by Chet Belding
“How'd you know I'm in a band?” he asked.
“I'm a cop,” she said coyly.
“So, what'd ya think?”
“You did look kinda cute up there.”
“So you saw me play live huh?”
“Yeah. But as for your guitar playing...ah, so, so.”
“Ouch! I've always thought of myself as a pretty good player.”
“My brother's better!” she quickly stated.
“Ouch again! So tell me, do you date guitar players that don't go out on the road?”
“Well...maybe? You’ll just have to strike the right chord with me,” she said, while she tossed her hair back, which any good psychologist worth his couch will tell you, is a good sign – that the gates of heaven are starting to open. She turned serious for a moment. “So, about this guitar, I m gonna need to know who purchased it. He might be in danger.”
“You gotta warrant?” Jake playfully suggested.
“No, but I gotta gun,” she said, and tapped her pistol-packing holster.
“So do I,” he replied, with perhaps a nod to his concealed manhood."
“Watch it buddy,” she cautioned him.
“I just might,” he said, while his eyes drifted down the length of her shapely body. He then told her he’d get Johnny’s particulars and that he knew Johnny’s uncle as well.
He returned. “He's a nice kid but a god awful guitar player. I can tell you right now that that gold top is gonna be wasted on him. But I guess there are worst things in life,” he said, and handed her a piece of paper with Johnny's particulars.
“Thanks, I'm gonna go pay him a visit,” she said, while she read the piece of paper.
Outside the music store, Kathy climbed into her unmarked car and drove off – destination Johnny's house, aka Johnny Eleven's house. And while she drove she checked the local traffic for any sign of the vehicle with the Tennessee plates. And it was right then that she got a call from 5-0 headquarters – that they had acquired some choice info on her subject. “Yeah go ahead!” she said into her police radio. “He drives what? – A nineteen seventy-three Ford F-150. White you say? Okay, how about a plate number?” she asked, and then quickly jotted down the number.
With that information, she called it out over her police radio to their normal group of patrol cars. She figured they'd have Mr. Tennessee in no time. No harm, no foul. And then it would be business as usual – love gone bad, missing pets, a drunken brouhaha over at the OK Saloon, etc. etc. And occasionally, a woman in a short skirt turning a trick or two – hard times and all.
A time later she pulled onto Johnny's street and watched the single digit numbers go by until she arrived at his house – number 11 – it was an anomaly. The yard was well kept and so was the house, she noticed. It was just before dusk and she was anxious to have a talk with the young guitar player, and of course, his mother and father. She assumed he had both unless his father had been of the test-tube variety. So she climbed out of her car and walked the walk or up the walk until she arrived at the front door. And as she did, she could hear the faint sound of someone playing the guitar – an electric guitar.
Johnny was down in the basement with his friend and he was just cranking on his new guitar. His friend in response found himself totally in awe of what he was hearing and seeing. "Gosh Johnny, you don't suck anymore. You don't suck real bad anymore," his friend said. And it was obvious that Johnny’s friend was a glass is half-full kinda guy.
The doorbell rang upstairs, and Mrs. Johnny or Johnny's mother quickly walked out of the kitchen to answer it. She was curious as to who would be at her door on a Friday night when she wasn't expecting anyone. Simply put, she didn't like drop-ins. And when she opened it, she was surprised to find a detective at her door, and a female one at that.
Detective Kathy cordially introduced herself and flashed her badge. She liked flashing her badge, and on occasion something else – the law be damned. So she went about filling in Johnny's mother about recent events with the caveat that they would probably be catching up with Mr. Tennessee (aka “silent” Joe) at any moment and not to worry.
“I knew that damn guitar was gonna be trouble!” she reacted in a sudden fit of rage. But she calmed down just as quickly. “He is getting quite good though,” she added. So she proceeded to invite the pretty detective into her layer for some home baked cookies and milk – she had just made a fresh batch of double chocolate chip. Eleven dozen to be exact.
And just as she was about to close the door, she saw her brother, known to most as, aka, Uncle Jack, pull up in his rusted relic, '62 Ford Galaxy. She hated his car and was embarrassed whenever it was parked out in front of her house – the whole, “everything in its place" thing. But she did acknowledge that he had done a nice thing for her son – despite her motherly objections. So she turned to the Detective and informed her that Johnny’s Uncle had just arrived. At which Kathy quickly recalled her conversation with Jake. “I'd like to talk to him as well,” she suggested.
“He's a little, well...” Mrs. Johnny started to say.
“We all have one in the family Mrs. Johnny, and in my case...it's me.” She was of course jesting or was she?
Uncle Jack entered the house in his usual tattered jeans and worn flannel shirt. He had been wearing flannel long before grunge had ever been a gleam in Nirvana's collective eyes.
“Are you Uncle Jack?” Detective Kathy asked.
“Yeah...that's me,” he said, while he slipped a tallboy out of his back pocket and cracked it open.
In response, Kathy certainly raised a law-enforcing eyebrow. But since Uncle Jack wasn't behind the wheel, at least not anymore, she was fine with it. In fact she was sort of thirsty herself and considered popping back a few after work. Although she preferred the Pennsylvania proud of the Yuengling Brewing Company over Budweiser. Not a plug, but what the hell, (Yuengling, long may you pour).
Johnny’s mom quickly interjected. “We have a problem Uncle Jack, some nut case wants to kill Johnny over his guitar,” she announced rather abruptly.
“I wouldn't go that far Mrs. Johnny,” Kathy the cop said in a calming tone of voice. But she did go on to add the fact that “silent" Joe had indeed carved up a couple of people awhile back. And really, it was of little comfort.
Out riding around, Silent Joe had decided he would break into Jake’s Slammin’ Jammin’ Music Emporium after closing. That way he could find out who had bought the guitar, his rightful guitar. He was growing increasingly desperate, and was willing to do anything to get it back – anything!
And so as dusk settled into night, silent Joe decided he would forgo the breaking and entering, and instead do some reconnaissance cruising.
Driving the back roads of Peril, Pennsylvania, he kept his window rolled down and his ears peeled, desperately hoping to hear the precious sound of his prized guitar – the gold top “aka” Les Paul. He had been down just about every street that Peril had to offer, but had come up empty. And then fate intervened when he turned down a street called Maple. And it was there on the syrupy street that his attentive ear quickly picked-up the sound of an electric guitar – muffled as it was. “THAT’S IT!” he yelled in a moment of pure eureka. Although he spelled it with a “y”. For he believed that he had just struck gold or gold top as it were.
Courting a wicked smile, he pulled up to the curb behind an old Ford Galaxy and a non-descript car that he didn’t realize was an unmarked police car. He immediately shut off the truck and reached into his glove box to get his gun. He was now ready to do what he had to to get back his guitar – in other words he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
He quickly opened the barrel of the long-nosed thirty eight and checked his ammo situation. He had eight bullets in the barrel and three in his pocket – you do the math. With a purposeful look on his face, he knew that he was ready to facilitate his plan of action or to fly by the seat of his pants – he hadn’t decided quite yet. So, with a face full of determination as well as some
deep pockmarks, he opened the squeaky truck door to the suburban hush of a typical Friday night. “This has to be it!” he assured himself. And as he got closer to the house, it was apparent by the sounds coming from the basement that this was the very house where his prized gold top resided. So he tucked his thirty eight into the depth of his pocket, but since it was a long-barreled thirty-eight, it didn’t go in all the way. So he cursed himself blue for buying the long barrel instead of the short barrel.
A moment later he was at the door. His nerves were cresting and he was sweating profusely. With his hand on the gun he nervously rang the doorbell. Get the guitar! he told himself over and over until he heard someone at the door.
Down in the basement Johnny decided to take a break. He had been playing nonstop since he had arrived home from school and his flashy fingers were beginning to hurt. So he put the amp on standby and carefully leaned the gold top against it. His friend quickly asked if he could touch the prized guitar. He wasn’t a player himself, but after seeing and hearing Johnny, he was considering it.
Johnny gave him the okay, so he walked over to it. And as he looked at it, he swore he saw a glowing halo around it. He was transfixed. So he reached out to touch it and…zzzzzzzz.
Meanwhile upstairs, Mrs. Johnny opened the door only to find a stranger on her front step. “Yes?” she said.
The man looked at her. “MY NAME IS SILENT JOE AND I’M HERE FOR THE GUITAR!” he demanded with wood-carving authority. No sense in beating around the proverbial bush.
“Would you like some cookies, I Just made some double chocolate chip?” Mrs. Johnny offered, not realizing.
“No ma’am, just the guitar,” he said, before he pulled out his long-nosed .38 and pointed it at her. She asked him in and he obliged.
Downstairs in the basement, Johnny’s friend was lying on the ground – he had apparently been electrocuted. Johnny was standing over him and staring down in utter disbelief, not knowing that a gun-toting guitar bandit had just entered the house.
Silent Joe walked into the house carrying his .38 not realizing that there was a pistol-packing cop in the house. “WHERE’S THE GUITAR?” he angrily demanded while he aggressively nudged the gun forward.
Detective Kathy and Uncle Jack were in the kitchen enjoying some double chocolate chips. Kathy had a glass of milk in her hand, which in most cases is customary, while Uncle Jack was holding the more unusual choice of a tallboy Budweiser. Gotta wash it down with something I guess? Although admittedly, it is hard to dunk a cookie into a can. Anyway, it was then that silent Joe barged into the kitchen brandishing his weapon. “JUST GIVE ME THE GUITAR AND I’M OUT OF HERE!” he demanded through tightly gritted teeth. He even considered grabbing himself a cookie, but thought better of it – maybe on the way out, he thought.
Detective Kathy and Uncle Jack were startled by the sudden intrusion and both stepped back in defensively, defensive postures. A double chocolate chip cookie might be a tasty treat, but it sure ain’t good for fending off bullets. Silent Joe then saw the basement door and quickly went for it. He was desperately, desperate and threw open the door and ran down the stairs in a flash. And when he got there he noticed something out of the ordinary – what appeared to be a dead boy lying on the floor next to the guitar. “WHAT HAPPENED HERE?” he yelled across the basement at Johnny. But Johnny was in a state of shock and didn’t answer. So silent Joe ran across the room to collect his prized Les Paul. But when he reached down and grabbed it, he got the shock of his life – literally, and dropped dead to the floor. For the gold top had apparently claimed another victim.
Suddenly, there was a commotion upstairs and Detective Kathy came running down the stairs with her pistol drawn. She quickly spotted the two bodies on the floor and was quite shocked by the sight of them. “What the heck happened here Johnny?” she asked in an urgent tone of voice.
“Don’t know?” he replied.
So Kathy walked over to the perp, aka silent Joe, and kicked his .38 across the concrete floor. It went skittering along the surface and clanked loudly when it hit the furnace. She wasn’t sure if silent Joe was still alive, so as a precaution she pumped two bullets in him for good measure. Plus target practice had become sort of boring – the whole shooting at paper people thing. And since he was already dead, well…what was the harm? Plus she hadn’t had the opportunity of shooting someone in the line of duty, so she viewed it as a good icebreaker. On the job training if you will. Gotta start somewhere I guess.
“So what happened here Johnny?” she asked again.
Johnny went on to tell her that both had touched the guitar and that they had apparently been electrocuted.
“Okay Johnny…then I guess we’re done here,” she said, before she cautioned him not to touch the guitar. But Johnny was worried about his friend and failed to heed her warning. So he walked over to the guitar and picked it up – carefully and thoughtfully stepping over the bodies as he went. And as soon as he touched it, the instrument glowed as if it had found its rightful owner – that only two mortal hands were meant to play it, and those two hands belonged to Johnny – aka, Johnny Eleven. But Johnny was desperate to save his friend, so he grabbed his guitar cable and stuck it in his friend’s chest. With baited breath, he cranked up his amp and waited. Soon pulses of electricity were passing through his friend’s lifeless body. And in barely a blessed moment, his friend started to come to – he was thankfully alive.
“Good work Johnny,” Detective Kathy proposed, while she holstered her pistol and finished her cookie. “I see dead people,” she said through a devious smile as she looked down at silent Joe’s lifeless body, an obvious reference to one her favorite movies. And since shooting people that are already dead is known to be thirsty business, she decided right then and there that she deserved a frothy reward for her police-patrolling efforts. “So since we’re done here Johnny, I think I’ll go out for a few beers now. And oh, you may wanna breakout the air fresheners,” she said, before she turned to go upstairs. She figured she’d turn in her police report in the morning if she wasn’t too hung-over. So after calling the cleanup crew, she proceeded to her local drinking emporium, and low and behold, who did she run into? – Why it was music shop Jake, who just so happened to be there playing with his band.
So after downing a few cactus-fueled shots of titillating tequila and chasing them down with several amber Yuenglings, she was more than ready to party. So with a seductive swagger in her step, she sauntered over to the stage where Jake was playing and proceeded to shake her money maker.
Inspired by her seductive snake dance, Jake leaned into his guitar and tore into a particularly nasty solo, trying to impress the womanly object of his affections. And damned if didn’t work, for Detective Kathy, who was known to be quite the alluring tease if she was feeling it, proceeded to pull up her shirttails, offering Jake a quick Mardi Gras flash, no beads needed. Naughty, naughty girl Detective. She even considered running to the ladies room to remove her lacy ladies for a little stage toss, but quickly reconsidered thinking it was a tad unprofessional. So instead, and to ante up the partying just a bit, she playfully removed her pistol and pointed it at guitar-playing Jake. However, she failed to realize that her pistol’s safety was still disengaged from her earlier shooting of already dead, silent Joe, and accidentally fired off a round. But thankfully and most gratefully, it went over Jake’s head and only took out a stage light, causing a sparkling shower to rain down on the band – a perhaps poor man’s pyrotechnics. And really it only served to get the party rolling. God bless the keepers of the peace.
And now for the good part, because only a few short years later, Johnny had reached rock superstardom. His otherworldly playing had eclipsed all of his contemporaries and he was virtually a household name. And he owed it all to his cherished gold top, Les Paul.
His mother was of course his biggest fan, and as for his bathroom-hogging sister, she ran his fan club (although not from the bathroom, unless of course nature called). And let’s not
forget flannel wearing Uncle Jack, because he was the only person besides Johnny that was allowed to touch the prized gold top, Les Paul. In fact he toured the country with Johnny as his guitar tech. He also wore “rubber souls” as the Beatles had once suggested, for just in case purposes – and interestingly enough – size eleven. In accordance, no one else was allowed to touch the prized guitar or they risked the possibility of shock treatments – lethal ones that were not medically sanctioned.
While out on tour, Johnny was playing a sold-out venue in nearby Philadelphia, when he got a call from his mother informing him that Detective Kathy and Music shop Jake were getting married. They had been dating ever since the silent Joe incident.
So since Johnny was a very caring and generous rock star, he offered to play at the wedding reception.
Fresh from several sold-out shows at the house that Franklin built, Johnny now truly eleven went to the wedding reception and played his heart out for the newly married couple, and as a result, the place went absolutely electric. And as an encore, Johnny played one last tune, a tune from one of his fav’s – Kiss. A song called, “Shock Me!” Long may you play Johnny, long may you play!
*Side note – silent Joe was buried in an oversized guitar case per his final wishes. And as for Johnny’s good friend, he recovered to good health and works for Johnny’s organization in a job that doesn’t suck real bad, and that pays pretty good.
*Please also note that in a fit of rage, many guitars were in fact harmed during the making of this story – regrettably so. But with one exception of course. That being the prized and cherished gold top Les Paul – and narrowly avoiding a Stratocaster disaster. And perhaps most sadly, and regrettably so, many many people were also hurt during the writing of this story. Sorry!