Pain in my wrists spread into my fingertips. After clenching fists and cracking my knuckles I hammered the strings, choked the neck and squeezed the body to get the sound I'd been anticipating. But nothing made this Jamie's guitar. I wiped my hands on my jeans like I could make the burning go away. I couldn't believe I'd given up the Tele for this. This block of wood and a set of strings. Just like Mick said. I wiped the neck off with my flannel, then put it back into the case.
From the other side of the door came the sound of guitar accompanied by a squeezebox. My ears rang a little from the Martin, but the amount of noise coming from the front stunned me. Lou sang, "...Tu vuo' fa' l'americano, mericano, mericano..." and laughed while Mick plucked crazy jazz chords.
Lou had all kinds of vintage stuff—a few Gibson archtops and acoustics, two Les Pauls—a seventies and an eighties, a Tele that could've been my Tele's sister. On the bottom row he had all kinds of 'off' stuff. A few Peavies, an old Kramer and a pair of B.C. Riches. I pulled a square shouldered Gibson acoustic off of the wall and propped it up on my knee. It sounded like I'd pulled it out of a deep sleep. Like I was pinching its nose. I put it back on the wall.
Lou did have a few Martins on the back wall. A pair of cutaway acoustic-electrics, something made out of birch and a twelve string. Nothing that interested me.
I picked up the case and carried it with me to the front of the shop.
"You didn't break it, did you?" Mick looked up from a Jazzmaster, the one I saw in the glass case when we first came in. His hair stood at wild angles; he looked like he'd just gotten caught making out in the backseat of his dad's car. His glasses had slid so far down his nose he nearly had to look up to the ceiling to see me. "What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing. It's just not what I'm looking for. It didn't feel right." I held the case out in front of me like it was a puppy I'd hit with the Jeep.
"Didn't feel right?" Lou seemed concerned. He took the case from me and set it behind the counter.
"It felt stiff. A little dead. I'd been expecting something a little livelier. I don't know. It just didn't feel like Jamie's." I put my hands into my pocket and looked at the other stuff he had on the walls.
"Well, come over here. Take a look in the case. I have another 28 in here, I think. It's either a 28 or a 35. Not too many folks around here willing to drop five grand on a guitar."
I said, "I'm not sure if I can bring myself to do it."
"It's a fifty-seven. Brazilian, of course." He took it out like it had been crafted out of uranium. "A few cracks... one here by the pickguard and one here on the back. It's been in here a long time." Lou apologized and blew the dust off the guitar's shoulders, then gave it a quick tuning.
The finish looked like it'd been dragged behind a bus then kicked a few times. The pickguard curled a bit at the pointy end. A huge chip on the headstock made it look a little lopsided. The finish on the neck felt thinner than Dani's thigh highs. Where the other Martin had a few belt buckle scratches on the back, this one looked like it'd been hacked with a belt sander.
"Sit down." Mick pushed a stool over with his foot.
"'Whiskey in a Jar' on three. And a one, and a two..." Lou tapped out a quick tempo with his foot. They played a few droning notes on his squeezebox, making it sound a bit like bagpipes.
Mick plucked out a quick melody with his fingers, using triads and parts of chords in a way I'd never really seen. Like, he fingerpicked the notes really fast, but the sustain let the full sound of the chord materialize.
Chords boomed from the old wood like thunder from a mountaintop. The bass E made my carpals quiver. The percussiveness of the notes—no lie—made my heart palpitate. The guitar's neck felt hot, and it squirmed like a black snake in a five gallon bucket. The body buzzed beneath the boom, maybe from all the cracks, but the depth of tonality sounded greater than anything I'd ever experienced with any guitar. The fucking thing sounded like it was plugged into a tube amp.
My ears rang. I had a hard time believing three people with only one plugged in instrument among them could be so loud.
"The kid can pick. He'll do all right." Lou put the squeezebox into the glass case and shook out his hands.
Mick asked, "This one 'feels' right?" He reached for it.
"I suppose it does."
Mick strummed a little, then picked out a few runs. "That's the ugliest guitar I've ever seen." He handed it back.
Something in the body rattled. I thought maybe somebody'd put a pickup in there, and took a peek for loose wires.
Lou said, "Rattlesnake beads. The guy who sold me the guitar put them in there. An old timer from up by Indian Head. Had a really bad hair lip. Got out of prison and needed a little cash, and that's how the guitar ended up here. I thought they were kind of cool so I left them in there."
"What was he in prison for?"
"Accused of murder but he swore he didn't do it. The judge released him when the supposed victim turned up alive out in Allentown. Said the guitar was 'trouble.'"
I handed the guitar back to Lou. He wiped the strings with a chamois and set it in a stand on the floor. I said, "Give me a minute to think about it," and went into the back. I looked at my phone and saw that I'd missed two calls.
I called Dani back immediately. The phone rang six times, then went to voicemail. I figured she was in the shower and went back out to join Mick and Lou. Lou looked ready to deal. Mick strummed the Jazzmaster.
"You like it?" Lou asked Mick.
"It's beautiful. Where'd you find it?"
"Down in South Hills. A buddy of mine's closing his doors. Big chain store went in, put him out. Better hope they don't make it down your way." Lou tapped his pen on the counter to make his point.
"You buying that?" I asked, surprised that he desired something more than the world's greatest scaloppini. Making me think he made the special trip just for me was pretty smart of Mick.
"I am, Pres. I loved my Jazzmaster. Have to show you pictures some day." Mick's expression said he was thinking about the good old days. "You ready to do some business?"
"What do you want for the Martin?" Haggling ranked up there with skiing and knitting on the list of things I sucked at. "It's in poor shape. A lot of cracks, may even need a neck reset."
"Yeah, but it's a lot older than the other. Age equals value and I think this one has a lot of character. Plus, you like it. You really like it. Blue book's about $9500, mint, which this one isn't. Tell you what... I can give it to you for what I'd have let the other one go for." Lou gave Mick a wink.
Mick watched to see what I'd do next.
I comically rubbed my chin, then countered, "How long's it been hanging there?"
"That's my boy," Mick said, clutching my elbow and shaking it. "Now you got him on the ropes."
I thought about it for a minute or two. "So I'd be doing you a favor?" The uncertainty in my voice killed my momentum.
"So close," Mick said. "And the champ lives to fight another day."
Lou laughed as he set the case on the counter. "Blue book for an instrument in this shape is $4600. So $4450? Sound good? Call it a draw?" Lou pulled out a pad, flipped to a new slip and stuck the cardboard in between the pages just like Mick did. He took a pen from a Mason jar by the register and stuck it in his ear.
Pauly would shit if he knew how much cash I was about to drop. And no matter what Mick said, or what I thought, it wasn't just a block of wood. I wrote out the check and signed it. My hand trembled.
The guitar looked up from its case like a cat taken inside after a life on the street. Eyes all gummy, flea-ridden. I pulled the strap Pauly had gotten me for Christmas out of my pocket. I slid the soft black leather over the endpin before resting the guitar into the old case. The plush interior had been worn bare in some places by the years of use. Lou flipped the lid shut, and I rested my hands on the case.
Lou said, "Pleasure doing business with you boys. I'm always happy to take your money."
Mick said, "You need to come down my
way a little more often. Don't be a stranger. We'll go watch WVU beat Pitt," Mick said, trying to drag it out just a little longer.
"You guys be careful going back. Watch for slick spots. And watch for deer, all right?" Lou grabbed Mick's door and helped him slide the guitar case into the back seat.
I put my guitar in from the other side, angled toward the back so it wouldn't fall. "Thanks, Lou," I said.
"Come back anytime. You don't even need to bring the old man with you." He backed onto the sidewalk.
I walked around the car and got in. After adjusting the seat and mirror, I pulled out, a little nervous with Mick watching my every move. I set my phone on the seat next to my leg.
"You expecting a call?" Mick asked.
"Dani..."
"Not while you're driving." Mick adjusted his seat, reclining a bit further. "Don't you watch the news?"
I crept up Morgantown Street toward a shopping center. Mick helped me find the toll road.
Once the city lights were behind us, he said, "Preston..." and turned toward the window. He waited a long time before finishing. For a second I thought he'd fallen asleep.
He said, "I was unfaithful to my wife once," he said, his voice barely louder than the radio. "To say I was sorry, I sold my Jazzmaster and took her to Las Vegas."
I didn't know what to say, so I let the silence ride.
"I was twenty-seven years old. Curse of twenty-seven. Just like Robert Johnson." He sank into his seat and held his head in his hand.
"And Pigpen McKernan, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain. There's a bunch of them." Preston Black, I thought, then tried to take it right back.
"My wife called it the Return of Saturn. She forgave me because it was the first time I had to be an adult. Being on the road, in clubs every night, she said it kept me from growing up. So she gave me a few weeks to get rid of the old habits. It wasn't easy, let me tell you. After that my head cleared up real quick, I stopped going on the road. I took my savings and bought the shop." Mick turned to the window again.
Mick never asked for much from me. So I kept my mouth shut. While waiting for him to finish, my phone rang. Dani. Even though it burned my thumb to do it, I hit IGNORE and drove a little faster. Mick didn't even seem to notice. I looked over and saw that he'd fallen asleep.
I eased the radio's volume up. Mixed in with some Nirvana and STP, the X gave me some Rise Against, some Silversun Pickups. When we got closer to the Mason-Dixon the X started to fade and I had to pick up CLG. I caught the very end of an announcement for Mike's show at The Stink. It reminded me I had to get a set together. If Dani was going to be there, and maybe Pauly, I wanted to do something spectacular.
I woke Mick up as I got off 68. "Mick," I whispered. "Mick."
He didn't stir, so I let him sleep a little longer. I turned the radio up a little, hoping he'd hear the Linkin Park and wake up.
"I'm awake," Mick said, his voice low. "Maybe you can drop me off? Pick me up in the morning?"
"Take your car back to my place?"
"You're not going to steal it and drive to Atlantic City, are you? Tomorrow's the middle school."
"I forgot tomorrow was Tuesday. Yeah, I'm good to go." I turned up toward the old Mountaineer Mall. "What time?"
"8:30. Can you take my purchase inside with you tonight? I don't want to leave it in the car, and I can't take it in with me. Bring it with you to the shop tomorrow. We'll jam a little."
"Sure thing."
"Thank you."
"Anything, Mick. I always forget where to turn."
He pointed to the right, and said, "You make it through your twenties and things will change. I promise you."
After another right I pulled up to his house, a big, two-story Brady Bunch-looking place. The Christmas lights were still in the shrubs. I got right up to the curb.
"Tonight was a lot of fun." Mick grabbed the door handle.
"Yeah, I had a great time. I'm going to be up playing all night, probably." I made a mental setlist.
"You're pretty good. I don't know if I ever told you that. Parents always have a lot of nice things to say about you."
All this nice stuff at once made me wonder if Mick knew something I didn't. So I replied as best as I could, "I don't want to disappoint you, or do anything that would hurt the business's reputation."
"I appreciate that." He got out of the car and turned around. He ducked his head back in, the glow from the interior dome light made his face look really tired. "You know what you could really do to help me?"
"What's that, Mick?"
"Promise me you won't quit until you make it out of here. Then I can tell people you used to work for me."
His wife waited for him just inside the storm door. She waved at me, and I gave the horn a quick toot-toot. She kissed Mick on the cheek and took his scarf and gloves. Mick gave me a big wave as she helped him with his coat.
I waited until I got out of sight before trying Dani. I figured if I got a hold of her I wouldn't have to go home. I dialed, and let it ring six or seven times, but she didn't pick up.
Maybe she's tired from driving all day.
I got back to Don Knotts Boulevard and tried again.
Maybe she's in the shower.
As I got closer to town I got nervous wondering if maybe something had happened. Her car could be in a ditch up in Preston County somewhere. And just before my right at Walnut I made a really dumb mistake. I made a left and headed up to Dani's. She'd called me three times, she obviously wanted to talk. I didn't think that made me a stalker.
I crept up side streets, looking for her apartment. All the houses looked the same, especially in the glow of fluorescent street lights. All brick and ornamentation. She hid up there somewhere, like Rapunzel.
My phone buzzed and I hurried to answer. If it was Dani, and she did want me to come up, I'd have to rush home or stall like it took me a really long time to get up here. But it was a text.
For a few minutes I thought about a reply, but ended up deleting it and dialing my voicemail instead. I put the car in park and crept up to the garage window. A black Saab sat where her silver Benz should've been. When I heard her voicemail message I cleared my throat and called right back. "Just returning your call. If you want to get together just let me know... Good night."
On the top floor, in her apartment, there were lights on.
Guilt and jealousy washed over me, made me warm. I rushed back to the car, put the Caddy into D and rolled down the street. I made my way back to the apartment, radio cranked way too loud. "Sabotage." Beastie Boys.
I parked Mick's car under a street light where it was visible from my window and locked it, checked the doors again just to make sure, and took the two guitars inside. My footsteps echoed up the naked hallway. I didn't care. Pauly wasn't home.
My phone rang. I leaned the guitar against the table and answered it. "Hello?"
"Preston, I tried calling you so many times. But you never answered."
"I know. I'm sorry. I went up to PA with Mick. I didn't know—"
"You said that you wanted to see me. I specifically remember you saying that this morning, when you walked me to my car."
"I know." If there was something else I could've said to make her understand how sorry I was I would have said it. "I'm sorry."
For a long time she didn't say anything.
So I said, "Dani?"
"It has been a very long day. If I had known you were going away I would have gotten a hotel room for tonight. Driving over the mountains by myself made me feel very uneasy."
"Dani, I am sorry. Today was crazy. Mick found me a guitar and we went up to PA..."
"It's fine. You don't owe me an explanation. We are not married. I had just called to tell you I was too tired to see you tonight anyway. So, maybe tomorrow."
"Maybe tomorrow?" I replied, but she hadn't asked a question. Ask her about the car, I reminded myself, but my throat closed up.
"Goodnight."
She hung up and I was glad i didn't ask about the car because that would've only made me seem jealous like a stalker. My stomach balled up, twisting with anger or sadness or something in between. But I knew she was home, knew she was awake and knew she wasn't alone. Knew it knew it knew it. I saw the car there and the light. I should've asked her about it. I held onto the phone, waiting for it to ring again. It took a few minutes to figure out it wasn't going to. That I was the other guy. I flipped open my guitar case and took out the Martin. I put the strap around my neck, shut off the light, and sat in my bed. Headlights and street lights from the top part of High came through the ice clinging to the inside of the window. I watched the lights through the ice and strummed the guitar for a very long time.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It had snowed all night. Long enough to coat the Caddy, at least. I cranked the engine and let it run while I brushed off the windows. Even after a few minutes the vents weren't blowing hot air. I ran up to get the guitars anyway.
Snow squeaked and thumped under the big car's wheels as I made tracks through the empty lot. By the time I passed the Wings Olé by the Westover Bridge it had started to warm up. The warm air made my mouth and throat dry.
When I got to Mick's he waved me in from the porch. Mick's wife, Ann, had made breakfast he said. I asked him what he wanted me to do with the guitar, and he said it'd be okay in the car for a few minutes.
Anna made an obscene amount of bacon and eggs but my stomach still rumbled like it was sick. It felt like I hadn't eaten in weeks. I threw a few cups of coffee down while Mick chowed. Anna even offered me a Little Debbie Oatmeal Crème for the road, and I took it even though I didn't think I'd eat it.
Once we were at the shop, Mick's mood was pretty sour, so I drug an amp up to the counter and told him to get out his Jazzmaster. I grabbed Pauly's bass off the wall, and Mick told me to put it back and get another. We played for a long time, until right before lunch.
The Devil and Preston Black (Murder Ballads and Whiskey) Page 14
