by Jaime Samms
“Take it easy, my man. I just gotta see what the guts look like. If they ain’t too fucked-up, maybe I can replace the neck and, you know, shit.”
“I just….” Len swallowed hard and fingered the wonky strings. “Just want my guitar back.”
“I hear ya, man, I hear ya.” The guy peered a little bit closer at the instrument and frowned. “Hey. These screws.” He touched the bolts holding the faceplate onto the body of the guitar. “They gunmetal? Man, just like Lenny Stevens’s. You a fan or somethin’?” He ran a finger down the curve of the guitar, and Len shivered, barely resisting the urge to yank the thing away from him.
“Yeah. Something,” he muttered.
“Did ya paint the back like him too?” He pried a hand under the body and began to lift.
Len couldn’t stand the loving way he was touching the thing, and he smacked a hand down on the guitar to prevent the guy from removing it from the case. “It’s Sharpie art, asshole. Leave it. I’ll just—”
“No way!” The young man danced back from the counter. “No fuckin’ way! You’re fucking Lenny Stevens! Man, no shit!”
Len sighed and pulled his Stetson farther down over his face.
“Hey, Jacko, man! Come ’ere. You’re never going to guess who’s here! Holy fucking shit!” he crowed and grinned, ear to ear, at Len. “Man, can I get your autograph or somethin’?”
A heavyset middle-aged man lumbered out of the back room and looked Len over head to foot. “Well.” He huffed out a breath. “Tommy, go finish the inventory.”
“Hey! Man, that ain’t fair.”
“Go.” The man pointed a finger to the back room. “Now.”
Tommy scowled and slunk to the door. “The name’s Drake, Jacko, you fat asshole.”
Jacko lifted one shoulder and let it fall, clearly unimpressed with either the younger man’s airs or attitude. He studied the ruined guitar for a few moments in silence. “So.”
“Can you—”
“Fix it? Tommy’s the expert. If he says so, he can do it.”
“He didn’t really say.”
“Then maybe he can’t.” Jacko shrugged as if the fate of Len’s prized possession meant nothing to him. But then, it probably didn’t, and why should it? It was just another guitar, and Len was just another guy. Jacko had no stake in any of it. No reason to care about the rift opening in Len’s soul, widening every time Len looked at the wreck or thought about the insanity of throwing it down the stairs.
“I need it fixed,” Len said softly, caressing the splintered wood. “It has to be fixed.”
“Well, the thing to do then is bring it back there for him to have a look. Meantime, you and I can see what we have on the rack for a loaner. How’d that do you, son?”
Len looked up at the older man. Jacko had a benevolent, slightly distracted look on his face. His dark eyes sparkled, and his black beard straggled across his face, disguising his kind smile but making him look like the kind of hippie roadie Len was used to being around. He smiled back, suddenly feeling shy and much younger than he was.
“I don’t need a loaner, Jacko.”
“This disaster isn’t going to be fixed overnight, son. What are you going to play while you wait?”
“I can buy something.”
“Not necessary.”
“I want to buy something.” Len smiled wider. “A guy has to have more than one guitar on hand, right? You never know what can happen.”
Jacko chuckled and agreed. “I’ll bring this back for Tommy. Have a look around. There’s an amp set up. Play anything you like. I won’t be long.” He picked up the dilapidated guitar case before turning to the back room.
Len wandered the store while he waited. He didn’t want to take advantage and act as though he had a right to put his hands on the merchandise just because he was an ex-Firefly member, so all he did was look and occasionally caress the skin of one of the instruments hanging in rows on the walls.
“See anything you like, son?” Jacko asked, making Len jump. Len skidded a few inches forward and knocked his head on the guitars. They clattered together, and he struggled to steady them.
“Okay,” Jacko said, lifting a hand to pat his shoulder but apparently thinking better of it and dropping it back to his side. “Didn’t mean to startle you. They say you’re the skittish one. They aren’t kidding, are they?”
Len frowned. “They? Skittish? Who says that?”
Jacko shrugged as he looked over the guitars. “This one, I think.” He lifted a Fender Jaguar with the signature black edges and reddish stained wood off its rack and handed it to Len. “People. You know. Fans. Reporters. They all say you left because you had a nervous breakdown. Couldn’t handle the fame.”
Len took the guitar and settled on the stool next to the amp, accepting the patch cord Jacko handed him and plugging it in. “Well, they all know everything, don’t they?” Len strummed the guitar a few times and fiddled with the tuning pegs. “They know my whole life story, so they can judge.”
“It’s what fans do,” Jacko agreed. He pulled down a second guitar, twin to the one Len played, except for the color, and plugged it into another amplifier. He fiddled with buttons as he continued. “You have to expect people will judge as soon as you step out onto that stage and say, ‘Look at me, listen to me play. Give me your love.’”
“I don’t need their love.” A heavy chord thrummed from the amp as Len hit the strings with his pick. “They can shove their love up their—”
Jacko answered his aggressive sound with a gentle splash of vaguely familiar notes over his strings and smiled. “That the truth?”
Len made his guitar whine over the sounds of Jacko’s quick fingerpicking.
“The truth is nothing but a pile of steaming shi—”
“Truth makes everything about what comes out the ends of your fingers real, son.”
Len’s noise faded, and Jacko’s trilling rhythm picked up volume and tempo, and Len watched the experienced hands as the sounds tripping out of the amp seemed to float through the store on wings like a hummingbird’s. It was impossible a man’s fingers could move with that much dexterity and speed, but Jacko’s did, and Len was mesmerized. The song soon identified itself as an old, old Irish love song Len had often played in bars between sets when the rest of the band had left the stage and he couldn’t bring himself to put his guitar down.
It hadn’t been about the people still watching him. It had been about the guitar, its pretty blue paint and the warmth of the wood against his body. The fact was, Trevor had given him that gift of communication with the world outside his own head, and he’d never been happy when a set ended. The stage, the crowd, and the screaming didn’t register. The music let out what was inside him in ways no other thing could.
“All the noise in the world ain’t going to cover up the truth,” Jacko said as his fingers slowed. “You make your guitar scream for you, but it’s a scream just the same. You’re a fool if you think they”—he pointed at the store’s front window—“don’t hear the pain in that sound.”
Len followed his gesture and noted with a churning horror in his gut that the view of the street and the curb where he’d parked the truck was blocked by a row, three bodies deep, of waving, shouting people.
“What the hell?”
Jacko sighed. “’Fraid Tommy’s got more enthusiasm than sense sometimes.”
“What did he do?”
“My guess is he called a friend who called a friend, who called another three friends, and there you have it. You might be out of the band, my young friend, but you are still deep under that hot spotlight.”
“Vance is going to kill me.” Len glanced at Jacko, and to his surprise, the man smiled.
“Play a song, Len. Heard Tommy braggin’ on the phone and locked the door when I came back. Just in case.” He patted Len’s shoulder. “They ain’t coming in here. You want a new guitar? Play a few. Take your time. Let them camp out.” He turned his back on the crowd and gave that ne
gligent shrug again. His fingers began to wander through the lilting lines of music he’d played before, this time at a slower, more relaxed pace. Len joined him on the second pass, and the music of that gentle Irish folk tune turned edgy and grungy under Len’s touch. Jacko smiled and closed his eyes, bobbing his head as they picked, caressing the strings like a lover he’d played a million times in the past.
The guitar responded to his loving touch and countered Len’s harshness with a gentle stream of delicate notes Len didn’t even know the instrument was capable of. The opposing tones twined through each other, clashing at times and at others meshing and dancing along the edge of decency, or plunging into the sweet tangle of longing, desperate strands that couldn’t quite connect. Eventually, Len stopped playing and listened as Jacko took a right turn off the beaten path of centuries-old music and made the tune his own. The haunting, beautiful melody flourished under the touch of a master, and Len let it and the softness of the music curl around him and carry him for a while.
“You still want to buy a guitar, son?” Jacko asked softly a while later. The poignant tune was fading, and Len blinked at him.
“Yeah.” Len pointed to the gold-and-pearl instrument in Jacko’s lap. “I want that one.”
“You haven’t played it,” Jacko pointed out as he held the guitar out to Len.
“Don’t need to. It’s got your magic in it now.”
“I should hope. Been playing that bird for fifteen years.”
Len took the guitar, swapping it out for the deep-red wood-toned one and setting it in his lap. The wood was warm against his stomach, and the neck fairly vibrated with the feel of Jacko’s playing, even though it was pure fancy that Len imagined that.
He strummed it a few times and closed his eyes to better hear the rich sound roll out of the amp. When he played this time, the edge was duller, the transitions smoother, the sound purer; cleaner. Len set his pick on his knee and fingered through pieces of Firefly tunes, trickled a few notes of Vance’s song over the strings, and found the rhythm of the new song he’d discovered that morning. On this guitar, the grunge edge was jagged and torn, but the heart was full and every note was true, just as Jacko promised. The song was as real and painful as what he heard in his head, what he felt in his heart, and it tightened his chest to know this was part of him.
It also made him feel that deep-seated thrill of discovery and accomplishment to really know this was him. His. Painful? Maybe, but a part of him, and as real as any words or deeds he could think of to express that angry, open wound inside. And over it all was the sweet, steady voice of the guitar as unlike any other guitar as one person was from another.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “This is the one.”
He opened his eyes finally and studied the instrument more carefully. The neck between the frets was worn and the pick guard scratched. The guitar had indeed been played hard and long, and Len colored as he hastily offered it to Jacko.
“Sorry. Didn’t realize it was yours.”
“Yours now,” Jacko said softly.
“No, I can’t.”
“You think I wouldn’t be proud to know my girl found a good home where she’ll be loved and played with that kind of heart?”
Len grimaced. “You see what I did to my last guitar? I can’t.”
“You can.” Jacko pushed the instrument back toward Len. “You will. I insist. You’ll take better care of this one.” He smiled. “I trust you.”
“You shouldn’t.” Len set the guitar across his knees. “I’m a walking disaster.”
“You’re a work in progress, same as the rest of us.” He leaned closer and winked. “Even that Vance Ashcroft of yours. He ain’t perfect, Len. So don’t think he expects you to be.”
“What the hell would you know about it?” Len stared, a new kind of terror seizing him. “What do you know about it?”
“I know Vance. I played with him, didn’t I? Five years I was on the road with that boy, and other big names too. I could drop the names of a dozen guys I played with, but what would it matter? He’s the only one you want to know about.”
“You played with Vance? On tour?”
Jacko nodded and strummed absently at the new guitar on his lap. It didn’t have the warmth of the gold one, but he made it sing in a way Len hadn’t been able to. If Len was a promising young player, Jacko was the seasoned master, and Len listened with respect.
“Played with rock and roll bands and country and even a bit of heavy metal. Up and down the coast and through the Shield and Great Lakes. Had a good go of it. Some of it sticks with you. The really good times, and the bad. The talent, though.” He smiled fondly. “There’s nothing like seeing talent in its raw form. That was Vance. All raw and loud and ungraceful. That a word?” He chuckled. “Kid had everything, and all he wanted was a bottle to hide in. Shame.” His song turned toward the dark and ugly, and Len found himself scowling.
“Yeah, but he’s not like that now.”
“No.” Jacko looked into Len’s eyes. There was a faraway smile on his face. “No. He’s straightened up and made something of himself. Times I thought he was too wild to survive the spotlight. Bit like you. But he’s a tough one. Slipped back and forth quite a bit before he found his way. Found his footing.” He looked into Len’s eyes again, and this time, there was nothing faraway about his expression. “Found his soul. He was born to be a leader. A guide. He thrives on it.”
Len studied Jacko, trying to figure out just how old the man might be. “Exactly how well did you know Vance?”
Jacko smiled a slightly lecherous smile. “Well enough, boy. He was a gifted pupil.”
“You taught him to play guitar?”
Jacko laughed and shook his head. “I taught him to play, yes. Guitar? No.”
That made Len frown. “What does that even mean?”
Jacko watched him in silence, waiting.
For another moment, Len stared in confusion, then the light went on. “You? And Vance? I mean….”
“Long time ago, Len. As I said, he was floundering. I offered a guiding hand and he took it. It wasn’t really a love thing. More like a mentorship, and he learned fast. Didn’t need me for long.”
“Does he ever, you know, talk to you?”
“About you?”
Flushing furiously, Len bowed his head and glared at the guitar strings as he plucked them.
“If he had,” Jacko said softly, “it would be up to him to tell you about it if he chose. Not my place.”
The only response Len could manage was a soft grunt.
“He hasn’t, son. We haven’t talked about more than guitars and music in a long, long time. Last conversation I had with him about his love life was over Kilmer, and he didn’t like what I had to say on the matter a whole lot. But he did right by the man, in the end. Because he’s a good man, Len. Let him be the good man for you.”
“For someone who’s supposed to be discreet, a whole fuckton of people—”
“Language,” Jacko said softly, but with a growly tone to his voice.
Len blinked at him, swallowed what he’d been saying, and started again. “Lots of people know about him. And me, by extension.”
Jacko chuckled softly. “Whatever kind of secret it is, it’s safe with me, I promise.”
“Right.” Len pursed his lips. “I have to find a guitar to buy.” He stood and held the gold beauty out to Jacko. “Here.”
“You want this guitar, my friend, it’s yours.”
“I can’t.”
“I insist. My gift to you, as a fan.”
Len snorted. “You don’t listen to my music, Jacko. Don’t shit me. Um. Be serious. Sorry.”
Jacko nodded by way of acknowledgment. “Did I say I was a fan of the music? Maybe I’m a fan of the man behind the music. Maybe, as one musician to another, I know when the bond is real.” He gently pushed Len’s hand back until the guitar nestled against his body. “Please. Let me give you this. It means something to me to pass her on to someone
who can love her the way I do.”
Len stroked the pearlescent gold skin of the guitar, and a soft smile crawled onto his face despite his uncertainty. “She is beautiful.”
“And she’ll do right by you, Len. Take her. Please.”
“I can’t pay you enough for something like this.”
“Hell, no. Love her and take care of her, and that’s payment enough.”
“Why so generous to a virtual stranger?” Len asked.
“Because a man can’t live his life in pain all the time. If this guitar brings you joy, then you should have it. If it’s magic to you like it is to me, then you deserve it. If it lets you play again, then it’s a gift well given, from me to you, and from you to the world. They want you, Len.” He pointed to the window again. “They want what you can do, how you can make them feel. They want that thing only your music can give, so take the guitar and make more of what they want, because that is who you are, and every man must be who he is. That’s how the world keeps spinning.”
Len’s attention lifted from the guitar to Jacko. “Kilmer said something like that too.”
“I always liked that lad. He’s a smart one.”
“Huh.” Len tightened his grip on the guitar and held it close. “Thank you, Jacko. I can’t tell you how much this means.”
“Play her. Make music on her. Love what you do. Love who you are. Just be, and that’s all the thanks I need.”
Len gazed at him. “You made the music sound easy. You make life sound easy. It isn’t.”
“Not yet. You have some baggage, but you’ll get there. Vance can help if you let him. He knows about taming wild things.”
“So I’m told.”
Jacko smiled wide. “Wait until you really experience it, Len. Then you’ll understand what’s real.”
Len didn’t have the foggiest clue what that could mean, but he didn’t ask. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. The number of people he now knew who’d played a part in Vance’s past love life made him a little queasy, but he wasn’t going to admit that to Jacko. Instead, he capitulated to the gift of the guitar and made arrangements to get in touch once Tommy knew if he would be able to fix the old one.