Struts & Frets

by Jon Skovron

  I looked down in the passenger seat at the pieces of my precious ’61 Gibson SG reissue. I was mad at Joe for making us all look like complete assholes, but I was just as mad at myself for the way I reacted. It made absolutely no sense to me that my retaliation against him was to break one of the only material objects I cared about. It had just been stupid, meathead rage. Throw whatever was in my hands at the guy. It didn’t look fixable, and there was no way I could afford a new one.

  Maybe this was a sign. Here I was, no guitar, no band. Maybe I should just forget the whole thing and become a math geek or something. Maybe then I wouldn’t be such a angsty little tool. Maybe then I wouldn’t go crazy like Gramps. What did he know, anyway? Reach for the moon . . . He was probably already crazy when he said that. Just babbling.

  I looked up at the moon. I could see it between the rooftops, big and fat and kind of an orange color. Maybe the craters lined up differently that night, or maybe it was the mood I was in, but I swear I could almost see the man in the moon. But he didn’t look like some wise old man, like Gramps said. He didn’t look kindly or jolly or any of that. He looked sad and tired, his mouth hanging open like he was a split second away from crying. Maybe he’d looked happier before Neil Armstrong stepped on his face. Or maybe he’d gotten depressed because he had to stare down at us all the time.

  Or maybe I was just looking at it wrong. Maybe what Ms. Jansen had said was right. Things happened that you couldn’t control. But you could always choose how you dealt with them.

  This was the “shit pile,” after all. The stuff that Gramps said was a musician’s job to make beautiful. I didn’t know if I really touched the moon like Gramps said, but I felt something at that open mic. I had taken all my fear and all Jen5’s stress, and I had turned it into something that maybe made everybody’s night just a little better. And even tonight, when we first started to play, it was something really amazing. Something that was more than just Sammy Bojar.

  I couldn’t stop playing music. Even if I knew I would never be famous. Even if I had to work at a coffee shop and play a friggin’ cigar box strung with wire, I’d still play music. Because I knew I wanted that feeling again. I’d do just about anything to get it.

  I was doomed, maybe. But by choice.

  I wasn’t ready to tell my mom what had happened yet, so I drove over to Jen5’s house. I had been sitting in my car for a while in front of Gramps’s, so I hoped she’d aleady be home from the concert. But when I knocked on the door, Mr. Russell answered.

  “Sorry it’s so late, Mr. Russell,” I said. “Is Jennifer around?”

  One of his bushy white eyebrows slowly raised.

  “No, she isn’t here. I thought she was with you.”

  “Yeah . . . I left early.”

  “Would you like to come in?” he asked suddenly.

  “Oh, uh . . .” I couldn’t think of a polite way to say no, so I nodded. “Sure, thanks.”

  “You had some sort of music contest this evening, didn’t you?” he asked as we walked to his study.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “I take it from your tone it didn’t go well.”

  “It was terrible.” I sat down heavily in one of his uncomfortable chairs. “I was such an idiot. I thought for sure this band was going to be brilliant. I thought if I just worked hard enough, I could make it all happen. I could . . . I don’t know, force it to be good. It could have been, you know? I had it all in my head. The gigs, the album covers, the band photos, even the stupid T-shirts. I could see it like it already existed. But we couldn’t even get through a single gig without a major disaster. I see it now, though. Of course, like always, I see it clearly after it’s too late. Now it’s so obvious that nobody else saw what I saw in the band. No one else believed in it. And no matter how much I believed, everybody in a band has to be playing the same song. You know what I mean?”

  I sat and picked at the leather armrest, thinking about how stupid I’d been. How everyone had been telling me, but I just hadn’t listened.

  “So the band has broken up?” asked Mr. Russell.

  “Yeah,” I said. “And so has my guitar.”

  “What?”

  “Another idiot thing I did. I just got so angry. At Joe for being such a dick. At Rick for being such a slacker. I don’t know, it was like I couldn’t think right and I just . . . threw my guitar at Joe. Broke the neck in half.”

  “What kind of guitar?” asked Mr. Russell.

  “Gibson SG,” I said. “Sixty-one reissue.”

  “A shame,” he said. “That’s a nice guitar.”

  “I know,” I said.

  We sat there for a while, totally quiet. It slowly dawned on me that I had just unloaded on Jen5’s dad, of all people. I looked at him now, and I couldn’t tell if he was fine with it or not. He just sat there, staring off into space, maybe lost in some deep, poetic thought or something. Maybe he hadn’t even been paying attention. Just as well.

  Then suddenly he stood up with a sharp intake of breath. He nodded stiffly and said, “Please excuse me for a moment.” He walked out of the room so quickly, I wondered if he was going to be sick or something.

  I knew I should go home. By now, someone had probably told Mom what had happened anyway, so she’d be up worrying about me. And she could barely get around. If I was any kind of good son, I’d be taking care of her right now. As soon as Mr. Russell got back, I’d say good night and head home.

  Except when Mr. Russell came back, he was carrying a guitar case. It was a big, black, old hard-shell case.

  “Here,” said Mr. Russell, holding it out to me. “I’d like you to have this.”

  “Mr. Russell . . . I can’t—”

  “Please.” He held up a hand like a traffic cop. Then he held the case out to me again. “Open it.”

  I took the case and placed it on my lap. I popped the tarnished brass latches and opened the lid. Inside was a big, wooden, hollow-bodied electric.

  “Is this? . . . ,” I said.

  “A Gibson ES-175,” said Mr. Russell. “It was actually a custom for a jazz guitarist named Joe Pass.”

  “Joe Pass? He played with Oscar Peterson a lot, right?” I asked. “And I think Ella Fitzgerald?”

  Mr. Russell broke out into a huge smile. “Yes, that’s absolutely correct, Samuel.”

  “And this was his actual guitar?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  I held it out to him. “Mr. Russell. This is way too nice for me. I don’t—”

  “Guitars are meant to be played, not collected. It’s yours now.”

  I carefully picked it up and put the case to the side. The guitar had real weight to it. It felt like a presence. Like a person, really. I know that if you don’t love guitars, that makes no sense, but trust me. There are some things that just feel different.

  I propped it up on my lap and lightly ran my fingers across the strings. Even without being plugged in, you could tell this was the real deal. The sound vibrated through the wood with a thick, earthy hum. I felt like I really shouldn’t accept the gift. But I couldn’t help myself. Once I heard that sound, I couldn’t put it down. I had to hear more. So I just started playing, light and quiet, no distortion, no amp, no nothing. Just me, some strings, and some wood. The body of the guitar was so big, I felt like I was hugging it. And when I pressed it close, the sound passed from the back of the guitar into my chest. This was different from just emptying out the angst. I was letting something back in at the same time. I wasn’t just playing the guitar, I was having a conversation with it. It was wise. And kind. Like someone’s grandfather.

  I don’t know how long I played, but it must have been a while. At some point, Mr. Russell slipped out of the room. Then Jen5 came home.

  “Hey,” I said, and started to smile. But I stopped when I saw her tense expression.

  “This is where you’ve been?” she demanded, her voice higher pitched that usual. “Hanging out with my dad?”

  “I was looking for you.
. . . And then—”

  “Okay, you have to call your mother. She’s totally freaking out!”

  “What? Why?”

  “Um, maybe because it’s midnight and you’ve been missing for hours?”

  “You thought I was missing?” I asked as I carefully put the guitar back in its case.

  “Me, Rick, TJ, Alex, Laurie—we’ve been looking everywhere for you. It was like a freaking dragnet, with Rick and my friend Zeke in your mom’s car, TJ and Laurie in his little Fiesta, and me and Alex in his Jeep. I just stopped at home to tell my dad we were scouring the entire city looking for you so he wouldn’t worry about me.”

  “Pause for a second,” I said. “Rick and Zeke?”

  She flashed a wicked grin. “Totally my doing. Rick will probably hate me for it, but whatever. The point is, we were all totally flipping out.”

  “Why?”

  “Well,” she said, suddenly looking a little unsure of herself. “What with everything that’s happened the past few days, we were worried you’d do something stupid . . .”

  “What, like kill myself or something?”

  “No!” she said. “Well, okay, the thought did cross my mind. But that’s not . . . I was just . . .” Then she shook her head and frowned. “I am allowed to be worried about you whenever I want. I don’t need excuses.” Then she crossed her arms like a little kid.

  I couldn’t help myself. I walked over and grabbed her face in my hands and kissed her.

  “Sorry,” I said quietly, still holding her chin in my hand. “I didn’t realize . . .”

  “Yeah, well, just call your mom,” she said, jamming a pink cell phone in my face, “before she has to go back to the hospital.”

  It took me a while to calm my mom down and to assure her that I was just at Jen5’s house and I would be home in only a few minutes. In fact, I could have driven back and forth between our houses three times before I was finally able to get off the phone.

  “I guess I better get home,” I said to Jen5 as I picked up the guitar.

  “Wait,” said Jen5, her voice getting quiet, like she didn’t want anyone else to hear. “He gave you that?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I said. “I told him no, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “Wow, that’s like his favorite collector’s piece ever.” She stared at it, then at me, then back at the guitar. A slight smile started to sneak in, but she shook her head. “He really gave you that, huh?”

  “Is . . . that cool?” I asked.

  “Yeah, please.” She waved her hand. “To me, it’s one less thing cluttering up this house.” Then that smile came back. “It’s just nice that my boyfriend and my dad actually get along. I don’t know why. It just is.”

  I gave her another quick kiss and tried to leave, but she pulled me back.

  “Hey,” she said. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I think I am, actually.”

  “Jeez, if I’d known all it would take to make you happy was a fancy guitar, I would have taken up a collection years ago.”

  “Ha,” I said, then kissed her again. Just because.

  Mr. Russell was in the kitchen, making tea.

  “Hey, uh, thanks again, Mr. Russell. For the guitar. I don’t know how I can ever make this up to you.”

  He smiled slightly and said, “Just don’t hurl it at any tyrants. Yes?”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Russell. Sure thing.”

  As I was leaving Jen5’s house, I noticed a Jeep parked in front that looked a lot like Alexander’s. I walked over to it, and sure enough, there he was, sitting at the wheel, playing “Ode to Joy” in hand farts.

  “Hey, I’m found,” I said.

  “Oh, hey, Sammy. Great. I guess I should go home now or something.”

  “It’s pretty late,” I agreed.

  “Sorry about tonight,” he said. “That sucked.”

  “You know what?” I said. “Forget about it.” Then I leaned into the window a little. “Hey, you know, I have this crazy idea. You want to start a band with me and TJ?”

  “Me? In a band?” He seemed genuinely amazed by the idea. Like he had never thought of it before. “Sure!” Then he thought about it. “Uh, playing bass, right?”

  “Yeah, Alex. Bass.”

  “Oh, good,” he said. “I’ve still got some work before I’m ready to perform my hand farts for the general public.”

  “Maybe you could just have like one little solo or something,” I said.

  “You think so?”

  “Totally.”

  Alexander, TJ, and I talked about it for hours. And I mean talked. There was no yelling, no threats, no kicking over trash cans. We talked all night long, wrote up lists, laughed, and drank way too much coffee. All three of us had statements we wanted to make, but we quickly realized that the statements were limiting and didn’t really give the listener an impression of our sound. So we decided that a descriptive word would be best.

  “But an active word too,” said TJ. “Something that does something to the listener.”

  “Alex! Quick!” I said. “How do you feel right now?”

  “Uh . . . fidgety?” said Alexander, most likely because he’d had about ten cups of coffee.

  “Yeah,” said TJ. “Fidgeting . . .”

  And it just felt right.

  In fact, everything about the band just felt right. I never realized how hard things had been with Tragedy of Wisdom until I found out how easy it could be. Writing songs was completely different. I would just write the lyrics and guitar part, bring those in, and Alexander and TJ would figure out what went with it way better than I ever could have. And since I was doing most of the singing, I didn’t have to worry about whether it fit in with someone else’s voice. It was my own voice now.

  I’d like to say that Joe and I had a big confrontation or fight or something. After all, he did say that stuff about my mom. But we didn’t. In fact, we didn’t even really talk after that. I saw him sitting by himself at lunch and he still looked tough and scary and mean. But no matter what, now I always saw that sad, slumped guy who knew what the inside of the ER looked like way too well. Everyone who’d ever tried to be his friend, he just pushed away. Pissed them off or beat them up or whatever. I mean, nobody had been as nice to him as I had. Nobody had given him as many chances. And he was still a total asshole to me. I wondered what it took to make a guy like that. Maybe he was just born a jerk. But I don’t think so. I think life pulled some serious shit on him. Way worse than anything I’d ever experienced. And knowing that, I guess all I could feel for him was pity. So I just left him alone.

  I think that was probably the meanest thing I could have done anyway.

  The part that I thought would be the hardest was telling Rick he wasn’t invited to come along to the new band. But as it turned out, he was relieved.

  “I think we both know I suck at playing bass,” he said.

  We were at Idiot Child on a Saturday afternoon. Rain was pouring down the front bay windows like a waterfall as we nestled into old easy chairs. The place felt warm and cozy, with a mellow folk song by Iron and Wine whispering over the speakers.

  “But you could be a good bassist,” I said. “If you wanted to be. If you tried harder.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But I don’t want to. I don’t enjoy it. Not like you do. In fact, I was already thinking of quitting before the contest. I could tell I was letting you down.”

  “You weren’t—”

  “Sammy,” he said. “You suck at lying. I was letting you down and I guess I was . . . I don’t know, starting to worry that it was messing up our friendship.”

  “So you were going to quit the band to save our friendship?”

  “Seemed like a good reason at the time. So this all works out for the best. I’ll just be a groupie like Fiver and Laurie.” Then he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it.

  “When did you start buying your own smokes?” I asked.

  “I quit the bass. Had to take up something,
right? And I was at this club last night and smoking gave me something to do.”

  “You?” I said, unable to keep the shock out of my voice. “You were at a club?”

  “Yeah,” Rick said, and blew a puff of smoke.

  “A gay club?”

  “Yes!” he snapped. “But I didn’t dance or anything.”

  “Did you go alone?”

  He scratched the back of his head uncomfortably. “Asshole, I knew you were going to ask me that . . .”

  “Well?”

  “No, of course not. Zeke dragged me there. Do you really think I would choose to go to a club?”

  “Zeke, huh?” I asked.

  “Okay, okay, don’t rub it in,” he said. “It was just . . . I mean, Joe basically outed me in front of the entire Columbus music scene. And I mean, you guys are great and all, but it was nice to have someone there that night who understood what that might feel like.”

  “And?” I said.

  “And, yeah, once I gave him a chance, he was a really cool guy.”

  “And?”

  “Shit, dude. Do you want me to tell you we made out or something?”

  “Actually,” I said, “yeah. Because friends should be able to tell each other stuff like that and it isn’t weird.”

  “Fine! You win! I’m totally in love with him and I want us to go on double dates with you and Fiver! Happy now?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  A couple of weeks later, Mom, Jen5, and I went to visit Gramps at the nursing home.

  “Assisted living,” Mom corrected me during the drive there.

  She had gone for the shaved look, and it really did look awesome. It seemed to give her a sharpness and energy I hadn’t seen in her before. For some reason, Rick, Alexander, and TJ all felt the need to inform me that she still looked hot, even bald.

  “What’s the difference between a nursing home and assisted living?” asked Jen5 from the front passenger seat.

  “A nursing home is more like a hospital,” said Mom. “Assisted living tries to be a little more like a real life. Gramps has a roommate, but they actually have real beds and a common living room and dinning room. And I found one that has a piano.”