“You’re crazy enough to take a beating for an ex-con…” Dean sneered. “Should’ve been strung up ten years ago.”
Perkie’s expression didn’t waver. “You didn’t get the memo, turns out he’s not guilty. What about him?” He nodded toward Carlos. “You his judge and jury too?”
Dean tried to regain control, his voice dripping with forced bravado. “Just trying to clean up the neighborhood.”
“Oh, now you’re the Sanitation Department?” Perkie countered. “With all these responsibilities, when do you find time for homework?”
Before Dean could answer, a new voice broke the tension.
“Are we interrupting something?” Cathy Carlson, Perkie’s girlfriend, appeared with a group of friends, including Shinelle Gastrangler, Hand Jive’s steady.
“It’s nothing,” Perkie said lightly. “Besides, Dean has a ton of homework. Right, Dean?”
Dean’s eyes narrowed; his lips twitched with his bravado faltering under Perkie’s unwavering gaze. “Yeah… homework,” he muttered, “We’ll take care of this later”, retreating with his gang, their departure marked by sullen glances and muttered threats.
As they disappeared around the corner, Perkie’s girlfriend Cathy, approached with a concerned expression. “What was that about?” she asked, her eyes searching his.
Perkie forced a smile, but tension lingered in his posture. “Nothing we can’t handle,” he replied, though the unease in his voice betrayed him.
Unknown to Dean, he had gifted himself as the perfect scapegoat for what a Judas among them had instore for one of them. Cathy Carlson had no idea that the real threat wasn’t retreating down the hallway—it was silently watching, waiting, and planning a betrayal none could imagine.
Aaron Rizzer, known to many as Professor Remember, is a central figure in the Jimmy Rogers Chronicles. Three passions have shaped his life in ways that are impossible to untangle: music, food, and an unyielding sense of justice. These weren’t just hobbies or fleeting interests; they were the very threads of his soul, weaving together everything he stood for.
For as long as he can remember, music filled the air around him, food brought him joy and connection, and injustice stirred something deep and relentless inside him. It was a force that he couldn’t ignore—a pull that shaped how he saw the world, even as a child.
Aaron’s earliest memory of injustice came from an event he couldn’t fully grasp at the time but still felt profoundly. A newlywed couple had moved into their small, rural community. The man was an African-American with a PhD from Harvard University—a man of extraordinary intellect and accomplishment. His bride was a white woman from “high society,” the kind of family people whispered about, calling her a “blue blood.” To young Aaron, they were simply a couple in love, a beautiful testament to something pure and hopeful.
But the adults around him didn’t see it that way. The newspapers were cruel, their headlines filled with venomous disdain. Conversations in the community were no better. The way people spoke about the couple—whispering, mocking, judging—confused Aaron to his core. Even as a child, barely old enough to understand the complexities of the world, he knew something was wrong. The hatred, the derision, the unfairness—it clung to him like a shadow, igniting a fire he didn’t yet know how to name.
Aaron had learned to read young, devouring the papers that dripped with bias and malice. He couldn’t reconcile the words he read with the simple truth he saw: two people who loved each other. It disturbed him deeply, a wound that never quite healed. That early lesson—of how unfair the world could be to those who dared to love across its rigid boundaries—became a defining moment. It planted the seeds of a life spent fighting for what was right, a life driven by the music of justice and compassion, played in harmony with the joys of food and melody. For Aaron Rizzer, these weren’t just interests—they were his purpose.
During his junior year of high school, Aaron’s love for music drove him to organize his first band, “The Highlanders.” The group wasn’t just a fleeting pastime; it was Aaron’s first step into a lifelong passion that would come to define him. Music ran deep in his family, and his younger brother, Russell, shared that same fire. Russell’s talent couldn’t be contained within the walls of their small town. Before even finishing high school, he packed up his dreams and hit the road with a traveling band, leaving behind a family that both cheered for him and missed him.
Despite the distance, music always brought the brothers back together. Over the years, Aaron and Russell forged a bond that transcended sibling rivalry, collaborating on song after song. Their late-night writing sessions became a ritual, the air thick with creativity and the unspoken promise of what their music could become. Russell’s band would take the songs and breathe life into them on stage, giving Aaron’s words and melodies a voice.
But Aaron wasn’t content to just write the songs—he wanted to preserve them, to give them a life beyond fleeting performances. At first, he saved every penny to pay for studio time, watching as others handled the precious recordings of his creations. But Aaron was a man who dreamed bigger. His determination led him to build Thunder Bros. Studios, a space where every note and lyric could be captured exactly as he envisioned.
Still, that wasn’t enough. Aaron didn’t just want to make music; he wanted to share it with the world. So, he founded McRecords, his very own record label, determined to bring his songs—and the stories they told—to life for anyone who needed to hear them. It was more than a business venture. It was Aaron’s legacy, a testament to the unyielding power of passion and family. Through Thunder Bros. Studios and McRecords, Aaron ensured that every lyric, every chord, and every collaboration with his brother became more than just music—they became echoes of the bond between two brothers who dared to dream.
As a pre-teen, Aaron spent parts of his summers and holidays at the restaurant owned by his aunt and uncle. It was humble work—cleaning pots, scrubbing pans, and peeling vegetables—but it planted the first seeds of his love for the culinary arts. By the summer between his junior and senior years of high school, his skills had advanced enough to earn him a position as the Rounds Cook at the Touraine Hotel in Boston.
A Rounds Cook had to be a jack-of-all-trades, filling in for any chef on their day off. When the Garde Manger, the salad chef, was out, Aaron prepped hors d’oeuvres, canapés, and pâtés, doing his best to match the kitchen’s high standards. When the Saucier took a day off, Aaron tackled Hollandaise and Béarnaise sauces, carefully whisking them to perfection—or as close as Walter, the head chef, would allow. Walter, however, was not one to entrust his prized sauté pan to an eager teenager, especially after the infamous incident when Aaron cleaned it with soap and water. Walter’s reprimand came swiftly, punctuated by a sharp boot to Aaron’s backside and an unforgettable lesson in preserving a pan’s seasoning.
In his senior year of high school, Aaron’s life took an unexpected turn. Accused of something he didn’t do; his deeply ingrained sense of justice couldn’t tolerate the unfairness of it. Despite being elected Class President, Aaron quit school. He climbed into his car and drove aimlessly until it ran out of gas in Tonawanda, New York. After wandering through Niagara Falls, still searching for direction, he enlisted in the U.S. Air Force.
The military gave Aaron the discipline and structure he needed, along with his first taste of law enforcement. His squadron commander, recognizing his potential, assigned him to the Provost Marshal’s office, where Aaron gained invaluable experience working for what was akin to a base Attorney General. When his service ended, Aaron returned to what he knew best—working in restaurants. He took a position at the twin Howard Johnson’s on I-95, a place where, as a teenager, he had once lived in the basement, working all three shifts during the summer months.
One February morning, during a relentless nor’easter, Aaron was the only employee who made it to work. As he unlocked the front door, a green Cadillac inched through the snow and parked out front. A man in a suit stepped out, shaking off the cold.
“Good morning, sir,” Aaron greeted him, holding the door open.
“Morning,” the man replied, stamping snow off his shoes. “Can I get some breakfast?”
“Absolutely, sir,” Aaron said, leading him to the counter.
The man ordered coffee, two eggs over easy, bacon and hashbrown potatoes. Aaron poured his coffee, cooked the meal, served it, and later rang him up at the register. As the man prepared to leave, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to Aaron.
“Son, if you’re ever looking for a good job, give me a call,” he said before heading back into the snow.
The card read: O.J. Enright, Food Service Director, Reese Brothers Food Services. The next day, Aaron called. That call marked the beginning of a transformative chapter in his life. Under O.J.’s mentorship, Aaron helped open eight new restaurants and gained an invaluable education in leadership and communication.
O.J. wasn’t just a mentor; he was the first person to draw Aaron out of his shell. Aaron, who once said, “I didn’t say twenty words between first and sixth grade,” blossomed under O.J.’s guidance. O.J. introduced Aaron to a world where people could earn a living not with their hands but with their words—talking, motivating, and persuading. To Aaron, whose childhood role models were farmers and factory workers, this was a revelation.
In his mid-twenties, Aaron realized the importance of formal education. He worked tirelessly, juggling shifts in restaurants and pursuing his love of music while earning a BA in Business Administration, majoring in Hotel and Restaurant Administration with a minor in Economics. Later he earned a Master’s in Research Education.
After working for others for so long, Aaron opened his first Professor Remember’s Roadhouse & Bakery Café. It was more than a restaurant; it was a haven for creativity and community. It was there that Aaron met Jimmy Rogers, a young man with raw talent and an unpolished charm. Jimmy practiced guitar and sang with his cousin David Perkins’ band, The Rhythm Kings, at Remembers. Aaron saw in Jimmy the same spark of potential that O.J. had seen in him years before. That connection would form the foundation of a lifelong bond between Aaron and Jimmy, one that would shape both their lives in ways neither could have predicted.
Remembers became more than just a business. It was a sanctuary for dreamers, a stage for storytellers, and a place where second chances were given freely to those who dared to believe in something greater. For Aaron, it was the culmination of his passions for music, food, and justice—all wrapped into one extraordinary endeavor.
Esther Rogers was the unwavering ray of sunshine in the stormy lives of Jimmy Rogers and his seven siblings. Her boundless compassion and unshakable optimism were a lifeline, softening the harsh realities of a household overshadowed by her husband Red Rogers’ alcoholism and despair.
Esther Rogers’ husband Red, haunted by the blame placed on him for his father’s death, clung to a dark belief: “Life is a cruel joke, barely worth living.” But Esther saw life differently. To her, it was precious, a gift filled with beauty and meaning. Her joy came not from circumstances—often bleak—but from an unyielding faith that carried her through life’s trials.
One Sunday morning, as Esther shepherded all eight of her children into Sunday school, the preacher’s wife marveled aloud, “Mrs. Rogers, how do you keep them so clean?” Esther’s reply was as simple and honest as she was: “Soap and water.”
That was Esther—plainspoken, practical, and resolute. She had no college degrees, no lofty education, but she possessed a quiet strength that could move mountains and a towering faith that lit even the darkest corners of her family’s world. She wasn’t just the glue that held them together; she was the light that guided them forward.
Esther’s strength isn’t loud or imposing; it’s woven into her everyday actions. Her generosity shines even in the face of hardship, like the moment a hungry neighbor’s child, Petie Farrington, peers over the windowsill and pleads, “Mrs Roger’s can I please have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?” Struggling to feed her own children, Esther could have turned him away. Instead, her boundless compassion shows that sometimes the smallest acts of kindness leave the deepest impact when she said “Sure you can Petie, come around to the kitchen.”
Esther’s lineage is steeped in resilience, a legacy forged in courage and sacrifice. Her ancestor, Reginald Fisher, and Robert Rogers—one of Red’s forebears—worked as “conductors” in the Underground Railroad, doing whatever circumstances required to help guide runaway slaves to freedom. Esther often gathered her children to share these stories, her voice trembling with both pride and reverence as she described the “stations,” secret hiding places in the attics of the old homesteads.
“They hid here, their lives at risk if they were caught” she would say, running her hand along the aged wood of the innocent looking panel that, if you knew how, you could slide open and it lead to where so many desperate hearts once beat in fear. “When the slave catchers came, we prayed these hidden places would keep us all safe.”
Her capacity to provide for her family is bolstered by small but heartfelt monetary gifts from her mother, Ava Fisher. Ava’s own past is one of quiet strength—she once played piano for a silent picture theater owned by Louis B. Mayer, one of Hollywood’s founding moguls. Now, as a live-in housekeeper for the wealthy Lawrence Langford, Ava’s modest support is a lifeline for Esther’s family.
In the story, Esther becomes increasingly worried about Red, who has been fired from his job at the Langford Factory—the same factory that mysteriously burned to the ground days later. When Red calls to tell her he’s found work in Nashville, Esther can’t help but question his motives. Is this just another one of his elaborate tales—his habit of “Telling Stories”- or is he trying to create an alibi for something far darker?
God gave me a mind for telling stories, and my baby she calls them lies. She said, come on home for breakfast. And I find her hanging clothes on the line. She’s been smoking my tobacco and the neighbors they got eyes, they know her kids ain’t got no daddy and my wife ain’t got no prize. He ain’t the man he used to be, you can see it in their eyes. They ain’t telling stories, and they ain’t about to tell no lies.
“Can’t Stop It” explores the profound weight of choice. For Jimmy Rogers, the decision is clear: chose his mother’s hope filled view or succumb to his father’s despair. But the journey to that choice is anything but simple.
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