by Chet Belding
Over the course of his career, Joe had made many, many guitars and some of them stood out as superior – a select few, but none that he had saved for himself. And then, once in a lifetime, comes along a guitar that towers above all the rest. What is called a "special" guitar. There's no proper explanation for it, it just “is” – as if the god of all guitars had bestowed it special powers. And in the case of silent Joe Pacifico, that guitar happened to be a gold top Les Paul. He had made hundreds of Les Paul’s, but never one like that particular gold top. The wood had been exceptionally, exceptional in tone, the likes of which he had never experienced before – almost as if the wood was blessed – as if it had come from a sacred tree. He knew that special trees existed and that they were very rare (very rare indeed). And so it was the very first one that he had encountered in his long and illustrious career.
And so as soon as the guitar was done, he had decided right then and there that he was not going to let it go. That he would buy it for himself through the Gibson employee purchasing program. They offered a nice discount off the list price.
So he had tagged the guitar and notified his superiors of his intentions to buy it. They had happily signed off on it, and the guitar had been duly tagged with Joe's employee number and had gone to a special room designated for employee purchases. The employee purchases were not allowed to be completed until thirty days after the date of manufacture. That was the company policy.
Day thirty arrived and an eager Joe went to collect his guitar after work. He paid cash for it and was all set to collect it. But when he got to the temperature controlled storage room to pick it up, he found something was amiss or rather missing. In other words his guitar wasn't there. What he found in its place was another gold top, another model – but definitely not the one he had made with his own two hands. In a panic, he left the storage room and ran to his superiors to notify them of the significant error. So a search was done of the serial number and it was discovered that the Joe’s guitar had been accidentally shipped out to a music store in Pennsylvania. Jake's Slam and Jam Musical Emporium to be more specific.
Utterly beside himself, Joe begged the management to get it back for him – it was his after all. So to appease Joe, a call was made to Pennsylvania to Jake's Jammin' Slammin' Emporium. And it was quickly discovered, and quite sadly for Joe, that the guitar in question had already been sold and that for all intents and purposes, it was gone. Sorry Joe!
Joe though, wasn’t one to take it lying down – unlike his former wife. So the mistake quickly caught his ire and he found his long suppressed jealously newly renewed – just like his subscription to Guitar Builder Monthly. Quite simply he was in a rage. He wanted that guitar no matter what – the law be damned. In his case, “I fought the law and the law won” wasn’t gonna ring true – not this time around.
“Who bought it?” he demanded in the offices of Gibson Guitars.
“Joe, it’s too late, we’re terribly sorry for the mistake, but it’s with a customer and we can’t ask them to give it back,” he was told.
That didn’t sit well with Joe at all, and he immediately shot out of his chair and over the desk at his superior – tried to strangle him – although thankfully, unsuccessfully. He was so angry that he had to be restrained by several other employees using ironically, some guitar binding. And since strangling a manager was frowned upon at Gibson Guitars, he was dismissed without appeal. He was, however, refunded the money that he had paid for the guitar.
Out on the street and without the benefit of gainful employment, Joe wanted blood, and also the guitar. He knew the name of the store where the guitar had gone, so he was planning on starting there in hopes of finding out who had bought his special guitar.
So later that afternoon, Joe packed a bag and threw it in the back of his old Ford F-150. He had directions and the address of Jake’s Slam and Jam Musical Emporium. So with a tank full of gas, a thermos full of coffee, and a handgun that he had bought illegally at a local swap and meet, he pointed his car in the direction of the great state of Pennsylvania.
In his Pennsylvania home, Johnny was waiting for all hell to break loose. His uncle Jack, as promised, had shown up with the cherished Marshall Plexi. But Uncle Jack had failed to contact his sister first – surprise, surprise. And when she found out, she was none-too-happy. In fact she insisted Johnny return the guitar to the store immediately. But Uncle Jack was a persistent sort (in his inimitable, laidback way), and wasn’t about to go down without a fight. He, as it turned out, was holding a few handy-dandy cards – things that he knew about his sister (Johnny’s mother) that weren’t so flattering. For she had apparently led a fairly carefree lifestyle once upon a time – long before she had become a suburban mom or “mother hen” as they’re sometimes known.
So with a few mere whispers in her ear, Johnny’s mother found a change of heart – may miracles never cease. Plus when she learned Johnny was going to work off the cost of the guitar at her bother’s house, she further relinquished her objection. End result, Johnny was the proud new owner of the gold top Les Paul and also the highly sought-after, Marshall Plexi. He was good to go. He was now on cloud nine and just two short of the all-important eleven. Only two clouds to go. There was one condition however that his mother had insisted upon. That the amplifier be banished to the basement because of volume concerns – for those old Plexis’ in all their glowing tube wisdom, were known to shatter a window or two – maybe even as many as eleven? And really, that was just fine with Johnny, since it would give him the opportunity to really crank it up – Rock & Roll forever baby!
So with the help of his Uncle Jack, Johnny carried the amp all the way down to the basement and set it up in an unused corner not far from some old bicycles that he and his sister had outgrown. And to further win his mother’s approval, Johnny decided to clean up the basement – cobwebs, junk, etc, etc. Everybody seemed happy, with the exception of one particular man out in Tennessee. Oh no!
Later that night after dinner, Johnny descended into the basement to get his first real taste of his gold top Les Paul. He had learned to play on junky equipment, but he was about to play on the best of the best.
In the corner of the basement, beneath a single glowing light bulb, he opened the case and looked at the guitar. He then walked over to amp and flicked on the power switch. Uncle Jack had told him to warm up the old amp for awhile before playing through it. The red light came on and Johnny just glowed at the sight of it. “This is gonna be soooo good!” he told himself while he waited for it to warm up. He then decided to put some old pillows against two small windows that were located high up on a bare concrete wall that faced the street. He wanted to limit the sound reaching the neighbors.
The strap that he used for his cheap guitar was a fairly good strap that he had gotten the previous Christmas, so he felt comfortable using it for his brand new Les Paul. So while he attached it to his Les Paul, he knew the time had come – he was ready to Rock & Roll – rock the rafters.
With one carefully orchestrated motion, he plugged his guitar chord into the Les Paul and then the amp. He immediately felt the Les Paul pulse in his hands – as if it were alive – like a newly resurrected Frankenstein rising from the table. He then fingered his favorite chord of E and let it rip.
The creamy tone immediately tore through the basement like a spinning tornado on a thoroughly destructive mission. The sound was beyond anything he could’ve ever imagined. He then played through the rest of the chords he had learned from an old Mel Bay book – each ringing out with a delectably, creamy and distorted tone that rivaled anything he had ever heard from the gifted hands of his all-time favorite players.
He played for an hour, and then another, and his playing seemed to improve tenfold. It only fueled his fire and his sudden progress turned into a runaway freight train.
For the next several days, after school was over, he ran home as fast as he could to find his magic. For he wasn’t just progressing, he was steadily becoming
a guitar player to be reckoned with. Even his mother would open the basement door from time to time and just listen. She was amazed at the staggering progress he had made in such a short span of time – especially since it was all self-taught.
Johnny then began to teach himself some of his favorite guitar-driven songs – songs that he could have never imagined playing with his own two hands. They sounded just like the record, he thought, and he wasn’t far off.
Friday morning arrived and he realized that he’d have the entire weekend to play. So he got out of bed and reached below and extracted his guitar case. He kept it under his bed for safe keeping. He opened the case and stared at it for a moment. “See you later,” he said before he closed the case and pushed it back under his bed. He then showered and got ready for school.
Moments later he was out the door with a donut in his hand and running to make the morning bell. He knew that in a mere seven hours he’d be at it again with the whole weekend ahead.
Hours later the three o’clock bell rang and he bolted out of his social studies classroom. He went straight to his locker grabbed what he needed and tore down the three flights of stairs to the street below. Climbing into his baseball jacket, he jutted through the double doors and into freedom – or at least a weekend of freedom.
Just about to take off down the street, his friend caught up with him. “Where ya been Johnny boy?” he asked. He didn’t know that Johnny had gotten the guitar of his dreams.
“Been playin’ all week,” Johnny replied.
“On that old piece of crap?”
“Nope! Got my guitar last Saturday.”
“No you didn’t!”
“Did so. It’s sittin’ in my room.”
“How’d you…?”
“My uncle. My Uncle Jack loaned me the money.”
“I thought yer Uncle Jack was broke.”
“Nah, he ain’t broke. People just think he’s broke. And get this, he got me an amp as well – a good one! No, I greaaaat one!”
“What kind?”
“A Marshall Plexi. They’re as rare as they come. Sounds like nothin’ I ever heard before.”
“A Marshall? – Wow!”
“Yeah, you should check it out.”
“Can I come over?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna play right now,” Johnny said, before they turned and started through the woods, which led to Johnny’s street.
In town, an old Ford F-150 pickup truck had just shown up. It had broken down several times on the way from Tennessee, and had cost silent Joe a good amount of cash to fix. In fact it had eaten up all the cash he had put down on the guitar. He was nearly broke.
His dirty white truck was blowing black smoke as he pulled into a space just down the street from Jake’s Slam and Jam Musical Emporium. He quickly checked his surroundings looking for cops, but he didn’t see any. He shut off the truck and sat for awhile since he wasn’t sure of his plan of action, but he knew it had to start with Jake’s. So he got out and threw some change in the meter. Just find out who bought it and go get it, he told himself. He was mumbling and his eyes were darting around with more than a hint of paranoia while his head cocked back and forth and from side to side. “Guitar, guitar, guitar,” he mumbled over and over. He was quickly loosing it.
He managed to compose himself and began to walk down the tree-lined sidewalk towards Jake’s Slam and Jam Musical Emporium. “What a stupid name!” he mumbled, as the store sign came into view. He arrived at the heavily sticker’d glass door and paused. He then walked in and approached the counter. “Hi, I’m lookin’ for Jake. I’m from the Gibson guitar company,” he stated in a fairly lucid tone of voice. In fact the song “Silent Lucidity” was playing in the background. Coincidence? – Not sure?
“Yeah I’m Jake,” Jake said as he came walking out of the back, while some kid in the background was playing his own unique version of Stairway to Heaven on one of the available guitars. "Hi, how can I help you?" he asked.
“Yeah hi Jake. I'm with the, ah, the Gibson Guitar Company and I'm trying to track down a certain guitar that was shipped to your store by mistake. I'm hoping you still have it. I have the serial number.”
“What you got?” Jake asked.
So Joe pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket that looked less than professional. It was wrinkled and the serial number was handwritten. There were also some grease stains from a fast food joint he ate at on his way to Pennsylvania. And on top of that there was no official designation that identified it as from Gibson.
“Let me just look it up...I'm sorry but I didn't get your name?” Jake asked.
“Oh ah, Joe.”
“Hold on here a second Joe while I pull it up." he said, while he looked it up. “Oh yeah, the gold top. Yeah sorry, it went out the door last Saturday to one of the local kids. I guess you're out of luck.”
“We were hoping to buy it back,” Joe replied.
“So you want his information, is that right?”
“Yeah, it would be helpful,” Joe replied through a strained smile.
“Well, we don't give out customer information. So the best I can do is to contact the customer myself and ask. Can't promise anything. If he wants to keep it then there's nothing I can do.”
Joe thought about it, and while he did he started to perspire – noticeably so. And that's when Jake started to get the feeling that something wasn't quite right. “You have a business card?” he asked.
Joe looked at him, and got more nervous. “I ah, I got some out in the car,” he offered. But of course he didn't.
“I tell you what Joe, you give me your card and I'll call the customer. I might not get him right away so I’ll need a number I can call you at.”
Joe started to sweat some more, and since the store was hardly warm, it raised Jake's suspicions even further.
“Ah, let me just go get my ah, my ah, business card,” Joe offered, before he turned and hurriedly walked out of the store.
Jake quickly picked up the phone and dialed the Gibson Guitar Company. He had been dealing with them for years and he found the request suspicious. Moments later he was speaking to the same man that silent Joe Pacifico had tried to strangle. In fact, the man still had some lingering red marks on his neck. “Do you know his name?" the man asked.
“He said his name was Joe...didn't give a last name.”
“Oh God!”
“Oh God what?” Jake asked.
“I'd call the police, and then have them contact me directly. I can't believe he went all the way to Pennsylvania to track down that particular guitar.”
Jake was shocked. Especially about the suggestion he call the police. “Why does he want that guitar so bad?” he asked, if not with some hesitation.
Joe was supposed to buy it, but it accidentally got shipped out to your store. He actually built the guitar. He's quite the craftsman."
“So why do I need to call the police?” Jake asked, before he strolled up to the store window and looked up the street, but he didn't see any sign of him.
“He ah, he attacked me after he learned the guitar had been shipped out. We had to let him go because of it.”
“Jeez! Alright, well, it looks like he took off. I don't see him on the street, so I guess I'll call the police.”
“Give 'em my number!” the man emphasized.
So Jake hung up and quickly dialed the local police. He knew all of them fairly well since he was a local businessman.
Ten minutes later, Jake found a comely detective standing in his store. He more than obligingly recounted the story to her (he as it turned out had a serious "silent" crush on her), and eagerly produced the phone number of the man that he had spoken to at Gibson. So she took a moment and called the Gibson man right up, and was informed about the incident with silent Joe. He was very cooperative and gave her Joe's full name, address, phone number and the particulars of Joe's employment at Gibson.
She thanked him and said she'd probably be back in touch at some point. Aft
er which she called her police station and asked for a background check on one Joe Pacifico, aka silent Joe.
And barely a few moments later, she discovered that good old Joe had done some time (three years) in a New York prison for assault with a deadly weapon, or in his case, plural. Her radar or antenna immediately went up – she was officially suspicious.
It turned out that Jake had been dying to ask the comely Detective out for quite sometime, but he had always found her somewhat difficult to read. She wore no wedding ring or engagement ring, so he assumed she was unattached or maybe just temporarily unattached. And even though he was uncomfortable about the whole Joe business, he wasn't about to let a choice opportunity slip through his guitar-playing hands. But before he did, she had a few questions for him. Her name was Kathy with a “C”. “So Jake, did you see what he was driving?” she asked.
“I don't know. I guess I shoulda checked after he said he was gonna go out and get his business card.”
She looked at him. “He apparently is a dangerous man. He almost killed his wife, and apparently her lover awhile back. Carved 'em up pretty good. Did three years in Greenwood for it. And since he just attacked his employer, I'd say we’ve gotta problem on our hands. So I'm gonna assume he's got Tennessee plates, and we'll just start with that for now. I’ll call Tennessee and see if I can get the make and model of what he drives. So if he comes back, don't wait to call. We'll probably drive by the store a few times during the course of the night until we pick 'im up.”
“You think he'll come back?” he asked.
“Why you scared?” she quickly countered. And Jake the Snake saw it as an opening – that she was perhaps being flirtatious.
“Not when I have you around,” he offered through a generous smile.
“My mother told me to never date a musician,” she quickly countered.
“I'm a business man!” he said in his own defense.
“Yeah, you're a business man who plays guitar, and sometimes plays in a band,” she said through a coy smile.
