by Gary Soto
“Cut,” Blake cried as he dropped the camera to his side. He was exasperated.
“What’s wrong, dude?” Jason asked.
Blake hesitated, but finally said in a whisper, “You know, you’re onto really good stuff, but the background is like, well, you know, not pretty.” Blake pointed.
In the background were older people wearing plaid polyester suits and lime-green dresses that made Kool-Aid seem tame in color. The men were thinning in the hair department, and a lot of them had hearing aids falling out of their ears into their drinks. They would fish them out, blow into them, and fit them back into their hairy ears.
Jason understood right away. The scene wasn’t hip, especially the older couple doing the twist that lowered their bodies so far down to the floor that they couldn’t get up without help.
“Let’s go outside,” Uncle Mike suggested.
They exited the nearest door and found themselves in the parking lot. Stars twinkled beyond the security light. The moon lurked behind a billboard advertising car parts.
Uncle Mike pointed. “Hey, we’ll have to make another visit to see Pete.” He undid his tie and the top button of his shirt.
Jason remembered. Pete had the bumpers for his father’s Chevy that had been parked in the garage since the beginning of time. But he was broke, and his uncle was broke, and his friend, Blake, was probably broke after purchasing the video camera. Jason ignored his uncle’s suggestion, but heeded Blake’s.
“I want you guys to sit over there.” Blake pointed to a low-lying wooden fence.
They did what they were told.
“Uncle Mike,” Blake ordered. “Pretend like you’re teaching Jason guitar.”
“Pretend, heck. I never pretend. With me, you’re always learning. I’m the real thing, a guitar desperado.” He had to laugh at himself, as he poked a finger in his ear. He looked at his finger and wiped the wax on his pants.
Nephew and uncle sat on the fence. Jason, still marveling at its weight, embraced the guitar. He placed his fingers on the strings.
“Now D chord,” his uncle ordered.
Easy, Jason thought as he positioned his fingers on the strings and located that chord.
“Now C chord.”
Piece of cake, Jason whistled in his heart.
“G7!”
While Blake recorded the moment, Jason was beginning to see the possibility of moving from air guitar to real guitar. True, without an amplifier, the guitar wasn’t producing a loud sound, but he could hear it all right. He was making progress. He was changing chords swiftly, nicely, coolly. His fingers burned from the metal strings. Like anything worthwhile, there was the pain of practice. But it was coming easily. He could see that his uncle was having him play “Wild Thing,” a song with easy chord transitions.
When a young couple from the parking lot appeared and stopped to listen, Jason sensed that he was on the right track. He was really convinced when the couple held hands, the girl’s head on the boy’s shoulder.
The young man asked, “Are you the band tonight?”
Uncle Mike chuckled, “Not tonight, friend. But we’ll be auditioning for a gig real soon.”
The couple left humming “Wild Thing.”
Blake joined them on the wooden fence rail. He had taken enough footage to make a documentary and was telling them he wasn’t sure if the theme would be serious or funny.
“Make it funny,” Uncle Mike suggested. “The world needs funny.” He even suggested a title: Down and Out, and Up Again.
“But I thought we were supposed to do a wedding video?” Jason asked.
“We are—sort of,” Uncle Mike answered. “You’ll have enough footage for the newlyweds and some left over to make a documentary for, for…”
“For YouTube,” Blake completed for Uncle Mike.
“That’s right. Music first, love second.” He sighed and clicked his tongue. “Sorry I had to let poor Sylvia go. Hope she gets over me.”
Dream on, Unc, Jason thought and strummed the guitar. He realized that Sylvia What’s-Her-Name was out of his league. She was a woman with a job, and possibly a boyfriend—or maybe she was married.
“Sweet,” Blake said as he watched at Jason’s fingers move across the strings. “Let me get a closeup.” Blake focused the video camera on Jason as he strummed wildly.
“Move over, Justin Bieber,” Jason sang, not bothering to look up from his strumming. Playing the guitar was an art, and he had it in him, he believed. Forget basketball, forget sports. Music was the thing to live for.
“Now something new,” Uncle Mike said. “The chord that’s really hard is the F chord.” He took the guitar, demonstrated, and then handed it back to Jason.
“You’re good, Uncle.” Jason was glad to have an uncle that had toured the world of hard knocks. He was glad for Blake, who had stood up and was again capturing the moment on film.
The moon had appeared from behind the billboard, and Jason was learning the chords to “Home on the Range,” a song that might get them a gig at the Rodeo Bar & Grill.
“Real nice,” Uncle Mike whispered. “Better than me after six months.”
Jason was happy for this guitar lesson—and his lesson on family and friendship. The moon was rising and he felt like he was in the limelight. The twinkling stars were a quiet applause. His fingers worked over the chords while his foot tapped in time with the music.
“That’s it! You got the F chord down!” Uncle Mike praised, his head bobbing to the melody. “You’re a fast learner.”
And from the dark a pigeon sailed down from the roof and waddled across the pebble-covered parking lot. The pigeon, working the night shift, stared at them—first Uncle Mike, then Jason. He pecked at the ground and turned in a full circle, as if dancing.
“What do you think, bird?” Uncle Mike asked.
Jason felt something like love for his uncle, a prophet for the down-out-out, but more honest than anyone he had ever met. Jason could feel the warmth of his uncle’s fingers touching his as he helped him change chords.
“You’re doing good,” Uncle Mike praised. “You’re doing real good.”
That’s it—he would always side with his uncle. And out of the corners of his eyes—his head was bowed as he watched each chord transition—Jason saw the pigeon move closer, and not for handouts and crumbs. No, he was there for the music of a boy doing his best.