I checked my text. It was from Joe Strummer. Had to be. It said
And when I rolled that old Fender Twin back into Mick's he didn't say anything. He bent over, and rolled it toward the back room. But not toward storage, he took out his key ring and opened his office door. He rolled the Twin next to the tweed case that held my Tele.
"Can I get something real quick?"
I put the Tele case onto the Twin and flipped the latches open. The guitar seemed really quiet, like a body in a casket. I reached in and took off the leather strap Pauly had gotten me for Christmas. I rolled it up and put it in my pocket.
Mick let the lid fall, snapped the latches shut and stood it against the wall. I backed onto the sales floor, maybe trying to change my mind. Mick followed, and locked the door.
He said, "Lou's expecting us. Bring your checkbook."
I nodded quietly. Not because I'd lost my words. I nodded because for the first time in as long as I cared to remember, I was a guitarist without a guitar.
May as well have been dead.
I sent my four o'clock into the shop to pay as I wrote his lesson out.
"This kid getting any better?" Mick yelled from the front, smiling. It was his favorite joke. "Or should we start charging him double?"
I carried the Strat I'd used for the lesson by its neck out toward the counter. "Ha. No, if he practices more he'll be fine." I handed Matthew his lesson.
When the kid left, the guitar shop seemed suddenly empty. Mick went back to his newspaper. Across the street a Jeep Cherokee slid up to a meter. When the belt squealed Mick looked up. "Just take it in the back," was all he said.
Pauly waited for traffic to clear, taking a long drag on his cigarette before flicking it into the gutter. Pauly used to look like Freddy Mercury strutting across the stage at Wembley. Now he had his work clothes on. He'd gotten a haircut. He didn't look like Pauly. Now he looked like Freddy Mercury from the "These Are the Days of Our Lives" video.
I held the door open. "We'll go into the back," I said as he stepped onto the sidewalk.
"There he is," Mick said as Pauly stepped out of the cold. "What do they got you doing now?"
"A lot of short overnighters. Kentucky a lot. Going to start making Nashville runs. The guy they hired with me made a furniture delivery out there and forgot to set his parking brake. Guess he destroyed a Waffle House." Pauly wiped his feet and stepped up to the counter. "The paper ran a story and everything. So I'm picking up a lot of extra hours."
I wiped Mick's Strat down with a chamois. Pauly shuffled along behind me, stopping to run his finger down the neck of his old bass. He flipped the price tag around.
He waited for me to put the Strat on its hook. "Where's the Tele?" he asked.
"Long story," I said, and led him into the back. I motioned for him to have a seat.
"Long story, like it's really a long story? Or long story, like you just don't want to talk about it?" Pauly leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers clasped.
"A little of both. The main thing is that it's not really my guitar at the moment. Like that story about the girl that cuts her hair for a Christmas present? Maybe I don't remember the story exactly."
"Well, sorry to hear that." He paused, for must've seemed to him like an appropriate amount of time before changing subjects. "I came down here to talk to you about our situation. My situation, really. I guess I'm the one who threw a wrench into the works. My sponsor said I had to talk to you."
"Since when do you listen to him?"
"Since I really want to try to clean up. Since I'm tired of being a fuck-up."
For a second I waited for a punch line.
I said, "Just like that?"
"C'mon. Don't be like that. Scott said maybe I could help you. Like, I could invite you to a few meetings with me or something." Pauly looked like Johnny Utah at the end of Point Break after Bodhi realized he was a cop.
"Help me? You want to help me? Then you shouldn't have left me hanging like that, especially after I told Mikey we'd play that show with them. You know how it looks having to tell him I'm backing out? He's a student, man. And now he probably thinks I'm just a huge fuck up."
"I am sorry about that. Scott just said I needed to stop putting myself in those situations if I was going to stay sober. He said that I could put myself in a position where I could really help you. He said I needed to stop being..."
"Jesus Christ, man. Listen to you. Can you even start a sentence without mentioning your sponsor?"
"Don't be like that. Seriously. I'm trying here. It's not easy. I got this job and I really want to keep it. I'm tired of Ramen and PBR two times a day. Being sober is like coming out of a fog. Food tastes different. I want you to know what it feels like."
"But what if I'm not an alcoholic? Did you ever think of that?" I tried to lose the edge in my voice. "You know what I loved, more than anything? Looking across the stage and seeing you smile. Seeing you with a nice buzz working those little fingers of yours. That's when I knew you were my brother. So I had what you're talking about. And I'm sorry if you didn't feel the same way because I thought you did, but I thought we were in all this together."
"I'm sorry. How many times can I say it? I can't set foot in any of those places ever again. Jails, institutions or death are my only options if I pick up again. Look, why don't you come home with me tonight? I'm going out on the road right after my meeting. You can come down to the church with me and I'll introduce you to Scott. He's a really great guy. He knows what he's talking about."
"I'm sure he's really helping you out. And I'm happy for you. I mean that. But I can't get my dick up for anybody who'd let you walk away from your old life and family. He doesn't know you. And what was wrong with the way things were? You weren't drinking at any of these shows recently and I wasn't trying to put a beer in your hand."
"God damn it, Preston. It was a lot of fun five years ago. But I'm seeing places and making money. I'm going to save for a house so when I finally meet the woman I want to marry I don't have to tramp up those shit steps into that shit apartment. I'm sorry this is so hard for you. But this is how it's going to be."
"Waffle Houses? Are those the places you're seeing? Truck stops? This is classic Pauly—you stomp around like Godzilla, but when it's time to put the brakes on you decide."
"Preston... Whatever. I'll see you around." Pauly stood up, zipped up his coat and stepped into the hallway. "Look, I'm really sorry you had to sell your guitar. I know how much it meant to you." He went into the store, said goodbye to Mick then left.
When I got to the counter Mick said, "Preston, I'm afraid you're skidding down a long hill. But instead of slowing to a stop, I'm afraid you're going to burst into flames before you even get there. You need to find a way to keep that from happening."
Clouds moved in as we rolled over Cheat Lake. Really high clouds, pink and orange glowing from within, like fireworks in a fog. Dead mountains hibernated next to the dead lake. Ice revealed itself mostly at the edges. The rest of Cheat Lake may as well have been made of concrete. It didn't reflect. It didn't twinkle. If somebody tried to jump off the bridge, they'd come apart without even chipping that ice.
We got off the interstate and Mick pulled up to a pump at the Sheetz.
"Let me get this for you," I said.
"You just pump. I'm going to run inside. You want anything?" Mick adjusted his driving cap.
I could've downed a few pepperoni rolls and some Cool Ranch Doritos or a gas station kolbassi. And a pop. "You getting anything?"
"I'm getting a coffee."
"Then I'll have a coffee. Thanks, Mick." I walked around the big Caddy and flipped the gas tank open. A few tiny snowflakes fell lazily through the flat fluorescent light. They took forever to reach the ground. My teeth chattered. I put my hands into my armpits and pulled my shoulders into my body.
"You have to pee?" Mick yelled across the parking lot and row
s of idling cars. He had a coffee in each hand and held the big glass door open with his foot.
I shook my head. People watched, perhaps waiting to see if I did, in fact, have to pee.
"Preston?" Mick asked again.
"I'm good. Thanks, Mick." The pump clicked to a stop. I shook the last few drops of gas out of the hose.
Mick got into the car. I hung the hose and rushed around the other side. When I pulled the door open Mick said, "You could've gotten the windows since I'm making a special trip all the way up here for you."
"Sure thing."
I was almost halfway to the squeegee when he said, "Just get in," with a laugh.
I put the coffee between my knees and pulled the door shut. Mick turned the key and I held my hands up in front of the vents.
The Caddy rolled onto the shoulders of Chestnut Ridge, past small apartment complexes, through laurel thickets like the ones I'd seen on the way to Davis, around a magnificent horseshoe bend. We came this way for gigs in PA a few times. Stu always called the big crook Dead Man's Curve. In a few years the new highway would be finished, and I'd never have a reason to come this way again.
"The wedding soup line," Mick said. He tooted his horn a few times. "Feels like I'm going home."
"What?"
"You can get wedding soup in the Olive Gardens up here."
"Not in Morgantown?"
"No. Did you ever try? They act like you're asking for erbazzone."
"No. I don't think so."
Mick sipped his coffee. "You know what you get in Kentucky when you order a white pizza? Alfredo sauce."
"Savages," I said. "I almost said Royale with Cheese."
Mick laughed, mostly at the first part.
After we crossed the Mason-Dixon the road pulled away from Chestnut Ridge. The mountains stared down at me. Clouds moved in, obscuring the tops. Snow drifted across the road. Like gauze. All of a sudden, I felt very small, very alone.
I didn't say anything until we passed Rich's Farm. "Our permanent residence Thursday through Saturday from September up through Halloween."
Rich's had a haunted hayride—people dressed up like zombies and came out of the cornfield and all that. On weekends WVU Student Activities sent up busloads of kids, freshmen and sophomores who binged on Jägermeister before getting on the bus. We played a lot of 'scary' songs. Black Sabbath. Misfits. Some old Soundgarden—"Slaves and Bulldozers". Metallica. The best part was watching members of the Mountaineer Maniacs making out in the parking lot while we ripped through "Thing That Should Not Be."
I said, "Pauly hooked up with a vampire who worked the hayride one year. Fishnets, jet black hair and a shit load of eye liner. She wore this shitty perfume that smelled like mangoes or something. Skin pale as baby powder. Almost translucent. By Thanksgiving I realized she wasn't wearing a costume. Of course she majored in Victorian Lit or something. Pauly said she freaked him out and he dumped her just before Christmas. The next spring we got a bat in our apartment, and I told him I detected the faint scent of mango." I laughed.
Perhaps trying to hang on to the memory for as long as I could, I said, "That was it, Mick. Our Fillmore. Our Madison Square Garden. Some of the biggest crowds we ever played to were in that parking lot." I didn't look back, afraid I'd turn into the Appalachian equivalent of a pillar of salt—a tree stand or an old Chevelle up on blocks.
Mick glanced at the rows of unsold Christmas trees, but held his tongue.
"We opened for Rusted Root one year. Remember them?" I gulped down the rest of my coffee.
"My family is from up this way," Mick said, like I wasn't even sitting there in the car with him. It wasn't so much that I intentionally tried to fill dead air for the sake of filling dead air, maybe I just wanted him to know that we had made money once upon a time. And that I could do it again. But once he changed the subject he never went back. "My grandfather came to work in the coal mines. Moved from Jersey about a hundred years ago. Worked for a nickel a ton. He lost two brothers on the same afternoon in two separate accidents. But my family stayed up in Uniontown for years. Still have a lot of people up there. My cousins have a restaurant. They make amazing manicotti. And dandelion wine. They used to have dances. Made a killing on weekends. You'd have loved it. Day after day in clubs, in high school gyms and church basements just playing, playing, playing."
"How'd you end up in Morgantown, then?"
"Followed my wife. Her people are from here. Met her at a dance at Shady Grove. It was this little trolley park with a big swimming pool with a Ferris wheel and a roller rink. She hooked me so she'd never had to pay to hear me ever again. Good thing I ended up down there, though. Uniontown's a one guitar shop kind of town."
"Is that where you met Lou?" I asked.
"No, met Lou at Duquesne. Tried to get a music scholarship. They have a group, the Tamburitzans, but you have to be Slovak. With a name like Dino I couldn't pass. So I got stuck playing Italian festivals all summer long. And that's where I met Lou. We were two kids way out of our element. But things are different today. Kids don't want to hear live music. I don't know how you can connect with a disc jockey."
"You can't, Mick. We tried adding a keyboard one year to diversify. Everything we played ended up sounding like Duran Duran."
Mick didn't say anything, and I kind of felt like I'd talked myself into a dead end. So I spent the rest of the trip thinking about my new guitar.
Mick and Lou apparently both came from the old-school tradition of dubbing a business with only their first name. Neon Fender signs and wall-to-wall guitars jammed the small shop. Lou basically renovated a house and stocked it with guitars. In the living room, amps lined the floor, cables snaked from their faces, ending in hidden corners. T-shirts hung on a hook by the window, fading in the cold winter light. Just behind the sheet music a cardboard cutout of Yngwie Malmsteen hid a glass display case with a pair of beat acoustics and an old Jazzmaster. I looked for my Martin.
Mick led me past a glass counter full of strings and picks displayed like salami and capicoli. Mellow notes came from a warm amp in a back room, reminding me of the stuff Joe Negri used to play on Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. The guitar had a warm, sweet tone, like tea with too much honey.
"Hey hey! Dino Michelino! Live in Uniontown, PA, for one night only." Lou put the old Gretsch on a stand and stood up. Mick held out his arms and embraced Lou in a big, manly hug with a lot of back patting.
"Tennessean," Mick ran his thumb along the headstock of the guitar Lou had just been playing. The old guitar had been babied. White purfling lining the f-holes really helped the old wood grain pop. A Bigsby tailpiece hung on the bottom like tail fins on an old Plymouth. "You've had this guitar put away for years, huh? What's the occasion?"
"Reducing stock. Who's your protégé?" Lou grabbed my hand. His fingers were big, calloused. Made my hands feel like a little kid's.
"Preston Black. Pleased to meet you."
He put his hand on my shoulder. "You should be famous with a name like that."
Mick pinched my cheek. "He's trying, Lou. He's trying."
Lou asked, "Elvis Presley or Elvis Costello?"
"Costello. Please."
Lou said, "That's what's wrong with this world," and made his way to the front of the store, squeezing between Mick and me. He came back with a blue guitar case that looked a little like a suitcase my mom had. The one time I was going to run away I filled it with comic books and my Winnie the Pooh. Pauly dumped Cherokee Red into it and mom had to throw everything away. Except for Pooh, who she threw in the washer. He came out more pink than anything else.
Mick said, "Well, stop sucking your thumb and crack her open so we can see what's in there."
Lou offered me the stool he'd been sitting on.
I set the case on the floor and flipped open the latches. My hands shook. It smelled just like Jamie's, like sweet wood, whatever that was.
Lou said, "Does he know what to do with it?"
Mick said, "You hold the skinny part
with your left hand. It's called 'the neck'."
Lou said, "Those silver things are the frets. Those are where the different notes come from."
Mick said, "Try 'Mary Had a Little Lamb'."
Lou said, "'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star'. You know how it goes?"
Straight wood grain ran across the flat top. The finish was smooth like Stevie Ray's "Little Wing." Only up on the headstock, where the previous owner had tied off a strap, did the guitar give any indication that it had been around for forty years. The bridge hadn't begun to lift, and the intonation was perfect.
I touched my pick to the big E string and strummed. Sound boomed from the flattop. I chugged on the E, fretted an E7, then played an A. I barred a minor and played it up the neck, dropped down a string and fretted a minor 7 and played back down. I strummed a G really hard, then a C, then picked out the pedal point intro to "Friend of the Devil," played a verse, a chorus then picked out the intro again.
Mick and Lou got bored real fast and drifted out to the front of the store. Somebody flipped on an amp, plugged in, and played a really loud "Funiculì, Funiculà." Mick yelled, "Sorry."
I turned my back toward the front of the shop. Over my shoulder I heard Lou come back in, and I turned. Lou said, "Let me know if you need anything," and slid a pocket door three quarters of the way shut.
"Thanks, Lou." I put the Martin to the test. The Beatles, Clapton, Screaming Trees, Rise Against. I ran through fragments of scales, played some Randy Rhodes, some Django-esque chord progressions. I even played a little "Stairway" just because. The sharp frets felt like they'd cut my fingers if I pushed too hard.
I played some of the stuff from Davis, "Wildwood Flower" and my song. Imagining how the guitar would sound with a banjo, or Jamie's fiddle, wasn't easy. So I sang along, trying to imitate the range of the violin. I played "Blackbird," a semi-lame, acoustic "London Calling," and "Nice Dreams." But no matter what I did the guitar didn't feel at all like I wanted it to. I shook the needles out of my hands.
The Devil and Preston Black (Murder Ballads and Whiskey) Page 13
