A Guitar and a Pen

by Robert Hicks

  I became afraid to be attached—to anything. When a former accountant failed to pay taxes on my behalf and the IRS stripped me of everything down to my pride, it was relatively easy to sell what remained. My friends thought I was in shock, not caring about the things I lost that year: the Vega Tubaphone No.1 banjo, the Lloyd Baggs guitar, the house and studio and clothes and furniture. But nothing mattered after my Martin. Things were just things; everything that wasn’t replaceable could be lived without. The only regret I had was parting with my Bösendorfer piano, and my heart was salved knowing it provided enough money to care for myself and my mother for six long months.

  Yet somewhere in the back of my head, a small part of me clung to hope.“If she ever comes back . . .” I would think, “everything will be all right.” When I began recording again, I put a note on each album: Missing since 1972, Martin D-18 serial #67053. Reward for return; no questions asked. I meant it.

  I hoped someone kind had bought her, someone who played her frequently and treated her well. I hoped they bought her not knowing she was stolen. I hoped she wasn’t living overseas. I hoped.

  Years passed. I slowly regained my financial footing, bought a home, began a relationship that’s still going strong. I began to feel like the hard times were over at last. Oh, I’d never be able to afford a Bösendorfer again, but I had guitars now, and heat in the winter again. And I’d held on to two baby Martins through the worst of it, thinking that if anyone ever returned mine (unaffordable to me at today’s prices), maybe I’d be able to swap for it.

  My partner graduated from law school this year, and to celebrate we took a vacation in Provincetown, Massachusetts. Over her strenuous objections, I brought my laptop with me. One day I was scanning my new mail and noticed something from a stranger. Now, I get e-mail from strangers all the time, but most of it does not have RE: YOUR D-18 in the header.

  I read it with growing excitement. Eric Schoenberg, owner of a guitar shop in Tiburon, California, was telling me he had a client who had my guitar. Did I want the client’s phone number?

  I wrote back immediately, saying yes, then gave full rein to paranoia. Could someone have replaced the serial number on a Martin, hoping to claim a reward? For that matter, how much of a reward would they want? What were my rights under the law, and what were my ethical and moral obligations?

  I contacted everyone I knew, from Stanley Jay of Mandolin Brothers to master guitarist Preston Reed. Do you know this guy Schoenberg? I asked. Is he reputable? Would he lie to me, or participate in a coverup? And Geoff Grace, the fellow who says he has my guitar—does anyone know him?

  The answers flew back. Eric Schoenberg was highly respected by one and all, with an impeccable reputation. It was impossible to replace an old Martin serial number. And legally, since I’d filed a police report, the stolen property was mine. All I would owe Geoff was whatever he’d spent on maintenance and repairs.

  A day later, heart in mouth, I called Geoff Grace. He’s not home, this is his mother. Ah, he had a mother. That was already good. She lived with him, or spent time there—even better. She didn’t sound like a con artist; she knew about the guitar. I sat in an agony, waiting. Hours later I was still waiting, having completely forgotten the time difference between East and West Coasts. Pat sat with me in silence.

  Suddenly tears began pouring down my face. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t explain myself. It was as though a twenty-six-year-old dam had burst, throwing the debris of all those hopeless years out of my heart and into the open air.

  When I finally became capable of speech, I spoke through my hiccups.“If it is her . . . if it is my Martin . . . then I’ve come full circle, finally. I’ll get back the only material thing that ever mattered to me . . . all those years paying off the IRS, paying off the ex-husbands’ debts, paying off other people’s mistakes and meanness—all those years of waiting will finally be over. I can be myself again, if she comes back.”

  Make no mistake—I am not a fetishist. I don’t cling to objects for luck, or believe my life is over without them. Yet when my Martin was stolen, it left a hole in me that nothing could replace—a big, dead spot where no life grew.

  The phone rang, and I met Geoff. He told me he’d bought the guitar in 1972 from a shop in Berkeley. It was pretty beat up and someone had done a bad lacquer job on the back, so he got it for only $650. He’d had the neck reset and a couple of other things fixed, but never touched the body or frets. Oddly enough, the same guitar was stolen from his home in Sausalito in 1976, which is why he’d memorized the serial number. The guitar had been with him all this time; although he bought and sold instruments regularly, he’d hung on to her because “it’s the best D-18 I’ve ever heard.”

  He’d read an interview with me in Vintage Guitar magazine by Steve Stone, praising my playing and mentioning at the end that I was still looking for my Martin.“It took me fifteen seconds to realize that was my Martin you were looking for,” he told me. And, amazingly enough, he immediately decided to give it back.“I called two friends in the Bay Area with big mouths and told them, just to keep myself honest,” he said.“I figured after that, there’d be no turning back.” He then called Eric Schoenberg, knowing Eric could contact me through e-mail. The rest was history.

  Now, the moment of truth. What did he want? What, in his estimation, was the guitar worth?

  I won’t say we fenced; he quoted a figure I couldn’t afford, then thought about it and said that was for insurance purposes—the real value was half that. Even half was too much for me.

  “Well, since I did file a police report, isn’t it mine anyway?” I asked.

  He thought about that and said yes, he supposed so. He thought some more, then said, “Hell, I don’t want to keep someone else’s guitar! Just tell me where to ship it—it’s yours.”

  I couldn’t do that; this man had loved my Martin as long as I had, even longer. I suggested we try a trade: he could ship it to me at my expense, and I would ship him my two small Martins, a turn-of-the-century 0-28 and a 1924 0-42. He could have whichever he liked, and the Mark Leaf case to go with it. Geoff agreed.

  I arrived home and raced to the package. There she was. I pulled out the guitar and began to cry again. It was her, just as I remembered. I hugged her to myself, not daring to play just yet, only daring to remember. My partner stood, smiling, as I babbled.

  “See, Pat, here’s where I learned to flat-pick!”

  “Oh,” she wondered, “I thought you flat-picked over the hole, not making gouges near the fretboard.”

  “Sure, when you know how . . .” I mumbled.

  “It looks awfully . . . old,” Pat said, “kind of worn.”

  “Like we’re not?” I fiercely answered, clutching the Martin to me. Then I burst into tears yet again, stroking the fretboard, afraid to play her. What if she didn’t sound the same? The lost fish is always biggest in memory. What if she wasn’t special, wasn’t extraordinary? What if I’d spent the last twenty-six years mourning nothing more than an imaginary ideal?

  I hit the first chord and started grinning like a fool; she sounded just like I remembered. I tuned the E down to a low D and hit a second chord. It rang forever. I pressed my ear against her side to hear the aftertones, the subtones, all the little nuances I’d missed, these long and lonely years. Everything was there. Everything was stunning. Everything was beautiful.

  We were finally home.

  Geoff ended up taking the small Martin I preferred, but as Pat said, “If he hadn’t taken the one you liked best, what kind of sacrifice would it have been on your part? You can’t get something for nothing, you know.” And when I finally met Geoff and Eric a few months ago, I found myself speechless. How do you thank someone for giving back your dreams? How do you thank someone for filling a hole in your heart? Where do you find the words to explain, to make him understand that he’s healed you?

  The bottom line is, you can’t. You can only hope he understands a small part of the gift he’s given you—how it mad
e up for every petty moment in your life; how it erased all the bad memories and left only the good. How you know now, in every fiber of your being, that in this world righteous men still walk, and you’re fortunate enough to have encountered one.

  Janis Ian

  Born April 7, 1951, Janis Ian burst on the scene at age fifteen with her controversial saga of interracial love, “Society’s Child.” Self-penned and arranged, it topped the charts and created a storm of discussion. Her debut album, 1967’s Janis Ian, garnered her the first of her nine Grammy nominations to date. Since then, there have been seventeen albums.

  Ian achieved a new level of popularity in the 1970s with her trio of masterpieces, Stars (1973), Between the Lines (1975), and Aftertones (1976). Her song “Jesse” became a pop standard after Roberta Flack topped the charts with it.“Everyone thought ‘Society’s Child’ was a fluke, and I was a has-been at eighteen,” says Ian.“ ‘Jesse’ proved I was a real writer.” Two years later, “At Seventeen” sold over a million copies and earned Ian her first two Grammy Awards.

  She entered the 1980s with the international disco hit “Fly Too High,” a song featured on the sound track of the Jodie Foster movie Foxes. This was one of several film-music ventures, and her songs have been featured on television shows as diverse as The Simpsons and General Hospital. She has also studied acting, directing, scoring, and ballet.

  But Janis Ian is truly a “musician’s musician.” Her songs have been recorded by Stan Getz, Bette Midler, Glen Campbell, Cher, Etta James, and many others. In 1986 she began working steadily with other writers in Nashville, Tennessee; in 1988 she officially made Nashville her home, and lives there still.

  Her most recent release, god & the fbi, marks her seventeenth album.“Always my lucky number,” says Ian. You can visit her Web site at www.janisian.com.

  The River

  Tim Putnam

  And those were the last words he said, poor old Davies. An echo slaps the walls of the canyon and wanders off across the forest. I dig a grave for him a little bit in from the river. I know he always liked the sound of water.

  After he’s covered properly, I pitch a cross at the head of the grave. I cry a little and then Horse and I ride back toward town, thinking about the whole thing.

  Davies and I grew up together in Dublin, California. When we were little we used to come up to this very river and fish for trout. That’s how come I know he liked the sound. He was always a better fisherman than I was, but there wasn’t a man closer than three states who could out-hunt me. Ladies and whores all say I can smell better than a pack of dogs and outsmart any four-legged creature that has the bad judgment to be upwind of me when my stomach rumbles.

  So anyways, I grew up in Dublin and stayed around these parts for most of my life. Truth be told, I’ve got kind of a wanderin’ spirit, so I wander right out of town on occasion, and on one occasion I moseyed upon Horse, here. He was moseyin’, too, and I knew right then that we were gonna get along just fine. There was some poor old man layin’ against the rocks with three bullet holes in his chest, so I figured it was my duty to take Horse and give him a new home.

  When I rode back into town all the ladies and whores were admiring Horse and me, so the first place I stopped was the old saloon. In Dublin, everything’s old, like it’s been here since the dawn of time, like the Lord God Almighty Himself said, “Let there be light. And let there be Dublin, California. And the saloon, and the hotel, and the whole bit.” I pushed the doors open and they squeaked, announcin’ my entrance to the whole rowdy pack of ’em. There was a poker game going on when I walked in, and Stan the Piano-man playing the upright, and Earl the bartender serving the usual suspects surroundin’ the bar.

  Speakin’ of ladies and whores, well, that’s where Sarah Appleton comes in. Sarah Appleton was a lady and a whore. That’s what I loved about her. She was always nice and pretty and real concerned with everybody in Dublin, but hoowhee—she can be a handful, too, if ya get what I’m saying. She stood at the top of the stairs wearing that purple dress that I just couldn’t wait to get off of her and lookin’ at me with that certain glint in her eye. After we made sweaty love in one of the rooms upstairs, I decided I should probably be joinin’ that poker game that was going on downstairs. I wandered down the stairs, strappin’ on my suspenders and slickin’ my hair back.

  At the table were Montgomery, Murray, Fallon, Joyce, and poor old Davies.

  “Fancy meeting you boys here,” I said as I smiled wide and kindly. They didn’t look real happy to see me.

  “Well if it ain’t the Amador Valley Asshole.”

  “Easy, Joyce.” I suppose my reputation in these parts is questionable, at best. Dublin’s a nice community after all, with laws and regulations and a good dose of decorum. But hell, what man can control hisself all the time? So what if I happen to carry a few extra aces up my sleeves?

  Well, by now I guess you’re starting to put this all together. Yes, I cheated, Lord forgive me. And yes, I took the entire pile from each one of those poor critters. It was a nice cleanup, if I do say so myself. But I got a little bit sloppy as I was walkin’ out of the saloon. I turned to give a final wave to Sarah Appleton, and when I did, three aces went gliding through the air. Well, them boys at the poker table didn’t much like that, and me, being smarter than most, knew that it was time to scoot. So I jumped on Horse and rode like blazes out of town. I knew in my heart it would be the last time I would see Sarah Appleton, and the saloon, and Dublin herself. I felt like crying, and hell, I might have shed a tear.

  I rode fast into the forest, like I’ve done many times, but not under circumstances like these. I knew this was a hunt and I smiled real wide ’cause ain’t a man in three states who can hunt like me. Night sneaked up on me so I tied Horse to a tree and laid down by the river. The wind kind of whispered me to sleep.

  I heard the click and I knew it was Davies’s pistol aimed right at my temple.

  “Get up, Virgil.” I hate it when people use my first name.

  “You know I hate it when people use my first name.”

  “I said get up.” He pulled his other pistol up and locked the hammer back. Somethin’ about pistols bein’ cocked that’s soothing like rain to me.

  I stood.

  It was morning. The forest was quiet. The wind was still.

  “You didn’t come up here alone, did you, Davies?” He got real nervous when I said that.

  “You just stay put, Virgil.”

  Well, goddammit, that was it. I had my gun turned on him in the flutter of a hummingbird’s wing. He hesitated, and in that hesitation I shot his hand. The gun fell to the ground and hit the dirt with a heavy thud.

  Davies fell to his knees clutching his bad hand with his good one. He looked pathetic, not at all like he did when we used to fish down here. It breaks my heart to see a crippled man, just like Horse’s old owner.

  “You smell that?” I asked. Davies was a bit preoccupied.“That there is the smell of burnt gunpowder. It almost brings a tear to my eye, the way it lingers for a bit and blows away. Hell, I guess I live to smell it.”

  Davies had stopped his whimpering. He was calm now, but breathing heavy. I walked over and put the mouth of my gun between Davies’s eyes. He started breathing heavier if you can believe it. And he looked cross-eyed. It was funny.

  Neither one of us said anything for a while. It was all just too perfect with forest, the leaves, and the river. I almost shed a tear, but it wouldn’t have been appropriate. I just looked at Davies for a long time, cocking back the hammer on my gun. After a while Davies spoke.

  “Hurry up and shoot me, you son of a bitch.”

  And those were the last words he said.

  Tim Putnam

  Tim Putnam was born and grew up in Missouri before attending Mercersburg Academy in Pennsylvania. He moved to Nashville, Tennessee, in 1994 to attend Belmont University and landed his first cut, a cowrite with pop songster Ty Lacy, in 1995. In the years that followed, Putnam had a string of
cuts, including songs with major recording artists and on the WB Network’s sound-track-heavy hit show Felicity. His poetry has been published in the Belmont Literary Journal.

  Currently he is a partner with the on-line entertainment-marketing company Music City Networks, and he cofounded Earnote, a music production house, with Scotch and Mark Ralston. Through the years he has continued to write short stories, screenplays, poetry, and, of course, songs.

  He lives in Franklin, Tennessee, with his wife, Julie, and their dog, Ivy. You can visit his Web site at www.timputnam.com.

  Lucky Boy

  Klem Hayes

  I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this smell. Pine-Sol, tapioca, and tapioca farts (with a hint of pine). It’d be nice if we didn’t have to suffer through the same recycled Muzak day after day. I guess they figure no one will ever notice. Currently my favorite track is “Patience” by Guns N’ Roses. It plays every morning during bingo. Kick ass!

  Most weeks we get a group of visitors/onlookers stopping in to pay their respects. Cub Scouts are a favorite. They sing the national anthem or do a halfhearted recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance. I think that’s what they’re doing, anyway. They mumble in unison with a junior military salute staring past the old Stars and Stripes at some kid’s mom holding a plate of frosted cookies. None of the kids ever makes it to the end. Sometimes I like to yell at them—nothing mean spirited, just crazy deaf old man yellin’. I’ll ask them if their intentions toward my daughter are pure, “ ’cause dammit, sonnyboy, she’s been hurt before!” I’ll bark out impossible commands: “Get that dog out of my pool.” Or I tell them to help themselves to a nonexistent bowl of lemon candies. Then I beg them, “Please lower your voices.”