by Ed Briant
Trouble with letting the music play itself is that my mind tends to wander, and that’s exactly what happens. One moment I’m listening to Zack play the guitar chords, I’m concentrating on the beat, and I’m plucking the strings, and then the next moment the walls of Shawn’s room disappear and I’m back on Portland Road.
I step off the curb, I let the bus pass, and as the VW roars past, I hammer on the roof with the side of my fist. The VW squeals to a halt. The driver jumps out. He looks a lot like Jasper Hamilton-Sinclair. He swings a fist at me. I slip under it, slam a left hook into his ribs, then a right uppercut to his chin. He hits the front wing of his VW as he tumbles back, and somersaults over it onto the asphalt.
I dust my hands off then turn to the girls.
The taller one looks puzzled, but the shorter one just beams at me. I still can’t think of anything to say, but I don’t need to.
“Hiya,” she says. Her smile gets even wider.
“I’ll see you around,” says the tall one, and just keeps walking.
“Hiya,” says the shorter one again. She slides her fingertips between my arms and my ribs, then pulls me toward her.
“Hey, Toby,” yells Zack.
Not now, Zack! I think.
The girl—Shelly, yes, that was her name—stands on tiptoe, turns her face up toward mine, opens her lips, and vanishes with a loud electrical crack. At exactly the same moment my bass goes dead, and I’m back in Shawn’s room as abruptly as I left it. The transition is so sudden I feel like I’ve been dropped through the ceiling and I have to make an effort to stay on my feet. I keep singing, and for a few beats I keep plucking the strings, even though no sound is coming out.
“Bollocks.” Zack stops playing and throws his hands in the air.
Just for good measure the bass makes a final pop.
Zack shakes his head. “Come on, Toby, you have to fix that thing otherwise you’re going to make us look like a couple of dingbats.” He lowers his head and checks his tuning even though he’s about as in tune as he can get.
I give the instrument a sharp thump with the heel of my hand, then try the strings. The notes boom out of the amplifier. “See. All better,” I say to the pattern of hair on the top of Zack’s head.
He looks up like a crocodile that’s just spotted a wildebeest, a look that lets me know that it’s anything but “all better,” and as if to underline the point, the bass emits a final pop!
I jiggle the cable until the interference stops, and then I count us in again.
“Wait up, wait up,” yells Zack over the boom of my bass. He reaches over and puts a hand on my strings. They go clonky-clonk with his hand damping them.
“Let’s just keep going,” I say. “I mean, we can live with it just for this evening. I promise I’ll fix it after we finish.”
“It’s not so much the bass.” Zack frowns. “Could you sing that last line again without the music?”
“I think I’m gonna be sad,” I sing, and then I stop singing. “I’m pretty sure they’re the right words?” I point to the Fake Book. “It is unofficial,” I say. “I mean, the words could be completely wrong.”
“No, they weren’t the wrong words.” Zack uses his guitar pick to tap his teeth.
“So … ” I say. “Was I off-key?”
“No,” says Zack, but his pained expression doesn’t change. “Your voice is great. I really like the way you’re even copying the Liverpool accent a bit. You almost don’t sound like a cockney at all.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ve been working on that, but—”
“Your bass playing is fine too.”
“Okay.”
“I might even say it’s pretty good,” says Zack.
“So … ?”
“There’s your problem.” Zack points his long index finger at my face.
Right away I think, nought out of ten.
“Are you telling me I’m too ugly to play Beatles music?” I say.
Zack shakes his head. “Blimey, mate.” He gives me one of those grimaces that hair-metal guitarists pull at a climactic point of their guitar solos. “I mean if it came down to that, then we’d all be back to playing Bach minuets.”
“So,” I say. “What, then?”
“It’s your expression,” says Zack. “You just look so … ” He glances around the room as if he’s searching for the right word. “ Bummed out.”
I gaze down at the Fake Book by my feet. I read through the first lines of “Ticket to Ride” as if they might have a solution to this problem. I mean the Bible was once supposed to have solutions for all human problems. Maybe the Beatles’s Fake Book is the new Bible. Maybe the solution to all our problems is concealed within the lyrics of the Beatles. “I have a naturally bummed-out expression,” I say. “It’s who I am.”
“Would it kill you to smile just a little?” says Zack. “Even if it’s only when we’re playing in front of people.”
“But it’s a sad song?” I say. “See. Here.” I point to the lyrics. “The first line goes ‘I think I’m gonna be sad.’”
“You’re going to be sad,” says Zack. “You can’t be going to be sad if you’re already sad, and anyway you look more hostile than sad.”
“Look,” I say, “we have less than five days to put together a killer set. Can’t we just figure out the words and the music for now? Maybe we can work on my demeanor for the next gig.” I tap my foot again, but Zack unhooks his guitar strap.
“Just wait.” He props the guitar against the side of the amp. “This is important, Toby. Please just try and look a little less morose.”
When Zack gets an idea in his head there is no shifting it. I’m going to have to sit this one out. I tip the bass sideways onto my legs, lean my elbows on the sound board, and stretch my mouth into a grin. “How’s that?” I mutter through my teeth.
“It’s like Heath Ledger playing the Joker,” says Zack. “Do you have something a little less demented?”
I stretch my mouth wider.
“Better,” says Zack. “But it’s more like Jabba the Hutt now. Show your teeth.”
I stretch my mouth so much my cheeks hurt.
“No. Now you look like you’re going to bite me,” says Zack. “You know what I think?”
“No,” I say. “What do you think?”
“I think,” says Zack, “that you spend too much time tormenting yourself over what happened with Katrina.”
“Katrina! I haven’t thought about Katrina for––I don’t know—ages.” I prop my bass back up into a playing position, thump out the descending notes that lead into the first chord, and then stop. “Look. I don’t think I can deal with this right now. Let’s play.”
“You were thinking about her when we played rugby this afternoon.” Zack picks up his guitar and puts the strap back over his shoulder.
“I was not!”
“Oh really?” says Zack points a long finger at me. “The whole time you made that long run, you were staring at those two girls on the touch-line. You were thinking about how one of them reminded you of Katrina. That’s why you tripped.”
“That’s completely out of order,” I say.
“Then … ” Zack wags his finger. “Then you were thinking the same thing when you crossed Portland Road.” He spreads his arms. “That’s why you almost got hit by that car.”
“That’s not true,” I say.
“Then just now, when we were playing, you were thinking about her,” says Zack. “You’ve got to let go. Come to terms with rejection. Move on. She’s ruining your life.” He scratches his chin. “Well. To be honest, it’s not Katrina who’s ruining your life. It’s your memory of her.”
“Move on to what?” I say.
“Not all girls are like Katrina,” says Zack. “That girl you bumped into
isn’t Katrina.” Zack prods himself in the chest with his thumb. “You know what? I bet you misjudged her. I think she had a soft spot for you.”
“Wait,” I say, “What exactly do you think I misjudged?”
“Nothing specific,” says Zack. “It’s just a feeling I had. I’ve got to admit I’m a little jealous. She was kind of fit-looking.”
“You didn’t hear what she said to me,” I say. “They were giving points out of ten to all the boys they knew, and she gave me nothing.”
“Nothing?” says Zack.
“Correct,” I say. “Zero. What part of zero out of ten are you claiming I misunderstood?”
“Nothing out of ten is better than nothing out of a hundred.” Zack gives me a thousand-yard stare through one eye. Kind of a five-hundred-yard stare.
“Nothing,” I say, “is zero. Zero is always zero. Zero out of ten is the same as zero out of a hundred.”
“Okay, so she gave you nothing.” Zack absent-mindedly thrums the opening chords to “Can’t Buy Me Love.”
“Not one,” I say.
“Not a half?” says Zack.
“Nothing.” I say.
“My opinion, for what it’s worth.” Zack places the end of his guitar on the floor and draws in a long, ragged breath. “If she’d given you one or two out of ten, I’d say forget it. But zero is a bit over the top.” He slaps his hands on his knees. “I mean nobody is worth nothing. I reckon she was actually trying to pretend she didn’t like you.”
“She did a pretty good job of pretending,” I say. “She convinced me.”
“You don’t get it, do you,” says Zack. “She wasn’t trying to convince you.”
“Who then?” I say. “Her friend?”
Zack puts his face in his hands. “She was trying to convince herself.” He puts his guitar on the bed, stands up, and goes over to the window.
“So. Fine,” I say. “She’s convinced herself she doesn’t like me. It’s all the same in the end. Let’s play.” I point to his guitar.
“You don’t get it do you?” Zack leans against the wall. “She needed to convince herself because she actually did like you. If you see her again, all you have to do is un-convince her.”
“Ha. If I see her again,” I say. “I’m going to break the world land-speed record heading in the opposite direction.”
“Oh, well,” says Zack. “Plenty of fish in the sea.”
“Plenty of fish in the aquarium.” I trace the lines of the cables as they snake across the floor like railway lines on a map. “If I want a fling with a flounder.”
4
Wednesday
We play until Mom comes home from work, then we pack up and Zack heads home. Back in Shawn’s room, I tidy up, stack all the cables away, and then I take the p-bass back out of its case again. I sit on the bed and lay the instrument across my knees.
The first thing I try is jiggling the volume and tone controls. They’re tight. So is the jack socket.
I flip the bass over. On the back of the body is an oval-shaped plastic panel, about six inches along. I hold the bass sideways. The panel is right underneath the volume and tone knobs, and it’s fastened to the underside of the body with three little Phillips screws.
I hate going through Shawn’s stuff, but I know he has some tools in the top drawer of his nightstand. I pull the drawer open, take the items out of the drawer one at a time, and then place them on top of the stand.
Socks, handkerchiefs, a Swiss army knife, pencils, ball-point pens, pack of Juicy Fruit chewing gum, a lock of hair fastened with what looks like a length of shoelace, a Sandman comic, a pack of Durex condoms.
I have to stop.
I shouldn’t be doing this.
There’s probably a screwdriver downstairs in the kitchen or something.
The last thing I take out is a wallet. I open it up. It’s empty. Not that I care. I open the drawer wider to put the wallet back, and my fingers brush against something else. Another wallet. The first one was brown leather. This one is black, and made from a kind of nylon material. I open it, and a third wallet drops out. A red one. I shove them all to the back of the drawer, and then I notice two more wallets. Another brown leather one, and a black one with a zipper. Shawn had a thing for wallets.
Who would have guessed?
Funny the things you learn.
If only he’d had a thing for screwdrivers.
I open the drawer wider and scoop everything back until I reach the Swiss army knife. I weigh it in my hand for a moment. I pull open the blades. There is no Phillips-head screwdriver blade, but there’s a very narrow, normal screwdriver in the knife. I try it in one of the screws.
It fits.
I twist it.
At first the screw is stuck fast, but then it creaks and shifts to the left so suddenly that the screwdriver slips out of the screw and scrapes across the panel, leaving a tiny scratch.
Dammit! I can’t get anything right.
I blow out a long, ragged breath.
I borrow Shawn’s bass, and just to show my gratitude, I damage it.
As it eases counterclockwise, I wonder how long the screw has been fastened. The p-bass is at least ten years old. Fenders are well made, the electrics are good, and there’s probably never been a need to undo it before now. The screw begins to turn freely, so I put down the knife and use my finger, but just as I touch the tip of my finger to the head of the screw I notice a tiny scratch, thin as a hair, and about a half-inch long, radiating out from the next screw.
I can barely suppress a sigh of relief. Not only has the panel been opened before, but whoever opened it probably also used the wrong kind of screwdriver.
I use the tip of my finger to finish unfastening the first screw, and then with great care so there are no more scratches, I use a combo of the knife and my fingertip to remove the other two. I balance the three screws on the top of the nightstand so I can put them back later. It turns out that I need the knife again, as the plastic panel is recessed into the wooden body. I hold my breath as I use the tip of the knife to pry it up.
Underneath, the body is hollowed out to make room for the drum-shaped pods connected to the volume and tone controls. There’s also a little bird’s nest of wires that flip upward when I take away the lid. I lean forward and blow away some old sawdust, some of which goes in my eye.
I wipe it away, and blink.
The drum-shaped pods and the wiring I understand. I’ve seen the same kind of thing before when we opened the back of Zack’s guitar. But there’s something else I’m not familiar with. Under the cables is a pale-blue tube, more or less the exact size and shape of my little finger. I use the knife blade to poke the tube, and it squashes easily.
I’m just about to prod it again when something scuttles across the floor. I freeze with the knife blade a fraction of an inch above the tube.
A mouse?
A moth?
Just my imagination?
No. That’s crazy. There really was something there.
It’s so quiet that the loudest thing is my breathing, so I hold my breath. I can hear the faint clatter of plates downstairs as Mom makes supper. I can hear seagulls squawking outside the window. I can hear the distant rumble of traffic on the bypass. But nothing more from inside the room. Whatever it was stays put.
I breathe out, lower the knife blade back into the wiring, and test all of the connections. Apart from one wire, which has now come completely adrift, the rest of the soldering all seems to be pretty sound. The one connection that is adrift is the one that is holding down the little tube.
Why would Fender put a tube under a wire that would create enough pressure to break the connection?
But even as I put the thought together in my head, I know that I’m wrong. It’s not a design fault of t
he guitar. The blue tube has nothing to do with the guitar. It was put in by some previous owner long after the guitar was made. Maybe even the person who used the wrong kind of knife and scratched the panel.
Now the question is, why would someone put this tube into the electrics?
Was it some kind of modification to improve the sound?
The Swiss army knife has a set of tweezers. Once again I hold my breath and use the tweezers to finagle the tube out from under the wires, without breaking any more connections.
I swallow hard. As the tube comes free I realize what it is. At almost exactly the same moment there’s another flash of movement on the floor and I drop the knife into the wiring. With shaking fingers, I fish out the knife, then once again use the tweezers and draw the tube free from the wires.
I can just make out faint blue lines.
It is a rolled up Post-it note, a couple of inches square, held into a tube shape by the sticky strip.
A message in a bottle, except that it’s a message in a p-bass.
A draft of icy air wafts in through the window.
I wish I’d put on a sweater before I started on this escapade, but I’m too curious to get to the bottom of it to stop now. When the note was put in here, it was probably bright blue, but now it has faded and yellowed with age. When I was in primary school we made white paper turn yellow by leaving it on a sunny windowsill. It took a couple of days. We put blocks on the paper, and under the blocks the paper remained white. I don’t know how long it would take a piece of blue paper to fade, sealed up in the innards of
a bass.
The sun has set, and Shawn’s room is almost totally dark. I lower the bass onto the bed beside me, move close to the nightstand, and flick on the desk lamp.
A hollow feeling spreads across my chest as I unroll the paper. The faded script reads:
PLEASE. If you find this note inside the bass, then the instrument has been stolen. Please, please, please, return it to me as soon as you can. This instrument is everything to me, and without it my entire existence will be meaningless. I am Julie McGuire, 48B Mariner Street, Brunswick, BK57SA, Tel: 554553. I am prepared give you a reward of two hundred pounds, no questions asked.—Kisses, Julie.