by Chet Belding
“Johnny boy, what-cha doin' here?” the voice drawled from above.
Johnny looked up and smiled nervously. “Hi Uncle Jack,” he offered.
"Good to see ya boy! Sorry I ain’t been over in awhile, yer ma don’t like it when I come over the house," he said as an explanation for his prolonged absence. His tone was friendly though, which Johnny took in a positive light.
“Come on up and sit for awhile Johnny boy,” he offered, while he walked through the screen door, which had a few noticeable rips in its saggy screen.
“Hey Uncle Jack!” Johnny said, as he arrived at the top of the stairs and noticed Uncle Jack was holding a can of beer – a tall boy, and by coincidence – a Rheingold-killing, Budweiser.
“You thirsty Johnny?” he asked. But for most people, eight o'clock in the morning was a tad early for a frothy beverage such as a Budweiser. Not to mention Johnny was not of a legal drinking age.
“I'm good Uncle Jack,” Johnny replied.
Uncle Jack nodded is head and offered him a seat in one of two deck chairs on the porch. The rest of the porch was vacant except for an abundance of peeling paint and several empty planters.
Johnny took a seat as did his uncle. "It's good to see ya Johnny boy and thanks for coming. I spose you didn't call cause of yer mom.”
Johnny shook his head in the affirmative.
“"I think she hates me?” Uncle Jack suggested.
“She don't hate you Uncle Jack. Don't think that. Its just ya know the way she is? – Everything in its place – orderly and all that.”
“Yeah she is that. Won't give ya any argument about dat. So…what do I owe this pleasure? Not everyday I have a visitor Johnny.”
“Well, I'm hopin' you can help me out with somethin' Uncle Jack?”
Uncle Jack shook his head and scratched his unshaven face. He then looked Johnny straight in the eye and said something surprising. “I think I know why you're here.”
Johnny was surprised and looked at his uncle with an uneasy expression. "I ah, I was hoping..."
“You want that guitar – that gold top Les Paul they got hangin' in the window in town,” he said, much to Johnny's astonishment.
“How'd you know Uncle Jack?” Johnny asked through wide eyes.
“Yer Uncle Jack may be alotta things Johnny, but he notices a thing or two when he's out and about. Saw you in town a couple a times at that shop. In fact a know Jake personally. He told me you’d been in a bunch,” he said before he paused. “So, how much you got Johnny?”
Johnny hesitated. “Ah, just a hundred bucks. I need a lot more. Somebody else put some money down on it, but I'm hopin' to beat 'em to it.”
Uncle Jack shook his head and didn't say anything for awhile. He seemed to be thinking, although Johnny knew that sometimes it was hard to tell.
“I tell ya what Johnny, I been thinkin' bout cleanin' up this place fer awhile now. Maybe ya can help me. And maybe a little work on that old Galaxy I got out back. Its one sweet ride if I ever git ‘er goin' proper.”
Johnny eagerly shook his head. "I'd be glad to help ya – with whatever ya need!" he said in an excited tone of voice.
“Good then, it's a deal. I got the money in a tin can behind the frig. Let me just go git it for ya,” he said, before he got up and finished what was left of his Budweiser.
Johnny started to tell him how much he needed for the guitar, but his uncle beat him to the punch.
“Already know how much Johnny – no need to flap yer gums,” he said before he disappeared into the house.
Johnny waited, and as he did, he could hardly believe his good fortune; that the guitar of his dreams was about to be his – maybe? – That was if the other potential buyer didn't show up in two weeks with the cash.
Barely a moment later Uncle Jack returned with a fresh Budweiser and a tin coffee can. It looked like a Maxwell House can, but the rusted state of it made it highly debatable.
Uncle Jack plopped himself down in his chair and looked over at Johnny. “Yer mom thinks I'm poor. But I'm not Johnny. Got a few bucks saved up and than some. You ever need cash Johnny, you come here first. I know my sister, god love her, is a little tight with a dolla. And bein' yer a good kid and I like ya, I'm more than happy to give ya the cash,” he said, and proceeded to remove a faded yellow cap off the seen-better-days can. And barely a second later he pulled out several wades of folded cash that were held together by some greasy rubber bands.
“Wow!” Johnny said, since he was surprised by the amount of cash his uncle had in the tin can. Because it seemed like a whole lot of cash to his eyes – maybe even more than a lot.
Uncle Jack popped open his Budweiser and leaned back. “You mind if I smoke Johnny?” he asked, while he pulled out a pack of Marlboro reds from his faded, flannel shirt pocket. “You hear that Johnny? – That’s how you play a Les Paul. That Jimmy Page musta come out of the womb holdin’ a Les Paul. Now you learn to play like that Johnny, and good things ‘ill come.”
Johnny eagerly nodded his head. So Uncle Jack lit up his cigarette and blew the smoke up into the peeling eves of his covered front porch. "Place needs a good paintin’”, he acknowledged while he looked at the abundant peeling paint. "Like this house a whole lot Johnny and I need to take better care of her. So I guess that's where you come in Johnny boy. We fix it together real nice and I'll be happy. And that Galaxy I got out back, well, one day it'll be yers. You can count on that Johnny boy!” he said through a lopsided smile.
Johnny didn't know what to say. He was overwhelmed.
“You got a good amp to go along with that Les Paul Johnny?” his uncle asked, before he took a long drag from his Budweiser.
And surprisingly, Johnny had never considered an amp before. He knew the two went hand in hand or cord in cord, because his current amp was hardly an amp, just a bunch of wire and some pitifully noisy speakers.
“No, come to think of it I don't,” Johnny replied.
“Well Johnny, Uncle Jack gotta solution to that dilemma as well. Gotta neighbor just down the street here, that's been buggin' me for a trade. Now, I'm more than willin' to make that trade. And ya don't need to concern yerself with what that trade’s for. So when ya get yer Les Paul guitar Johnny, it'll be waitin' fer ya. It's and old Marshall Plexi…and they ain’t so easy to come by. Looked it up myself.”
The next thing Johnny knew, he was being handed a wad of cash (it was definitely a wad – a big wad). He slowly took it from his Uncle and just stared at it for a moment. He had never held that much money before – ever!
“Tuck that away Johnny – never know whose lookin’. And it’s like they say Johnny, money can be the root of all evil. You keep that in mind won’t ya Johnny boy!”
“Yes sir. I will.”
“Good! Now, I’m gonna give ole Jake there a call down at the store and tell ‘em ya got the money – all of it. He owes me a fava, so hopefully he’ll see it my way.”
Johnny shook his head eagerly. “I can start workin’ on yer house today!” he quickly offered.
“Nah, not today Johnny. All things in due course. So let me go inside and make that call. We’ll see what Jake has to say,” he said, and got up and walked back into the house.
Johnny waited impatiently for his uncle to return. He couldn’t wait.
Uncle Jack returned a time later. “Hey Johnny boy, Jake says it yers. Told ya he owed me fava and he just paid up. So, you go git on yer bike and pedal down there. He’s got it waitin’.”
Johnny couldn’t believe it and he was eager to go, but he thought of his mom and how on earth he was gonna explain it to her. He now realized that he had another problem on his hands. He looked over at his uncle who was chewing on a smoldering cigarette. “What about my mom?” he asked.
Uncle Jack looked over at him “Huh! Didn’t think about that Johnny. And knowin’ her like I do, gonna be a problem,” he said, while he scratched his head. “I guess, I guess I’ll have to call her up on the phone and splain things. She’s just
gonna have ta see it our way. Now, you go git that guitar before Jake changes his mind. I’ll take care of the rest. Amplifier too. So go on now Johnny boy!”
Johnny didn’t say a word, he just walked to the driveway jumped on his bike and took off for town.
A while later Johnny arrived in town. He was just down the street from the music store, and his stomach was utterly swimming with nervous anticipation. He stopped for a brief moment, and then took off in an all sprint for the guitar of his dreams.
He arrived in front of Jake’s and threw his kickstand down in a well-coordinated balance of stop and drop. His heart was racing and he could feel some perspiration building on his brow even though it was cool out. So with a quick inhale, he climbed off the bike and turned around only to see his gold top Les Paul front and center in the window. It was his “Oh Yeah!” moment. He quickly took in it, every string, every tuning peg and every contour of its womanly body. He was jazzed even though he was a rock guy.
He pushed through the front door and quickly spotted Jake, who appeared to be waiting for him.
“That was fast Johnny,” he said. “Got the case right here, and since I like yer uncle, I’ll throw in a tuner. So, you wanna do the honors and grab that baby out of the window?” he suggested.
“Johnny shook his head with all the eagerness of a hungry dog. He turned and walked briskly towards the display window without an ounce of hesitation. He was about to enter what is known as Les Paul heaven.
He arrived at the guitar and just stared at it for a moment. It was glowing like it had the day before. “Wow!” he mumbled and then reached for it with all the skill and sure hands of a skyscraping steelworker working a hundred stories up.
With the prized guitar in his hands, it felt to him as if it was radiating, begging to be played by its new owner, and hopefully one day, its master. He carefully turned around and started towards the counter where the open case was waiting. Jake smiled at him as he approached. “Go ahead Johnny, put ‘er in there,” he said, while he patted the open case and its plush, red lining.
Johnny held the guitar up and ever so carefully placed it into the case.
“Close her up Johnny and then we’ll take care of some business,” Jake said.
So Johnny closed the case just as carefully as when he had placed the guitar in it. He was absolutely beaming.
Moments later Johnny left the store with guitar in hand. He grabbed his bike with his freehand and began to walk his guitar across land – or across the street. He looked down at it as he walked and couldn't believe that the guitar was actually his. His only dilemma was how he was going to explain it to his mother. He considered sneaking it in and waiting to tell her when the time was right. But she was in and out of his room and he knew he couldn't keep it a secret for long.
He turned onto his street and stopped for a moment. His mother's car was gone, he noticed, so he made his move. He figured that at the very least it would give him some time to think of something.
He made it to his driveway and over to the garage where he leaned his bike against the wall. His usual spot. With the handle of the guitar case held tightly in his hand, he went for the back door.
The kitchen door opened and he quickly went through the kitchen and to the stairs. He didn't know if his sister was home or if she had gone out – the bathroom was an obvious guess. They weren't close as siblings go, but they weren't exactly adversarial either. Her moods fluctuated though, and he never knew which sister he was going to get – Carrie or Mary Poppins?
He reached the stairs and listened for a moment for any activity upstairs. He didn't hear anything and quickly made a mad dash for the sanctity of his bedroom.
With stealth-like quickness, he slid into his bedroom unnoticed and closed the door. He was safe. Quickly, he locked the door and then walked the guitar case over to his bed and ever so carefully laid it down. He was treating it as if it was a new born baby.
There were three latches, one on each end and one beneath the handle. He stood for a moment and then unlatched all three with eager anticipation. He hesitated briefly and then opened it. He could immediately smell the plush, red lining and the guitar itself. "Wow!" he said out loud. He was spellbound by the beauty of it and the gold finish. However, of all the times he had been down to the music store, he had never played it. It was strictly its appearance that had caught his eye.
With a dip in his breath, he reached in and lifted it by the neck. He then grabbed the body and brought it against his. It was heavy and thick and the way a guitar should feel, he thought. "This is it!" he beamed. This is the guitar that's gonna change everything, he told himself. He plucked at the strings with his bare fingers and he could feel them resonate against the guitar. "Wow!" he said again. He wanted to play it in the worse way but he wasn't about to use his sorry excuse of an amplifier. He was going to wait it out for Uncle Jack to delivery the Plexi – the coveted Marshall Plexi. So he walked over to his desk and grabbed a pick. He fingered an E chord, the first chord he had learned and strummed it. And even without an amp, it sounded great. And he could only imagine how good it was gonna sound coming through a Marshall, a Marshall Plexi. In fact all the great Les Paul players he knew of used that combination – a Les Paul and a Marshall. It was the foundation of Rock and Roll as he knew it.
He continued to explore its neck and he found his fingers moving easily over the six strings. It was meant to be.
He played it for awhile and he knew in the short time he had spent with it that he had improved already. "Wow!" he said again to his sudden progress. Reluctantly, he put it down and back in its case. He figured his mother would be home soon, so he didn't want to push his luck. The case willingly accepted it and he slowly closed it. Where to put it became the next question?
Hundreds and hundreds of miles away, in the home of the Les Paul, things weren't so copasetic like they were in Johnny’s bedroom. To some if not most, it was a factory. But to the good people that worked there (the craftsman); it was a legendary place where fine wood was handcrafted into fine musical instruments – legendary instruments. In fact Johnny's gold top Les Paul had come from that very place.
Many if not all that worked there were fine craftsmen. But one man stood above all the rest. His name was “silent" Joe Pacifico. He was the most respected of all the guitar makers and also the most experienced. He had started his occupation at a very early age (thirteen), and had apprenticed in the Brooklyn shop of the legendary guitar maker, Fromstein Ripple – had worked for him right up until Ripple's death in a ragged band saw accident. From there Joe had struck out on his own, and for awhile had done quite well for himself – his handmade guitars becoming highly sought-after. But “silent” Joe Pacifico's personal life was one born of tragic circumstances – most of it his doing, or in many cases, his undoing. You see good old "silent" Joe was a highly jealous person, which had not translated well to his personal love life.
And since custom guitar making was a lengthy and time-consuming process, it had squeezed his free-time to a mere pittance, and as such, had opened his spousal door to the unseemly world of infidelity. So one day after a particularly grueling day behind his woodworking tools, chisels, saws, etc., Joe had decided to call it quits early. He thought that a nice night out with his perpetually lonely wife might mend some marital fences. But sometimes fences aren't made out of the strongest material, which sadly, he would find out when he arrived home with a handful of flowers and a nice bottle of wine.
Now for most, squeaky springs are something that can be easily remedied with a can of oil or a grease gun – generally an easy fix. But when those squeaky springs lie beneath layers and layers of fabric...well, not so easy.
So when silent Joe arrived home at their Brooklyn walk-up early that evening (much earlier than normal), low and behold the squeaky springs. And apparently, his wife had forgotten the oil can in the basement. It was of course an old, old story, a highly repetitious story that had sadly played out through the marital ages. Y
ou would think that as the human species evolved, so would've the squeaky springs? Anyway, hardworking and talented Joe, as one might imagine, hadn't taken too kindly to his wife's cheatin’ heart. Four on the floor might be good for an old Ford F-150, but when your wife’s four are planted on the floor with another guy, not so much. So as sometimes happens, things can get heated (hot sheets aside), and so good old Joe found himself in a bit of a rage. Someone was gonna pay!
As it so happened, Joe had kept some spare tools at home – for just in case purposes. And apparently, the infidelity, which sounded as if it was being broadcast in hi-fidelity (fairly enthusiastically), managed to ring his anger bell. So in a fit of rage, silent Joe took his formidable woodworking skills to a new material (skin). Carved 'em up pretty good.
Now the law doesn't take too kindly to such acts as applying woodworking skills to ones spouse, and of course, the object of her womanly affections. So the judge threw the book at him as the old expression goes. But apparently, the judge had tossed the book underhand since he was also the victim of spousal infidelity. In other words – sympathetic. So silent Joe found himself behind bars for a three to five stretch. He got out in three because of good behavior. Sort of ironic that you have to commit bad behavior in order to find good behavior – just a thought.
Fresh out of jail, and with his superior guitar making skills still in tact, Joe had gotten himself a job with the good people at Gibson. He appeared reformed and truly sorry for his egregious behavior. And within a few short years at Gibson, he was the guy that everyone looked up to. He had become a mentor to many of the younger craftsman and had readily shared his vast wealth of knowledge. He was well-liked, admired, respected, and his troubled past seemed all but forgotten.