For What It's Worth

by Janet Tashjian

  We walk a few moments in silence. “That was very generous,” Dad says, “but you know it doesn’t guarantee anything. Brett is still wanted by the authorities, the war is still raging, children will still die.…” His voice trails off as he gathers the strength to finish. “Your mother and I are still going our separate ways, no matter how many heroic deeds you do, no matter how good a kid you are.”

  It’s almost as if my father has been reading my mind these last several weeks. “I know I can’t change any of that,” I finally answer. “It was just a gesture to make things a little better, that’s all.”

  “It’s all you can do sometimes—just improve one thing.” He says this in his bad Johnny Carson voice, but I laugh anyway, knowing how hard it was for my dad to even broach this conversation today.

  My father spots a meter maid a few cars behind ours so we sprint back to the station wagon. She gives us a “lucky you” smile as we pull away from our expired meter.

  It’s a pretty good day for beating the system.

  Has it sunk in yet?

  Will the black hole left by my album collection slowly suck my soul into the emptiness?

  Have I made a GIANT mistake?

  I pull out the atlas, find the west coast of the United States, and trace my finger up through the mountains and the valleys, along the Pacific Ocean. Past San Luis Obispo, Carmel, San Francisco, Mendocino, into Oregon, over the Columbia River, to Seattle and the Canadian border. My finger hovers over the dark blue line separating the U.S. from Canada, an arbitrary border dividing the lives of thousands of Americans into criminal or free. All I can do is hope Brett becomes the latter.

  FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH

  6/72

  Harry Nilsson worked the night shift at a bank in the Valley while he wrote dozens of songs and shopped them around town. When he started selling them after years of writing, he finally earned enough money to quit his job. He’s one of the Beatles’ favorite American performers, even if two of the giant hits--“Coconut” and “Jump into the Fire”--consist of ONE chord and one chord only. Coincidentally, he wrote a song called “One,” which was covered by Three Dog Night on their debut album and was a giant smash too. Nilsson upped the ante on that one, though, using seven pretty difficult chords, or at least they’re pretty difficult for me.

  The First Albums I’m Going to Buy When I Get Some Money Again

  Roxy Music—Roxy Music

  Honky Château—Elton John

  Eat a Peach—The Allman Brothers Band

  Pink Moon—Nick Drake

  Burgers—Hot Tuna

  Just Another Band From L.A.—Frank Zappa and the Mothers

  Manassas—Stephen Stills and Manassas

  Exile on Main St.—The Rolling Stones

  Live at Max’s Kansas City—Velvet Underground

  Jeff Beck Group—Jeff Beck

  Tea for the Tillerman—Cat Stevens

  Mud Slide Slim and the Blue Horizon—James Taylor

  Last of the Red Hot Burritos—The Flying Burrito Brothers

  Eagles—Eagles

  When Soosie comes home a few days later and realizes she missed Brett, she’s furious. Only after Dad and I convince her that Brett was literally about to crack from the pressure does she stop yelling and collapse on her bed in tears. My dad holds her in his arms and lets her cry like a baby.

  “It’s so unfair,” she says. “It never should’ve come to this.”

  I tell her as soon as the war’s over, Brett will be back in this country as good as new.

  “He’ll still be a criminal,” she says slowly. “The only way he and every other draft dodger can return is by presidential pardon.”

  I look over at my dad to see if this is true. For some reason, I thought once the war ended, it would be like someone called olly, olly, oxen free, and all the guys who didn’t want to go to war could finally come back home.

  “That’s not the way it works,” Dad says. “Brett and tens of thousands of other guys committed a crime. That doesn’t go away.”

  After a while Soosie jumps up and wipes her cheeks. “Did you say you sold your records? Are you kidding?” She puts her hand to my forehead as if I have a fever. “Oh my God, how are you coping?”

  I yank her hand off me like it’s contaminated, then bring up the question at hand: if the guy coming over tonight buys her van, maybe she’d like to reimburse me SO I CAN GET SOME OF MY ALBUMS BACK.

  “I would, Quinnie, but he already called to say he’s not interested.”

  When I tell Caroline I sold my entire collection to help Brett, she doesn’t believe me until I show her the cavernous space in my room where my records used to be. Because the milk crates covered the hardwood floors all these years, the wood underneath’s a darker color than in the rest of the room. The only items in the empty space now are my guitar, amp, and the photo of the girl in Vietnam running from the napalm.

  Caroline looks at the Vietnam photo for a long time. “Can you imagine taking a picture like this while something so horrible is happening right in front of you? Most people’s instincts would be to run for your life or get help—not to focus your camera and shoot.” She sits down slowly on the bed, still holding the photo. “I’m not sure anymore if I have what it takes to be a news photographer.”

  I sit down next to her. “Woodrow was right about this photograph—it will infuriate people and help put an end to this stupid war. Nick Ut made a difference.” Caroline looks about to cry, so I put my arm around her. (Is she impressed I remembered the photographer’s name?) “Besides, after he snapped this picture, he took these kids to the hospital.”

  She wipes her eyes. “He did? How do you know?”

  Even though I’m embarrassed to admit it, I tell her I stayed after class with Woodrow a few days ago and asked him to tell me everything he knew about the photograph. “He brought me down to the school library and helped me find several newspaper articles. He was pretty helpful.”

  “I keep thinking about my brother,” Caroline says. “I’m proud he’s serving our country but I hope the war ends soon. I feel like there’s a bomb hidden in our house just waiting to go off. Every time there’s a knock at the front door, my mother bursts into tears. Billy being gone has changed everything.”

  Talking about the war makes me wonder how Brett is doing and if he’s okay.

  Caroline peeks out the curtain to the end of the driveway. “Your mom’s here, and your dad’s screaming—that can’t be good.”

  I head outside to check. Fighting in front of the neighbors would be a new low, not something either parent would be proud of. Thankfully, it’s not their relationship that has my father enraged but the front page of the newspaper. I scan the article he’s shoved into my hands.

  “A break-in at a hotel in Washington, DC? I don’t get it,“ I say.

  “It’s just the beginning,” my father says. “The tip of the iceberg.”

  “We don’t know that yet,” my mother says. “It could be a coincidence.”

  “The office that was broken into belonged to the Democratic National Committee—just the way Daniel Ellsberg’s psychiatrist’s office got broken into after he published the Pentagon Papers!” I’m not sure I’ve ever seen my father so mad. “What is happening to this country? Who’s in charge?”

  I stare at the trash can where I tossed my Ouija board a few weeks ago and for the first time since, feel its supernatural pull. This was the kind of question I used to pose to Jimi, Janis, and Jim, but I take Caroline’s advice and make up my own mind for a change. I borrow the paper from my dad and head back to my room to read the rest of the article.

  “Woodrow’s going to go nuts,” Caroline says as she reads along with me.

  When we get to school, Woodrow is nuts times a hundred. They’re now calling this whole thing Watergate because the break-in happened at the Watergate Hotel. “You just watch,” Woodrow says. “There’s a huge conspiracy underneath this. Heads are going to roll.” He must’ve also ranted in the t
eachers’ lounge or some students complained because Principal Munroe pulls him out of the classroom and tells him to “take it down a notch.” Woodrow can’t, of course, but there’s only a few days left of school, so Munroe doesn’t have any leverage. We spend the rest of the class time before vacation writing letters to our senators as Woodrow paces the aisles between our desks in a nonstop tirade about Nixon, Cambodia, and the upcoming election. I hate to admit it, but I’m really going to miss Mr. Woodrow next year.

  When I take the mail in at home, I notice one of the letters is addressed to me. The only mail I’ve ever received is from Soosie at college or my aunt Tamara, so I open the envelope quickly.

  Dear Quinn,

  I just wanted to let you know that thanks to you I’m safely in Vancouver. After all my anxiety, I crossed the border easily—in the trunk of a car driven by two sympathetic nuns. Vancouver is a beautiful city with a great waterfront and nice people. I got a job at a sandwich shop near my apartment and I’m taking a night class too. For the first time in a while, I feel safe and that’s because of you and your father. I want to send you money as I get it—I still can’t believe you made such a sacrifice for a relative stranger. Write back and let me know how you’re doing.

  Sincerely,

  Brett Marshall

  It dawns on me that I never even knew Brett’s last name until now.

  Inside the envelope is a twenty-dollar bill, which I immediately shove into the pocket of my jeans. Ryan is leaving tonight for his annual trip to the Berkshires; I call him to meet me at the record store before he goes.

  I haven’t mentally prepared myself for the fact that some of the records filling the bins used to be mine.

  “You going to buy back your own?” Ryan asks. “Or start off fresh with some new ones?”

  He’s wearing a white button-down shirt that his mom made him put on for the plane ride. The fact that he’s leaving for almost two months makes me incredibly sad.

  Jeff interrupts to tell us about some of the new stuff that came in Tuesday—a Bob Marley import!—as well as some bootlegs he took in on trade. I can feel the twenty-dollar bill in my pocket squirming to get out, but I also want to spend some time with Ryan before he has to go.

  We make small talk about his cousins, the time difference, how he won’t see his father till September.

  “Speaking of which, how’s it going?” he asks.

  He doesn’t have to elaborate—I know what he’s talking about.

  “As well as can be expected, I guess,” I answer. “I never thought my parents would separate.”

  “Join the club.” He flips through the Beatles section, which takes up one whole segment of the bin. “Then when they get divorced, it’s another whole thing. So final.”

  As if I haven’t been dreading that too. I steer us away from this incredibly painful topic. “I spent so much time worried about Caroline leaving and it’s my mother who hits the road. Ironic, huh?”

  “Caroline did almost break up with you,” he says. “But I talked her out of it.”

  THIS IS NEWS TO ME. I ask him to elaborate.

  “Because you kept thinking she was cheating on you—and she wasn’t. Girls hate it when you don’t trust them.”

  I suddenly am transported back to my conversation with Caroline a few weeks ago. Is THIS what she was trying to tell me? “You talked her out of breaking up with me?”

  “Yeah, and all the time you were thinking I was going to steal her away. Talk about ironic. I wouldn’t do that to you, Quinn.”

  I’ve known Ryan almost my whole life—his chewed-up nails and few random mustache hairs are as familiar to me as if they were my own.

  “The person I should’ve trusted was you,” I say. “I’m sorry I didn’t.”

  “I’m glad she listened to me. Between that and your parents, your summer would’ve sucked.”

  Ain’t that the truth.

  “You may not like it, but you have to trust your parents too,” Ryan continues.

  “What is this, your big going-away speech? When did you get so smart all of a sudden?”

  “I had to grow up pretty fast this year,” he says. “It’s not like I wanted to.”

  Jeff, thankfully, breaks up the conversation before Ryan and I start bawling. He holds up Zeppelin IV and L.A. Woman. “They’re your old copies,” Jeff says. “I can let you have them at a discount because the last owner took such good care of them.”

  “Their last owner was a moron,” Ryan says. “With the worst taste in music in town.”

  “Like that stopped you from borrowing every record I ever owned,” I reply, grateful that Ryan has returned us to our old teasing selves.

  “Better hold on tight to that rock and roll,” Jeff adds on our way out. “There’s an English disco opening on the Strip in a few months. Glam rock is making its way to Southern California.”

  Ryan and I walk back home trying to decide if this is bad news or not. (Bowie, T. Rex, Mott the Hoople—good. Glitter, jumpsuits, and eye makeup for guys—bad.) We argue about music the whole way back to our neighborhood. Why does Jethro Tull’s Thick as a Brick have just one song? Couldn’t they have broken up forty-four minutes of music into better chunks than that? And what does Chicago’s “25 or 6 to 4” mean? Are they looking at a clock and wondering if it’s 3:35 or 3:34? Or is it some kind of drunken code? And when Todd sings “it wouldn’t have made any difference if you loved me,” is he saying “I don’t care whether you loved me or not” or “if you really loved me, you wouldn’t care about how I just screwed up?” And why do the Band’s songs sound like there were written a hundred years ago in the Deep South, when they were actually penned by Robbie Robertson—a Canadian—just a few years ago? THESE are the kinds of questions that should be pondered for hours, especially walking up Laurel Canyon on a sunny summer afternoon with your best friend in the whole entire world.

  “Maybe we can start another band in September,” I suggest. “Start from scratch.”

  Ryan shields his eyes from the sun. “I’m not ruling it out, but it was much more work than I thought it would be.”

  When we get to Ryan’s street, he asks if I still have the Cap’n Crunch whistle. I tell him I tried to give it to Brett, but he was adamant about not breaking the law.

  “A draft dodger who won’t rip off the phone company—there’s an oxymoron in there somewhere.”

  “So you WERE paying attention in Woodrow’s class.”

  “Very funny. Call me, okay?” He takes a pen from his back pocket and writes his cousin’s phone number on my hand.

  When I wave goodbye to Ryan for the summer, the numbers on my hand flutter in the wind.

  Does it make me a bad person if a tiny, infinitesimal part of me is still worried that something might have happened between Ryan and Caroline while I was grounded? Am I paranoid? Insane?

  SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU TAKE A GUY’S ALBUMS AWAY? HE LOSES HIS MIND.

  FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH

  6/72

  On his first solo effort, Something/Anything?, Todd Rundgren wrote, sang, engineered, produced, and played every instrument on three of the breakthrough double album’s four sides. His song “Hello, It’s Me” went to #5 on Billboard; “I Saw the Light,” #16. The single “Couldn’t I Just Tell You” is influencing scores of other power pop songs as we speak.

  Rock’s new wunderkind is producing other albums too--most notably The Band’s Stage Fright and Badfinger’s smash Straight Up. Not bad for a guy who just turned 24.

  Songs That Make Me Feel Like Maybe I’ll Get Through All This

  “Across the Universe”—The Beatles

  “Changes”—David Bowie

  “The Times They Are A-Changing”—Bob Dylan

  “Turn, Turn, Turn”—Pete Seeger

  “New Morning”—Bob Dylan

  “Getting Better”—The Beatles

  “A Change Is Gonna Come”—Sam Cooke

  “Beginnings”—Chicago

  “Peaches en R
egalia”—Frank Zappa

  “Hey Jude”—The Beatles

  “I Just Want to Celebrate”—Rare Earth

  “Dust in the Wind”—Todd Rundgren

  “Morning Has Broken”—Cat Stevens

  “You Can’t Always Get What You Want”—The Rolling Stones

  Caroline has a job as an assistant in a photo lab for the summer, so I mostly see her on weekends. I take as many hours as I can get helping Dad at the dealership and housesitting around the neighborhood to try and save up enough cash to rebuild my record collection. Smog has socked in the city; it’s already ninety degrees. What started out to be MY FIRST SUMMER WITH A GIRLFRIEND is turning out to be a giant snooze.

  With all the drama around Brett leaving, I never got to submit my list of the best albums of all time to the school paper. Patty was bummed—she’d been saving a full page for it and had to scramble to find a replacement piece. Sure, I could’ve thrown a list together in two seconds, but that’s not how I do things, at least not where music is concerned. Since I have lots of time on my hands, I hone the list and tack it to the wall above my desk. I may not have any albums, but at least I have a list of my favorites.

  I stop by the Canyon Store for a soda and take my time walking home. When I finally get there, I’m shocked to see Frank Zappa sitting on my front porch. I try to remember if I have any transcriptions due.

  “I still have a few weeks for this new batch,” I blurt out. “Is that okay?”

  It takes Frank a few minutes to realize what I’m talking about. “Sure. No hurry. I’m here for a different reason.”

  I knew sooner or later word would get back to him about the incident at the log cabin. “It was a stupid mistake,” I begin. “I never should’ve had a séance at your old house.”

  “The cabin?” Frank asks. “People go there all the time—the landlord needs to do a better job of keeping people out.” He seems amused. “Séance, huh? Tell me more.”

  I tell him the story of Brett’s unscheduled visit and how everyone thought he was Morrison’s ghost.