I had spent far too many years without music in my life. I never fully stopped listening to my favorite artists… I don’t think I would have made it through my twenties without Bob Dylan. But music is a living, breathing thing… listening to canned songs just isn’t the same as listening to a live show, or interacting with a vibrating instrument. The more I learned the guitar, the more it came to life in my hands, and the closer friends we became.
It took me until my thirty-second birthday to figure it out. I needed to make music, and I needed to do it on my own terms. I could have hired the best teachers in New York, of course… but I didn’t want the help. I felt like the songs were already inside of me, and I just needed to discover the way to let them out. I bought a beautiful Fender electric acoustic guitar and started learning from every online resource I could find. I played songs, but mostly I practiced scales over the dull repetition of a metronome. I wanted to become the best musician that I could, and I was happy to put in the time.
But after the first few months, the novelty of being able to pick up my instrument and make music wore off. I wanted more… I wanted to share the sounds I was making with other people. I wanted feedback, and I wanted to entertain.
I couldn’t exactly just drop in at a local open mic night, though. As one of the wealthiest men in New York City, my actions were fairly closely scrutinized. Me, on a local stage, would almost certainly result in a media frenzy, and that was the last thing I wanted. Besides, I didn’t like going to bars or cafes or any of the sort of places that hosted musical events. I liked to have my own space, and people were always packed into those rooms like sardines.
But I needed to perform. Night after night I thought about it while plucking and strumming my way through scales and songs. How could I slake my thirst for an audience anonymously?
The slender, sleek Smartphone sitting on the polished mahogany end table illuminated, showing an incoming text message.
I placed my guitar lovingly in its stand and heaved myself off of the leather padded bench I preferred to sit on while playing. I pressed my fists into the small of my back until it produced a satisfying crack, and then groaned and picked up my phone.
I knew who the text would be from - not many people had my personal cell number, and my best friend James had a habit of texting around dusk when he got home from his baseball practice. I swiped the screen open and read the message.
Hey buddy, it said, feel like coming out tonight? Me and some of the guys are going for a few drinks.
I sighed and shook my head. No matter how many times I said no, James always kept inviting me out with his teammates. I appreciated the sentiment, but pubs just weren’t my type of place.
Not tonight, I wrote back, I’m really into my guitar right now. I paced up and down the wide living room, my leather shoes whispering on the shag carpet, suddenly filled with a nervous energy. I wanted to do something, to get out of the apartment… but what would I do, if not join my friend for a drink?
Aren’t you getting bored of that yet? James wrote back. I rolled my shoulders. He was far from wrong.
A bit, I texted, but it passes the time.
You sure you’re not up for joining us? We could go to a karaoke night or an open mic. This is the city that never sleeps, Miles!
Thanks, I replied, I’m just not up for it tonight.
My phone remained dark for a time, so I sat down and started playing the diatonic scale again. The seconds ticked by until James texted again.
I get it, man, he said, though if I were you I think I’d put on some ordinary clothes and go busking. You should share your music with the world, you’re getting really good!
I laughed and shook my head.
Maybe, I sent, enjoy your drinks. I put the phone down and resumed my practice.
As my fingers plucked and pressed the steel strings, James’ idea revolved around slowly in my mind. It had a simple cartoonish appeal - would a change of clothing really be enough to disguise a notorious billionaire? Most likely it would. My face and name were not so very well known. The problem would be in procuring such clothing. I didn’t own a single article that cost less than a thousand dollars, and I sure as hell didn’t feel like running out to a department store. I rolled the idea around in my head as I continued practicing my scales.
The polished oaken door leading down the hall to the kitchen opened, and my handyman came in, wiping his hands on his baggy jeans. At age twenty-five, the kid was some kind of wizard with plumbing and appliances - it seemed he could fix anything. My faucet had been acting up, so I’d called him over and true to form he’d repaired whatever was wrong in less than an hour.
“Do you need anything else, Mr. Barker?” He asked. I didn’t even bother to inquire whether the job was done; I only hired the best.
“Not at the moment, Greg,” I said. “Thanks for coming by on short notice.” The faucet hadn’t been much of a problem, but little things like that had a way of nagging at me. I paused and he turned to leave. “Wait,” I added. I put down my guitar and stood up, eyeing him thoughtfully. “We’re about the same size, aren’t we Greg?”…
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Table of Contents
Copyright
DEDICATION
One - Sarah
Two - Ryan
Three - Sarah
Four - Ryan
Five - Sarah
Six - Ryan
Seven - Sarah
Eight - Ryan
Nine - Sarah
Ten - Ryan
Eleven - Sarah
Twelve - Sarah
Thirteen - Ryan
Fourteen - Sarah
Fifteen - Sarah
Chapter 1 - Miles
Stronger Than Bonds Page 10