Playing the guitar is simple. Without even thinking, I close my eyes and strum. In one swift movement I go, string to fret, string to fret. My pick flies as fast as the melody. The humming of the strings lull me into a haze as I lose myself in the beat. Away flies the stress of the long day’s events, my mind along with it. It’s so logical, how there’s nothing to it. Besides my shaggy brown hair and dishevelled clothes with more stains than an accountant could sum up, I don’t have much to show for myself. So guitar is my first and only love.
I lose myself for hours in this numbing state. Homework pans out ‘till sometimes midnight. But I don’t care. Not all of the screaming from Casey for me to “Get off my ass,” and “Stop that damn noise,” in a loop inside my head could make me. That’s my rest, not sleep. It’s my rest as much as it is my addiction. Without my guitar I would’ve died out years ago.
***
Ironically, it was Casey’s idea to start me in on guitar lessons. Six years ago, she spotted an ad for lessons at a local coffee shop she regularly visited, called Espresso Plus. After calling the number at the bottom right corner she left to tell me her latest scheme to ‘cheer me up’. Lying down on my side on my sunken-in mattress covered with checkered green and white sheets, I stared at the dark grey walls that covered my room. I wondered if Casey would let me re-paint, then doubted and as my eyelids drooped and my jolting sobs became soft sighs. Casey burst through the door, her three inch heels pounding the wooden floor and the sweat on her forehead trickling down her newly-tanned skin. Her hair sleek and shiny this morning has turned greasy and her once tight bun now has platinum blond strands falling down the sides of her face. The white blouse she wore had a dirt stain on the shoulder and I turned my head as I caught a whiff of body odour seeping into the air.
“I answered an ad from a guitar teacher in Ventura. His name is Donovan, and he said he had room for you on Fridays at three” she explained calmly, the lines around her mouth becoming more visible each time she spoke.
“Why the hell do I need guitar lessons?” I said bluntly. My eyes were puffy and my usually pale skin was flushed from hours of moping. I wasn’t in the mood to hear Casey’s bullshit.
“I’m worried about you. All you do is sit in your room and cry, otherwise you’re curled up in a ball on the floor staring at the wall. You look like a zombie, and it’s scaring me. That and I’ve been spending over half my paycheck on tissues.”
“Couldn’t you imagine why?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass. It’s been five months of this self-pity phase. It isn’t normal, and frankly I’m getting tired of it. You need something constructive to do.”
Casey was right, and I didn’t have to take a glance inside myself to know that. It’s because she said it that I didn’t agree.
“I do something constructive every day: homework.”
“That’s something you have to do. What you need is something to keep you out of this funk and out of my bank account.”
“How exactly have I been in your bank account?”
“What do you call all that therapy? And all those damn tissues for that matter…” she muttered inexpressively.
“I had two weeks of therapy then social services wrote me off. It didn’t cost you anything.”
“What about the tissues?”
“I’ll stop crying.”
“Doubtful. Nobody’s that strong.”
“An encouraging thought…”
“I’ll do without the sarcasm, please,” she said sternly. Anything she said "please" to was a direct command.
“I don’t need guitar lessons,” I stated blankly.
“Why?”
“I just don’t.”
“Be more specific if you truly want to get out of this.”
I paused briefly and glanced at the ceiling. “I wouldn’t be good at it.”
“Just because you’re afraid you’ll fail at anything that isn’t school doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.” I huffed at this obvious cliché. As an apparently ‘good’ PR person, Casey was the type of person who worked smart, not hard. Usually she didn’t even pretend to care about my well-being, but since my fragile emotional state required some effort on her point, she was looking for a quick fix.“Everyone needs something to do. I clean.”
'Not very well,' I thought bitterly, while observing the dusty windows and food smears on the granite counter tops.
“…When I’m anxious, or worried, or angry, a good mop and an empty vacuum bag get me through just about anything.”
Halfway through her rant I zoned out, so having nothing to say I stared at the odd shapes her mouth made when she talked. Soon enough I got bored with this, and eventually my thoughts drifted to my mother.
***
"Come here, Logan. She's kicking!" she beckoned, then throwing her head back she giggled, caressing her stomach as I stumbled across the cramped hotel room. As I reached out my hand tentatively she redirected it firmly on her stomach, right where the heartbeat was.
"Can you feel it?" She said complacently, though her endearing smile revealed her excitement. My mother had the talent of being collected without appearing cold, and free-spirited without being irresponsible. Anyone who wasn't enchanted by her was by my standards insane, or just heartless. You could feel her warmth from across a room, and there wasn't a day I could recall where her intense jade eyes lacked luster. Even her name, Iris, was as graceful as she was.
"You feel her kicking?" she glowed with pride as she spoke.
"Yeah" I croaked meekly. It was hard not to feel inferior in my mother's presence. Her confidence was intimidating, and in a way she was more like the admired, distanced popular girl I never had the courage to talk to rather than the maternal best friend they always advertised on cheesy sitcoms.
"Well we better get to the lobby. You're father is waiting, and we don't want him to get settled too long with those lottery machines" she remarked with a chuckle. She reached for my hand and we proceeded through the door and down the hallway; all we could afford was the first floor.
For my parents' anniversary this year they decided to head to Vegas. My mother expressed that a weekend of people watching at the pool and purposely wearing mis-matched clothing (it was Vegas, after all) would be perfectly relaxing. I was brought along because my parents believed that anniversaries were a family affair-and seeing that my only other alternative was to be left with Casey (my mother and her weren't close), they packed me up with the rest of their suitcases. Not that they minded. Family - as they made it very clear - was their first priority. And for a time I was their pride and joy.
Dad was sitting awkwardly on a wooden bench playing Scrabble on his cell phone when we reached the lobby. I saw him mouth curse words as we walked closer and he appeared to be losing, as usual, probably to his best friend Steve. His eyes lit up when he noticed us and he stood up abruptly to walk over. My mother enchanted him as much as the rest of us, and by the way he acted around her it seemed he was trying to make up for stealing a woman who was far too good for him. XD
"Hey!" he bellowed. "How are my Three Best?"
"Just fine" my mother replied and let go of my hand to kiss him affectionately on the cheek.
"Alrighty then" he grinned lop-sidedly. "Ready to go to-" he trailed off as he caught the glimpse of a well-built man wearing a green ski mask dart through the casino and up to the counter where a woman was cashing in chips. He aimed a gun at her and demanded the cash. Startled, she froze up with one hand on the counter and the other over her trembling lips. He screamed at her again. "PUT THE GOD DAMN MONEY ON THE COUNTER!" She slowly put the hand formerly on the counter toward the register, popped it open, then reached in for the money, her hands shaking like the shingles of an old house before an earthquake.
"Put it on the counter, then step back," he commanded menacingly, the shotgun still pointed at her head. The three of us watched the terrifying scene from ten feet away in silence, until my father couldn't take it anymore. As a former civil rights activist, he couldn't watch the mistreatment of people occur before him without taking action.
"Nate, please don't" my mother pleaded as he headed, with both fists clenched, toward the thief.
"Hey asshole! You wait right there...I'll bring you to your knees-" He reached for his collar and before he could grab it a cacophony echoed through the casino. My father was down, reduced to puddles of red.
"GOD! NO GOD! SOMEONE HELP!" she screamed as she dashed forward.
"Get the hell back Lady!" the gun was now pointed on her.
"D...do what he says Mo-" But it was useless. Crouched on the blood-stained carpet hovering over her husband she could feel no pulse.
"YOU BASTARD!" she screamed as she lurched toward him with her hands clasping around his neck. Slowly that clasp tightened in to a strangle, and another gunshot went off. My mother was three months pregnant with who would've been my baby sister. Her name would've been Tabitha. Nobody else moved after that-except the thief who grabbed the few hundred dollar bills the woman left on the counter and darted off. The worst part is I don't even remember crying. Only the thousands of numbing touches of sympathy from strangers, policeman, social workers. Three hours later I was brought to Casey. That was the only time she ever hugged me. Casey is my legal guardian. As my mother's second cousin, she is my closest living relative.
***
“Very well then. I’ll pick you up after school at three o’clock sharp. Lesson is a half hour later.” With that she swung her hips around and sauntered into the kitchen to fetch her appointment book.
It’s hard to think how the woman who found me my purpose gave nothing else to me but a bed and a stocked fridge, which she usually nagged at me to get out of unless I had ‘permission’. Almost a year after I started lessons with Donovan, Casey informed me that she was offered a job in Indiana. We’d be making the move from L.A. to a tiny town by the name of Henderson in a week.
“So this is your last appointment with Donovan. Give him his last check and tell him ‘bye’ for me,” she said nonchalantly as she handed me the check.
“When did you find out about this?”
“They called me three days ago.”
I stared at her incredulously with my mouth hanging slightly open. “Why couldn’t you have told me then? I would have started packing already!”
“I was busy with my resignation papers. And don’t raise your voice at me. This doesn’t concern you.”
All I could do was shake my head and grab my guitar case. There was no reasoning with her.
Donovan was a simple man. His hair was light brown and buzzed, and he never wore anything other than brown cargo pants and band tee-shirts. So in light of this, nothing much could be said about my final lesson. He gave me a few pointers, we played through a list of songs, and went over basic music theory, as we always did. After concluding with “Hey, Hey, My, My” I told him I was leaving.
“Casey got a job in Indiana. As you can see I don’t have much choice in the matter.” I spoke in a monotone as I reached across his coffee table to hand him the money.
“Calm down, kid, your hands are shaking.”
“Sorry,” I spoke deadly.
“Look, don’t get upset at leaving and all. You played through my lessons faster than any of the students I’ve had. I’ve never seen skill like yours in any of my other kids.”
Tears started to well and I had to shift my head to avoid embarrassment.
“You have amazing talent. Don’t let it go to waste, okay?”
“Alright.”
“Lot’s of kids stop playing after they end their lessons. Don’t do that. You’re an amazing player.”
I stood up and extended my right arm for an anticipated handshake, instead he patted me on the back and made me swear I would keep playing. I opened the front door, gave my bohemian teacher a final wave, and stepped out. My composure quickly crumbled and I began sobbing loudly as I made my way toward the road. It wasn’t leaving Donovan that made me upset, more like Neil Young’s lyrics replaying in my head: “You pay for this but they give you that/And once you’re gone you can’t come back....” I had gotten comfortable in my little time slot of Friday at 3:30. The fear of leaving it consumed me with every gasp between sobs, as I feared being left with nothing again.
Casey pulled up fifteen minutes later, late as usual, and sitting in her car with a cigarette dangling from her crimson lips she delicately asked, “Why the hell is your face so red? You look like a clown.”
“I got kind of hot in there. He keeps his thermostat cranked.”
“Yeah, sure. Just get in, please.”
***
I took Donovan’s advice. In six years, I’ve almost never gone a day without playing. It was mentally impossible for me not to. After arriving in Henderson, I roamed our tiny neighborhood in search of people who needed their lawns mowed. It wasn’t very lucrative, but the bit of money I had earned was spent on guitar books, when most kids my age bought candy and video games. I expanded rapidly. Now, at sixteen years old with an acoustic guitar that’s older than Casey herself and ten notebooks of songs, I have no regrets. Otherwise I would have never grown to be more than a report card of A’s and B’s.
I honestly never thought we'd leave L.A. Casey had a whole life there that I had to listen to her drone about the entire five day drive. We ended up in a small farming town in Indiana, a very backwards place compared to the concrete jungle we used to live in. But like a tremolo, life unexpectedly shakes things up and then you have to compromise.
