Denny says he’s going to go home and start editing.
“There’s nothing worth editing,”
I say as I snap my guitar case shut and pick up my hat.
“Hey,” Denny says. “Leave it to the, uh, magician and his apprentices.”
“Sorcerer and his apprentices,” I say. If Denny has apprentices, I’m Santa Claus—and the world is in big trouble.
“Yeah, whatever,” Denny says, “Later.”
He heads off. I walk back home, carrying the guitar and my hat and thinking about Lisa and her cutlets. If you asked me, I’d say she doesn’t need cutlets. But then, the day she’d ask me about something like that would be the day I became Santa Claus.
Chuck is in the basement again when I get home. I carry the guitar case downstairs. This time he’s in his real-estate-guy clothes—dress pants and shoes, and a snappy leather jacket. He reels in a tape measure, then writes in a little notebook.
“Hey, Dave,” he says. “Going to show a couple of houses. Need to measure up for drywall and hit the hardware store before I come back here to work. You around this aft? I might need a hand for a few minutes.”
“Uh-huh,” I say.
Chuck closes the notebook and nods at the guitar case. “Been busking?”
“We were shooting our video.”
“Oh yeah. How’d it go?” Chuck reaches for the guitar case as he talks. I give it to him. After all, it is his guitar.
“It was okay.” Why tell him about something no one’s going to see? Chuck puts the case down and opens it. I remember the scratches on the guitar. Maybe now would be a good time to talk, to distract Chuck a little.
I say, “Denny filmed us busking, but it didn’t work out. Then we went to the park and made stuff up, but I don’t know if any of it is any good. We might have to do it again.”
This is the most I’ve said all at once to a grown-up since I was ten. I’m not sure if it works or not.
Chuck is kneeling, looking at the guitar and running a hand over it. “Man,” he says, “this baby’s seen some hard traveling. I didn’t realize I’d beaten it up that much, you know? Bar gigs will do that.”
Part of me thinks whew, but now another part feels guilty. “Maybe busking does too,” I say. “A little.”
Chuck shrugs. “Hey, it never was the world’s greatest. Long as it gets used.” He digs a pick out of the case and plays a chugging little lick from a Chuck Berry song. “Still sounds good, huh?” He plays some more. “Man, am I rusty.”
Chuck may be rusty, but he’s good. He’s a lot better than me, even if he does stick to geezer rock and country. I can tell from his chord positions that he’s in the key of A. I take the bass from its open case, flip on the amp beside it and dial it down low. It’s pretty easy to play along with Chuck. We get a little groove going.
“Nice,” Chuck says. Then he blows the next part and laughs. He shakes his left hand. “My fingers hurt already!” He puts the guitar back in its case and closes it. Then he stands up, brushing off the knees of his pants. “I ever tell you about the video we tried for Razorburn?”
“No. One time you said you would.” I turn off the amp and lean the bass against it.
Chuck laughs. “Okay, this was way back when videos were just getting big. We wanted to be out front, you know? So we decided to do a video for ‘Look Slick,’ one of our tunes. And naturally, we had to do the whole thing cheap. So we hired this guy—Stan, I think his name was—who said he could do it all. And we told Stan our ideas. Mainly they were about girls and convertibles, but the best part was that we’d video Gonzo, our drummer, getting his head shaved. Don’t ask me why, but he was up for it. Drummers are crazy, you know?
“So Stan set up, and Gonzo’s girlfriend, who was a babe, shaved his head while Stan filmed the whole thing. It went great. Gonzo had a major mullet to shave off, so hair was flying everywhere. But underneath, it turned out he didn’t look so slick. His head was all lumpy and pointy, and his ears stuck straight out. His girlfriend said they were like car doors. Man, it was grim.
“Gonzo was mad when he looked in a mirror, but we told him he’d taken a hit for the band. Stan told him it was great footage too. Now, you’ve gotta remember this was before digital cameras. So we gathered around for the playback, and that’s when we found out one of the reasons Stan worked so cheap—he was the kind of guy who’d forget to load a tape in the camera.”
Chuck laughs and shrugs to settle his leather jacket. “And that’s what he’d done. There was nothing to see. I thought Gonzo was going to rip Stan apart right there. He was jumping up and down yelling, I did this for nothing? Like I said, drummers are crazy.
“Anyway, one look at Gonzo, and nobody else would get shaved. And we couldn’t do it to him again, of course. His girlfriend said we could if we stuck a wig on him. I think they split up not long after that. Gonzo wore a Boston Bruins toque for the next three months, which was tough, ’cause it was summer. That was the end of our video.”
Chuck starts to climb the stairs. I follow him, wondering if Stan and Denny could be related. Chuck heads off to the hardware store. I go online and find that Lisa is there too. I’m not sure what to message, except I know not to mention cutlets.
Finally I type, Hi crazy day for sure. Think Denny can make it work?
She messages back, Think pigs have wings?
Wings make me think of chickens, and chickens make me think of cutlets. Oh, no. Usually, talking with Lisa is easy, but now I have to choose every word carefully. I decide to type, Busy 2nite? Want 2 do music or anything
I’m hoping Lisa will pick up on the “anything.” I’m about to send it when there’s another message from Lisa. Have 2 go now.