Struts & Frets

by Jon Skovron

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know that feeling.”

  “So, are we keeping the band together?” he asked.

  The question totally floored me. Because I hadn’t realized it was my decision. And now, before I said anything, I had to decide for myself. I’d had a lot of dreams about this band becoming something. Was I going to give up on those dreams now, less than a week away from a contest that might make us that one percent that didn’t have to have day jobs? Or was I going to see this through?

  “You have to be cool with TJ and Laurie dating,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I can handle it.”

  “And nobody likes getting yelled at in rehearsal.”

  He sighed. “I get it. I was a dick. I’m sorry. I’ll be cool from now on.”

  “And,” I said, “if we’re still going to do this Battle of the Bands thing on Thursday, you have to have the lyrics to the songs we’re doing memorized.”

  “That’s like three days away,” he said. “No problem.”

  “Let’s do it, then. I’ll call Rick and TJ and we can rehearse tomorrow after school.”

  “Awesome,” said Joe, actually showing a real smile. Then he said, “Uh, we should probably do your songs for the contest. Mine’s not really ready for prime time yet.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Good idea.”

  next day at lunch. Everyone else at the table—Rick, TJ, Alexander, and Laurie—were all giving me the same shocked look, but Jen5 was the only one to speak up.

  “I told him it was cool,” I said. “Come on, guys. Give him a chance.”

  “Sammy, what about your chance? I thought you were going to do your own thing now.”

  “I’d never be able to get anything together in time for the contest.”

  “Why do you even care about the contest?” she asked.

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Didn’t you say that you thought music competitions were lame?”

  “Yeah, they are. But think about getting that studio time. We can’t pass that up. Maybe if we got a killer song on the radio, I wouldn’t have to work at a coffee shop or write commercials.”

  “Sammy,” she said.

  “Come on, Fiver,” I said. “I want this so bad. Just back me up on this one, okay?”

  She looked at me for a moment, then sighed. “Of course I will, Sammy.”

  I could tell the whole thing bothered Jen5, but I couldn’t figure out why. Working things out with the band had seemed to make much more sense than starting all over again. Maybe she just thought I should be the frontman or something. But when it came down to it, I didn’t need to be the guy that everyone looked at. It was nice to fantasize about, but in reality, it wasn’t that important to me. I just cared about the music.

  I was pretty nervous before rehearsal. As much as I hoped things would go well, I was about fifty percent sure that it would all fall apart at rehearsal. Something would set Joe off and he’d just go ballistic on all of us. Or if nothing else, having gone so long without rehearsal, nobody would remember what we were doing.

  But amazingly enough, we actually sounded good. It helped that we just drilled the same three songs over and over again. And Rick did get a little confused every once in a while. But as soon as he got lost, he knew it immediately and fixed it himself. There were also a few times when Joe forgot his lyrics, but he’d immediately grab the sheet and look at it and get back on track. One time, he even apologized.

  We took breaks in between songs and popped open the emergency exit door. We hung out on the back steps by the loading dock. Joe and Rick passed cigarettes back and forth while we all talked about little things we could add to the songs to make them even better, or how we were going to kick ass at the contest. Then we started talking about what we were going to do when we won. Should we send the track we recorded to a bunch of music blogs? Should we have a little tour? Rick had a cousin in Cincinnati who might be able to get in touch with a place down there, and Joe knew a bunch of people in Cleveland. It felt good to talk like that. It felt like we were a real band. We even sounded like a real band.

  And maybe, for the first time, we were.

  I gave Rick a ride home as usual.

  “I have to swing by Marigold’s to pick up some new strings,” I said as we climbed into the car.

  “Okay,” he said. I could tell something was on his mind. He was working himself up to something serious. You couldn’t rush Rick on stuff like that, so I just waited.

  We had been driving for about ten minutes in silence when Rick suddenly blurted out, “You should do your own thing. Drop Joe and do your own thing.”

  “But it’s all coming together,” I said. “We sounded great tonight.”

  “Tonight,” said Rick. “Who knows what he’ll be like tomorrow.”

  “Maybe he’s really changed,” I said. “Maybe it took all that to make him understand.”

  “Maybe,” said Rick.

  “You think he’s faking it?” I asked.

  “I don’t think he’s faking it.”

  “What, then?”

  “I’m sure he thinks he’s turned over a new leaf. But changing isn’t as easy as that. People try to be better all the time. Who doesn’t want to be better? But most of the time, people screw it up.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Have you considered joining the pep squad? What about winning the contest and going on a tour? What about everything we talked about tonight?”

  “That’s all it was, Sammy,” said Rick. “Just talk.”

  “I don’t believe that,” I said.

  “I know you don’t,” he said, and he sounded kind of sad.

  Marigold’s was mainly a CD store, but they had a little guitar supply section in the back that sold my brand of strings. It was a little cheaper than the guitar shop and a lot closer to home. I was tempted to stop at the New Release section to see what was out, but I really didn’t have the money to buy new music, so we just made a beeline for the strings. We were back at the front, waiting in line for the register, in a only few minutes.

  “I might actually get out of here without buying something I don’t need,” I said to Rick.

  “That would be a first,” he said.

  I noticed he was standing very close to me and his eyes kept flickering over my shoulder at something behind me. Like he was hiding from something.

  “What is it?” I said, turning my head.

  “Don’t turn around,” he whispered quietly.

  “Rick?” came a cheerful voice behind me.

  “Too late,” Rick growled under his breath. Then he smiled and said, “Hey, Zeke.”

  I turned and saw a guy with long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. He was wearing a tight black T-shirt and jeans that most guys I know would be way too self-conscious to pull off. Maybe it was the jeans that made me think he was gay. Or maybe it was the fact that when he looked at Rick, it was completely obvious he had a crush on him.

  “How are you?” Zeke asked him with a sincerity that was kind of intense.

  “Uh, okay, I guess,” said Rick, looking very uncomfortable. “This is . . .”—he gestured at me.

  “Oh, hey, I saw you play at the open mic on Saturday,” said Zeke. “Jen5’s friend, right? Sammy? You were awesome!”

  “Thanks,” I said. “You know Jen5?”

  “Yeah, we used to go to art summer school at the College of Art and Design.”

  “Cool,” I said. “So you’re a painter too?”

  “I’m nowhere near as good as Jen5,” said Zeke.

  “She’s awesome,” I agreed.

  “Music’s more my thing,” he said.

  “No kidding,” I said. “What do you play?”

  “Keyboard, mainly. More like electronic stuff.” He held up the CD he had just bought. “The new VFSix.”

  “I’ve never heard of them,” I admitted. “I honestly don’t follow the electronica scene much.”

  “They have sort of a trip-hop, downbeat sound,” said Zek
e.

  “Oh, like Portishead?”

  “Yeah, kinda.” He nodded. “But a lot jazzier, almost like Booker T.”

  “That sounds awesome,” I said.

  “They’re based out of Moscow,” he said. “There’s a huge downbeat scene coming out of there right now.”

  “I totally have to check into that,” I said. “I mean, it’s not really my thing, but you never know. Maybe we could—”

  “Okay!” said Rick, a little too loud. “Sammy, the guy at the register is waiting. Don’t hold up the line.”

  There was one guy in line behind us, reading a magazine, not looking like he was in any kind of hurry.

  “Sure . . . ,” I said. “Well, nice meeting you, Zeke.”

  “You too,” said Zeke. “Tell Jen5 I said hi.” Then he looked at Rick and there was something kind of wistful in his voice when he said, “See you later, Rick.”

  “Right, cool,” said Rick, practically shoving me at the register.

  Once we were safely back in the car, I turned to Rick. “We totally have to start hanging out with that guy,” I said. “I can’t remember the last time I could geek out about music with someone so quickly.”

  “You can hang out with him,” said Rick. He was slouched extra-low in his seat, his arms crossed.

  “What is up with you?” I asked. “Is it because he likes you?”

  “What? You’re crazy,” he said, not sounding at all convincing.

  “Dude, he’s totally into you. I don’t know much about gay dating, but my friggin’ grandfather could see it.”

  “Yeah, okay, Francine and Fiver were trying to hook me up with him on Saturday.”

  “Of course they were,” I said. “Because he’s awesome!”

  “Will you just . . . start the car, okay?”

  “Are you blushing?” I asked.

  “Please. Start. The goddamn. Car.”

  We drove for a little while in silence.

  “Seriously,” I said. “Is he not good-looking or something?”

  “Can we please not talk about this?”

  “Come on, Rick. I’m not teasing anymore,” I said. “I’m just trying to understand.”

  Rick stared out of the window for a full minute before he said, “Yes, he is good-looking.”

  “I only talked to him for a minute, but he seems like a nice guy.”

  “He’s very nice,” agreed Rick.

  “He’s a painter and a musician. That’s cool.”

  “He’s very cool,” said Rick.

  “Do you think he’s . . . hot?” It felt kind of weird to say it, but that was just because I wasn’t used to referring to guys as “hot.”

  “Jesus, Sammy!” Rick threw his hands into the air. “Yes, I think he’s hot, okay? Are we done now?”

  “Then why were you such a total dick to him tonight?” I asked.

  “Because I’m just not interested in doing anything with anyone right now.”

  “Okay, sure,” I said. “That’s fine. I just—”

  “I know,” said Rick. “Thanks for your concern. I’m cool.”

  We drove the rest of the way without saying another word. Finally, when I stopped in front of his house and he started to climb out, I said, “Rick.”

  He stopped, one leg still in the car.

  “I just . . . It doesn’t seem fair. To you. I dump all my crap on you all the time, but you keep yours all bottled up. You should be able to dump stuff back on me.”

  He looked at me for a moment, and I thought I’d seen every expression he had. But I didn’t recognize this one at all. “I know, Sammy,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. I just . . . can’t. Not yet. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Good night, Sammy.”

  “Good night, Rick.”

  I got home later than usual, so I expected Mom to be home already. But she wasn’t. In fact, I was halfway through my homework by the time I heard her come through the door. And I was finished with it by the time she’d made her way from the wine bottle to my room.

  “Hey, Sammy,” she said. She looked tired, and her makeup was a little smudged. The only time that ever happened was when she’d been crying.

  “Everything okay, Mom?” I asked. I was at my usual place, sitting cross-legged on the floor with my guitar on my lap.

  “I’ve just been over at your grandfather’s house most of the night.”

  “How is he?” I asked.

  “Well . . .” She sat down heavily on my bed. “He refused to come out of the bathroom the entire time I was there. He kept muttering something about a secret code hidden in album covers.”

  “What?”

  She shrugged. “I have no idea. And I took a look in the freezer and my guess is that he hasn’t eaten anything since you were there.”

  I shook my head. “He didn’t eat when I was there. He just threw it away.”

  “So it’s been even longer, then,” she said. Then she sighed and massaged her temples with her fingertips. “I think that’s it, then. We can’t put it off any longer. I’ll go down and talk to someone at the assisted-living facility tomorrow.”

  “A nursing home,” I said. “He’s not going to like it.”

  “Sammy, we can’t take care of him anymore. He’s like a child, really. He needs professional, around-the-clock care. I’m concerned that if we don’t do something soon, he could hurt himself.”

  Part of me agreed with her, of course. I knew that Gramps shouldn’t be on his own anymore. And maybe Jen5 was right and he’d be much happier hanging with other crazy old people. But I felt like I understood him better than anybody else. And I wondered if he really would want that life. I knew I didn’t. In fact, I think I probably would have chosen to die living my own life than live in some kind of institution.

  Of course, that was easy for me to say, because it wasn’t happening to me. What would he say if he were still the real Gramps?

  Mom got up off my bed and sat down next to me on the floor.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie. But it’s for the best.”

  I nodded. Speaking seemed a little too hard right then, since my throat felt like it was filled with a lead weight.

  “So, while I’m looking at places tomorrow, I need to you check in on him after school. Maybe you can get him to eat. Or at least come out of the bathroom.”

  “We were going to have practice tomorrow,” I said. “The contest is only in three days.”

  “Sammy, your grandfather needs you,” she said.

  “I know,” I said.

  “You’ll still have Wednesday night to rehearse.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That’s better than nothing.”

  I knew she was really worried about Gramps, because she didn’t even think to hassle me about still being in a band with Joe.

  next day. He didn’t answer the door when I knocked. That was usual. But then I tried to open the door and it was locked. Weird. He never locked his front door. Mom and I had been trying to get him to do it for years and he’d refused. But now, suddenly, he locked it?

  I knocked again, louder, and still nothing. I started to get worried. That he’d accidentally hurt himself. That he’d purposely hurt himself. That he’d had a heart attack or an aneurysm or one of those other old-people things that came up suddenly. I banged on the door one last time. Should I call Mom? The cops? The medics? Just as I was about to turn around and go back to the Boat, I heard the deadbolt slide. The door opened a crack and Gramps peered out. The look in his eyes was something I’d never seen before. It was pure, 100 percent insanity.

  “Thank God you’re here,” he said, then grabbed my arm. His grip was surprisingly strong. He jerked me inside and slammed the door shut and locked it. The place was weirdly silent. Not even one album playing. Scraps of paper and broken records were scattered everywhere. The whole place stank like old garbage and new piss.

  “I was worried she’d gotten you,” he mumbled. He was wearing a yellow rubber raincoat and boots and noth
ing else, and there was something really creepy about that. “I knew she’d already gotten Viv, damn her. But at least she didn’t get you. You made it. Just barely, but you did.”

  “Gramps, what’s going on?” I asked. “Who were you worried had gotten me?”

  “Oh, you know,” he frowned and gestured vaguely. “Her. The one who keeps me here.”

  “Have you eaten anything today, Gramps?”

  “Ha! Are you kidding? Everything’s poisoned!”

  “Gramps, it’s not poisoned. Look, how about I make you something?”

  He shook his head vehemently. “For all I know, she’s already gotten to you.”

  “Gramps, what are you talking about?”

  “Listen,” he said, leaning in like some kind of cartoon spy. “It’s time you know the truth about me. I’m not really a socialist sympathizer.”

  “No?”

  “No, I’m a double agent planted by the CIA to draw out potential threats and mark them for nullification.”

  The strangest part was that he was so sure of himself, for a split second I actually believed him. In fact, my first thought was, Oh my God, is he about to arrest me? But then I realized that he had fully gone off the deep end. His eyes were wide and they rolled around in their wrinkled sockets. His mouth was pulled back in something that was probably supposed to look like a smile, but it made him look more like a grinning skull. Then I saw something flash in his hand. It was the end of a pair of scissors. He was hiding the rest up his sleeve. When I saw that, it suddenly didn’t matter if he was my grandfather or not. He was just a scary crazy old guy with a concealed sharp object.