by Matt Hayward
When he reached the boys, he clasped a hand on Robert's shoulder and puffed a tight laugh through his nose.
“Mean guitar playing, man.” He sounded to Robert like Tommy Chong, the actor. Looked very similar, too, with his John Lennon style glasses.
The man's smile widened across his weather-beaten face. “You and I got a lot to talk about.”
Robert's brow creased. “Hey, no disrespect, but if it's got anything to do with the band, you can talk to all four of us.”
Gary regarded the man, arms folded across his chest. “Yeah.”
“Oh don't worry, Paul Rodgers.” They all laughed at that, used to the comparison by this stage. “Ain't gonna steal your boy. Nothin' like that. Just want an old chinwag with yours truly here, that's all. Care for a drink, man?” He gave Robert's shoulder a little squeeze.
“Okay, sure.” Robert realized he'd pulled what the band called a 'Robby face'. One that always led to trouble. “Why the hell not.”
“All right then.” The old man put his free hand on the fire exit and pushed it open, squeezing himself past the DeLong brothers and into the venue.
“When you're ready, I'll be at the bar.”
The door slid shut.
Looking to the band with his 'Robby face' still on, Robert waited for an answer.
“Go on, dude.” Adam laughed. “I'm not your parent. At least it will be an interesting story in our biography if you get murdered.”
With that, they shook hands and parted ways, the DeLong brothers getting a lift from Gary while Robert went back inside to talk with the old man.
The mostly empty venue stunk of stale beer and sweat. Some hangers on staggered about while the bartenders cleaned. Spotting the old man, Robert took a seat next to him at the bar, the stool squeaking.
“So what's your name?” Robert extended his hand for a shake and the old man took it firmly, his palm dry and calloused.
“I've been called many names in my day, little Robby. But you can call me Frank. Frank Carpenter. At your service, son.”
They both smiled, as if old acquaintances. Robert got the impression that Frank must've been a fan of the band to know his name. He felt good knowing their only demographic wasn't the drunken college type.
“So, Frank,” Robert said, pointing to the case leaning against Frank's stool. “What's in the case? I take it you play?”
He'd been eyeballing the old, brown leather case since entering the bar. Frank cast his gaze to the case and then back to Robert.
“We'll get to that soon, little brother. But first of all, what's your poison?”
“Tequila, on the rocks.”
Frank raised his bushy eyebrows. “Tequila time, eh? The Devil's water. I like your style.”
He turned to the bartender, waving his index and middle finger, indicating two drinks.
“You really do play a mean guitar, dude, and I know a good player when I hear one. You don't just masturbate the neck, if you catch my drift. Guitar is all about the feel. Don't you ever forget that.” He cocked a thumb towards the jukebox. “Richards, man… Keith Richards can play with feel. That guy really riffs.”
Robbie nodded. He'd been a Stones fan for as long as he could remember.
“I met him once,” Frank continued. “Back in '65, on their first US tour. Nice guy.”
“No way?” Robbie shifted his position. “You're kidding, right? I'd give my left nut just to jam with Richards.”
“Yeah, a lot of people would give away a lot of things to go further in this business, am I right?” Frank regarded Robert for an answer.
“Fuckin' A man. Fuckin' A.”
Two shots of tequila were placed in front of them and Robbie downed his as quickly as it arrived, slamming the glass back down to the bar. It burned a good burn as it traveled to his stomach, making his eyes water a little. Frank raised his index finger to the barman again, indicating a second shot. Then he patted the guitar case.
“I got a 1957 Gibson Les Paul gold top in this here case.” The old man looked Robbie straight in the eye, clearly waiting for a reaction. “Believe that?”
“Are you serious? I've always dreamed of owning a vintage Les Paul, but we didn't make as much money off the first record as I'd hoped, so I guess I'll just keep on dreaming on. You're a lucky man, Frank.”
“Nah.” Frank waved his hand dismissively. “Ain't nothin' lucky about it, kid. Had some money back then, wanted one, bought one. And I played it — not professionally, mind you, just for fun. Always been a huge music fan, not a music player. Never had the commitment. No luck involved.”
Frank lifted his shot glass and sipped. He licked his lips before slowly swallowing the entire shot, placing the glass gently back on the table. “In the music biz, it's all who you know, not what you know. But luck can help, I believe. That's why I'm here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It's yours if you want it, kid.”
Robert couldn't find his voice. The lights over the bar blinked, indicating last orders.
“What? ...I couldn't take it, Mr. Carpenter, sir.”
Frank laughed. “Mr. Carpenter, sir? Robbie, I'm a dude, a Frank, but never a mister, and certainly never a sir. Let's get that straight, man.”
Robert lowered his head, embarrassed. “Sorry, Frank. I mean, it just wouldn't feel right, taking a guitar. And it's not just any guitar, either. I mean, a proper vintage gold top. From a stranger, at that. Why not just sell it if you don't want it anymore?”
Frank sighed. “Because the only type of person who could afford this baby would be a collector. Do you know what a collector would do to it?”
“What?”
“He'd put it in a glass case and stare at it, and it would never get played, man. You and I both know that. I'm not going to live forever, and my hands are seizing up because of this condition I've got. They call it old-fuck syndrome. I'm sure you'll find out all about it someday. But if giving you the guitar means it will still sing— well then, I think you owe it to the old girl.”
“You're serious, aren't you?” Robert's breath had begun to come in short, shallow bursts.
“You're damn right I am, little dude.”
Frank's face blurred as tears dampened Robert's face. He sniffled and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, his hand shaking. “Shit… I'm sorry. I…” He tried to speak but his voice came as barely a whisper. Catching the tequila from the corner of his eye, he snatched it and downed it. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Thank you… God, that sounds so ungrateful for what I really mean. Thank you a million times over. I honestly don't know what to say. I feel like I've just won the lottery. Is there anyway I can repay you, if you're serious about this?”
“Ah dude, don't cry!” Frank honked a laugh and, bizarrely, twinkled his fingers above his head. “You could give me your soul, little dude!”
Robert snorted louder than he expected at that. The couple at the end of the bar shot him an annoyed look, making him laugh harder.
“If that's what you want, you got it, Frankie, my man. I'll give you my damned soul for this here guitar.”
“Let's get that in writing then, huh?”
Still chuckling, Frankie stood, fishing a pen from his jeans pocket while swiping the tequila receipt from the bar. He handed both to Robert. “Well, go on then.”
“If this will make you happy.”
Robert read aloud as he wrote: “I give one, unused, and still sealed-in-the-box, partly damaged soul, to Frank Carpenter in return for his 1957 Gibson Les Paul gold top – Robert Enslin. There. How does that sound?”
“Like music.”
He dotted the final period with a firm thud of the pen and handed the paper back to Frank. “Here's your receipt, Mister Never-a-sir.”
Frank took it, folded it, and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he bent and closed his fist around the leather handle of the case. The old leather creaked as he lifted it and placed it on the counter with a grunt. The couple at the end of
the bar looked to them, this time with curiosity.
Frank spread his arms above the case. “Go ahead,” he said. “Open it.”
For a moment, the idea that perhaps Gary or one of the DeLongs put Frank up to this, hit Robert. There'll be nothing inside, he thought. The bar would explode with laughter and he'd hightail it out of there, embarrassed beyond belief.
“Robbie? You gonna open it?”
Wiping his hands on his jeans, Robert stood and slowly snapped open the case's four golden locks. He placed his hands on the lid and looked to Frank, who smiled back politely. Then he opened it.
The purple plush interior greeted him warmly, and slipping away the purple silk cloth that covered the instrument, he gasped.
Inside, a golden, well-worn Les Paul lay sleeping. At parts, the lacquered finish had been completely stripped away, revealing dark mahogany. Robert's eyes stung. He realized he hadn't been blinking.
“She's a beauty, huh? Got character, too, that's for sure.”
Robert reached in and lifted the guitar by the neck. The weight felt wonderful, as natural as an extra limb. He turned it over and inspected the back as well. Golden-brown mahogany made up the back and neck, the finish completely stripped away. Dulled silver hardware adorned the headstock from years of use. Character, Robert thought.
“If you're serious, Frank, I hope I never get that receipt back.”
“Don't worry, little dude, this is for keeps.”
¨¨¨
Review taken from “Bulldozer” magazine, October 1999:
“Released posthumously, one month after vocalist Gary Richardson's untimely death (27), Slow Grind's third studio effort 'All Or Nothing' finds the band at the top of the charts for the third consecutive week. The album went gold when…
Robert lowered the magazine and looked to the photo of Gary in his right hand. He still couldn't believe it. He knew the royalties from the band's back catalogue would keep him afloat for life, but that didn't make matters any easier. Mentally, he was drowning.
The band had never known of Gary's heroin vice, had never suspected a thing. The only drug they'd ever taken together, and before they formed Slow Grind, was acid. Now, on Gary's anniversary, as if ritual, Robert took a trip. This year was no exception. “Here's to you, Gar.”
Robert slurred as he raised his glass of raw whiskey. He took it dry, just as Gary had. “Cheers.”
He slipped a blotter of acid onto his tongue, washing it down with the burn of liquor. The liquid sloshed up the bottle too quick, spilling some down his front. He coughed. “Sonofabitch…”
Reaching with his left hand, he slapped blindly for the old '57 Les Paul gold top. Not his gold top, he thought. The gold top. It'd never been his, even after all those years.
Pulling the guitar to his lap, Robert banged out a sloppy melody. He stopped every so often to take a drink. As he played, he thought of days gone by, days when things were fine, when money wasn't great, but the band was like family. Good days. He sat, feet folded beneath him, for another hour. Then he slept, curled on the floor in the fetal position, with the guitar as his teddy bear.
A noise came from the living room. His record player?
The slow hiss and crackle of vinyl made him bolt upright. The bedroom smelt musty. Outside the window, night seeped in. The only light came from the hallway, a sliver of gold across the bedroom floor.
Robert took a deep breath and shook his head. Someone, or something, had begun walking up the hallway, the shadow bobbing in the light. Slow Grind's first album, State of Mind, began playing from the living-room.
Frank stopped outside the bedroom door, his shadow elongated on the far wall. He let out a light chuckle.
“Duuuuude…”
Robert crossed his legs beneath him and waited for the show to continue. I'm like a child watching a puppet show!
He clasped his hands together, snorted a laugh, and began rocking back and forth. What'll happen next?
On the bedroom wall, Frank's shadow brought its hands above its head, imitating a ghost, just as the old man had done at the bar. The fingers wriggled. “Bugga-bugga-bugga!”
It sent them both into a fresh fit of laughter. And after a moments thought, Robbie lay on his back to relax, the guitar lying across his stomach. He knew what would come next. Slowly, he began to strum.
“So you've come for it?”
“You said it was mine, little dude. Deal's a deal, ain't it?” Frank stepped into the room. He towered over Robert, peering down, his long, grey hair swinging.
“You haven't aged a day,” Robert said. “Just as I expected.”
Frank smiled. “Shut up and listen, Robby. You hear that song?”
Robert strained his ears, expecting Slow Grind's State of Mind. His brow creased. Something else played now. A wash of tritones, layered over feedback. Dissonant and slow.
“What is it?”
“It's your swan song, Robbie, man. Your very own.” Frank tilted his head to the side. “You like it?”
“Yeah…” Robert said. “I really do.”
He meant it, too. A deal was a deal, after all. A gold record and three consecutively well-received albums were a lot to accomplish in twenty-seven years. If this happened to be the price, well then, he wouldn't change a thing.
“Not feel bad about Gar?” Frank asked, as if reading his mind. “Sacrifices have to be made to get where you want to go. You know that. In this world, it's all or nothing. You boys gave it all.”
With that, Frank's smile grew impossibly wide, his features distorting in the dim light. The music swelled in volume, but Robbie ignored it. He closed his eyes and got lost in a new world. A world of his own music.
No One Gets Out Alive
“I dare you to jump.”
“No way, you jump.”
They peered into the rushing water below. White water bubbled and rushed around the few sharp protruding rocks. Alan placed his glasses onto the rough yellowed grass by his feet and looked to his older brother.
“If the jump didn't kill you, Mom would.”
“Mom talks the talk but she's far too drunk to actually do anything. Come on, don't be a wuss.”
Alan approached the edge. His stomach fluttered as his legs carried him forward. He would do it, but he felt as if he were watching someone else through their eyes instead of his own, like an out-of-body experience. Some part of his mind had decided this without his consent.
The bristly grass crushed beneath his bare feet. The ground felt warm and dry. This summer had been a real scorcher, and here in Finis, West Virginia it was hot as hot could be.
Alan felt wonderful. There were no Lewis brothers here to beat the shit out of him, no four-eye name-calling, no school, no worries. There was Eddie of course, but just like most siblings, they tolerated each other just fine when needed. Anyway, it was Alan's birthday, so Eddie had to be nice.
Eddie laughed. “Al, I was kidding. Come on, dude. It's like fifteen feet. You'll break your damn neck.”
Alan closed the gap with one final step toward the edge. Hypnotic dark water rushed by below. The butterflies inside him grew restless and his toes tingled, but there was nowhere else to go. He was thirteen this year, and for a fresh new start, that meant changing what he could. Exfoliating the bad and creating the good. He'd never been courageous, but if he could act like a courageous person would, that would be a great start.
“Quit being such a baby,” he heard himself call back to Eddie. “Can't be scared of everything.”
With that, his feet left the cliff. He felt the world disappear beneath him, and from somewhere far away, he heard Eddie yell. His stomach lurched and as his balls shrank back inside of him as he fell, as if they were trying to escape the coming impact.
Air rushed past him as he tore toward the glassy black surface. The plummet only lasted a few seconds but it felt eternal. It was amazing. Alan smiled as he smashed down into the drink. The roar of the river was replaced by the rush of bubbles. The coldness of t
he water disappeared in an instant, and he kicked back toward the shimmering reflection of sunlight overhead.
Alan's head broke the surface as he swallowed the hot summer air. He laughed and hooted, listening to the sounds echo throughout the wood. Some rooks took flight from their trees, cawing in their displeasure. He continued giggling the whole doggy paddle back to the bottom of the cliff.
Eddie was rushing down the embankment, skillfully avoiding the prickly bits. They knew this wood better than any anyone.
“You fucking lunatic!” Eddie said, but he was laughing. Good. That meant no trouble. “How was it?”
Alan pulled himself out of the water, the cool air already drying his skin. “Why don't you find out for yourself?”
“Uh-uh. No way. You were about an inch away from one of those rocks in the river; no chance in hell I'm trying that. Besides, you don't have a towel.”
“Look at this weather; I'll be dry in no time.” Water dripped from his arms and ran from his legs, making a dark pool around him which the thirsty dirt drank around his feet.
Eddie was being surprisingly nice today, and that alone was better than any birthday present he could ask for. Well, he couldn't be a bad brother all the time. A friendship needed balance.
Alan grabbed the transistor radio and turned it on, switching to the AM dial. The show was Big Mike's Countdown, a pirate radio channel that played decent rock music, which was something that both brothers couldn't get enough of. Eddie always listened to it, but this summer was the first time Alan had been exposed.
Last month the Stones' new single “Satisfaction” had just been released, and since the lyrics were too suggestive, the mainstream stations wouldn't play it. But Big Mike played it all the time — that, along with a truckload of other rock staples like The Beatles, James Brown, and best of all, Muddy Waters.
As they ascended the steep, dry hill to leave, Big Mike's disc jockey voice called from the top: “All right, you crazy kids. Mikey's got a spoonful more to feed you, so open wide and prepare yourself for another helping of fresh hot Rock 'n' Roll, doctor's orders! It could be a spoonful of coffee, it could be a spoonful of tea, but one little spoon of Etta James is good enough for me.”