Playing by Ear (Country Roads #1) - Chapter 3

I was second-guessing my bravado the next morning as I stood, staring down at the creek. The night before I had pictured vaulting over the creek, my feet skimming across the water. Sticking my crutch into the creek, I realized vaulting was not going to work. If I tried to stick my crutches in the middle of the creek and swing across, my legs would drag ankle-deep through the water.

The only good thing was it had not rained the night before making the ground more solid than yesterday. I ran through options in my head. While my foot did not hurt a lot, banging it on the door of Hanna’s car hurt enough yesterday that the thought of jumping and landing on my broken foot was not going to work. I tested, trying to stretch my good leg across, almost dunking myself in the process. I managed to jam one crutch in at an angle and push myself back upright before I toppled over.

The creek was not actually that wide, only a few inches at most, but it was too wide for me to straddle. If I did not have to worry about a broken foot, I could have just hopped across. The almost bath did give me an idea, though. I threw my backpack and one of the crutches over, sort of like a Viking burning his boat before an invasion. Committed, I leapt across, tucking my injured leg up just in case I subconsciously tried to land on it. I made the leap, but at enough of an angle that I started to topple over backward. Thankfully, I was prepared and stuck crutch into the creek, propping myself up like a lean-to. From that point, all I had to do was leverage myself straight.

My crossing was not the most graceful thing, but it worked. Unfortunately, getting over the creek also took longer than I had planned. Hanna was already standing next to her car, tapping her foot as I came around the side of the house.

“Sorry, getting over the creek was harder than I thought.”

“Fine. Just leave earlier tomorrow. Mom might have said I had to take you but that doesn’t mean I’m okay with you making me late.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Considering all the favors her mom had racked up on my behalf yesterday, I did not want to push my luck. I tried to wipe the bottom of my crutches off on the grass to get off the last of the muck from the creek and then slid them into her back seat, repeating the process from last night, minus the part where I smashed my foot on the door frame.

Neither of us said anything for a while until finally, I could not take the silence anymore.

“So... ahh... the Blue Ridge. Were you thinking about going there today or....” I said, letting the sentence trail off.

I did not really want to push, but I could not think of anything else to say.

“Yeah. Mom said to take you up there after school and talk to Chef about getting you a job.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

Luckily we got to the school a few minutes later, keeping me from having to figure out some other awkward topic of conversation. Hanna pulled into a parking spot and waited, foot-tapping, as I hobbled around to get my crutches out of the back seat. As soon as I had the door shut she hit her key fob and was off.

“Thanks for the ride,” I mumbled at her retreating back.

I set my crutches under my arms and swung myself into the school. My first stop was the office, which was good since I did not know where anything was. An older African-American woman with mostly grey, slightly curly hair and cats eyeglasses that she must have bought around 1950 took my name and told me to have a seat. I watched the clock tick down to the beginning of class, at least based on the introduction packet we had gotten when I enrolled.

A flat, low note sounded over the intercom that I took to be the school bell announcing the beginning of class. I looked up at the woman who took my name, but she did not seem to be bothered by my not being in class yet. Eventually, a man with close brown hair, glasses, and a thick, bushy brown beard stepped out of the door that led back into the school office.

“Charlie Nelson,” he said, reading off a piece of paper.

“Yeah.”

“Come on back.”

He turned and walked back into the office, leaving me to rush to catch up, which is not easy on crutches.

“Your mom called yesterday and explained about the fight and your injury. I understand that the boys involved in the incident also go here.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I told your mom this already, but I want to make sure you understand as well. Because the incident happened off-campus these boys have not violated any school policies. This means the school cannot discipline them and they will be here in school today. Hanna Philips’s mother also called, and was clear that you weren’t the aggressor in the incident. Both Ms. Philips and your mother assured me that you aren’t a hothead. Can I trust that, if you should run into these boys, we won’t have any problems?”

“Not from my end, no, Sir. I will defend myself if they come after me, though.”

“That’s understandable, but you need to understand we have a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to physical altercations. Everyone involved, even if they didn’t throw a punch, will be suspended.”

“That... that makes no sense. If someone gets beat up and tries to stop it, they get suspended?”

“Yes, district policy is for zero tolerance in a physical confrontation. We tell all of our students that, if they think there is going to be trouble, to immediately run and find a faculty member or the school safety officer.”

While I still thought that was an insane policy, I also knew there was no arguing against this kind of bureaucracy. I might not have experience in schools, but the number of ordinances a club had to deal with to have live music was mind-boggling and some of the actual rules were insanely stupid. This seemed like one of those situations.

“Okay, consider me warned.”

“Good. I have your class schedule and your locker assignment. Your teachers should have your textbooks set aside for you. Get a pass from Mrs. Morgan on your way out. Good luck here at Julian S. Carr High School.”

He did not stand up or even look up as he dismissed me. By the time I stood up and maneuvered my crutches around to his office door, he was already looking at the next thing he needed to deal with. I was not sure what I expected from someone with the title ‘guidance counselor’, but I was pretty sure they should be focused on either guidance or counseling. Mr. Parker, according to his nameplate, was much closer to a harried administrator. I would put money on him being one of the ‘this place would be great if it weren’t for all the kids,’ types.

I looked at my schedule as I walked out of the front office into the hallway, and realized I had absolutely no idea where I was going. First on my schedule was History with Mr. Bryant in room 163. I did not have a clue where room 163 was. Since the first class had already started, the halls were deserted. To my left was an open area that I was pretty sure was the cafeteria. The school was two-story, which meant that room 163 could be anywhere.

I opened the glass door to the office and, when Mrs. Morgan looked up, I asked: “Where’s room 163?”

She gave me winding directions that seemed like it should double back on itself and went back to whatever she was working on behind the desk. I had met two members of the school staff, and both seemed bothered to have to help students.

I wandered my way through the halls, looking at the room numbers as I tried to follow her directions. The numbering system was a mystery, counting up in one part of a hallway only to drop to an earlier number and start counting up again when you turned a corner, or stop and start a new set of numbers seemingly at random. After three hallways, I was pretty sure whoever labeled these rooms just picked the numbers out of a bag at random.

Thankfully, Mrs. Morgan was helpful in her disinterested way, and I found my way to my first class. I stopped in front of the closed door, unsure of what to do. Should I knock? Should I just open the door and walk-in?

There was a strip of glass on one side, and I watched as a fairly beefy man with a shaved head walked from the center of the room towards the door, still speaking. He pulled the door and looked down at me.

“Yes?”

“I’m supposed to be in this class. I was in the office. I have a note.”

I held up the pass Mrs. Morgan had given to me as I spoke. The man, who I assumed was Mr. Bryant, pulled the note out of my hand with a grumble. After looking at the note for a second, his head snapped back up, and his eyes narrowed. If I had not read the hall pass, I would have assumed it had something offensive written on it based on the way he glared at me. After a very long second of holding his glare, Mr. Bryant stepped back and pointed towards an empty desk.

“Sit.”

I could not imagine how I had managed to piss off the first teacher I had met in the school before even walking into the door, but it seemed pretty clear I had. I found my desk as he shut the door and walked back to the front of the room, where he had been lecturing when I interrupted.

“As I was saying, for the project, you will split into teams of three. I expect every member of the team to participate in your final project, which will be presented the week of finals. Each member must take part in the oral presentations. Don’t think one of you can avoid getting in front of the class in exchange for writing up the presentation.”

The noise in the room picked up a little bit as people started whispering to each other, trying to get their groups together.

“Quiet. We aren’t picking our groups now. You can do that outside of class. Mr. Nelson, since you missed yesterday and were late today, I’m afraid you missed out on the opportunity to join someone else’s group. You will work on this project by yourself.”

“What? I thought everyone was supposed to pick their groups after class. How am I too late if they haven’t even picked yet?” I said, my mouth running off before my brain could stop it.

“You’re late because you can’t show the courtesy of showing up to class on time. If you think that’s unfair, I could go ahead and mark you down as a zero now, and save you the effort!”

I looked around, not believing what I was hearing. I may be new to public schools, but there was no way this was normal. The looks on the other student’s faces suggested I was not wrong. I wanted to tell him this was bullshit, and I would talk to the front office about it; but, while I did not have experience with teachers, I did know his type. He would not hesitate to follow through with his threat if I challenged his authority in front of the class.

“No, Sir.”

“Good. Now, open your textbooks to the first chapter. I …”

He stopped, staring at me as my hand slowly went up.

“I don’t have a textbook.”

“Then maybe next time you shouldn’t miss the first day. I won’t allow your inability to follow the rules get in the way of the other student’s lesson time. You can collect your book after class.”

He went back into his lecture, ignoring me. Luckily, his teaching style seemed to be just reading the textbook back to students. Coupled with what I knew from history books over the years, I did not feel entirely lost. I took notes over as much of what he said out loud as possible, planning on checking it against the text when I finally got a textbook.

The single toned bell sounded, and everyone began packing up their books. I slid my supplies back into my backpack and walked over to his desk.

He pulled out a piece of paper and a textbook and shoved them at me, not saying anything.

“Mr. Bryant, about the project....”

“Did you come to get your textbook, or tell me that you decided to take that zero?”

“I came for the textbook, but I wanted to try and say why I had to go to the office this morning and missed yesterday. I’m sure if I could explain....”

“I don’t care about explanations. I care about you following the rules. Now, I have another class to teach.”

He pointed at the door, just in case I had missed the signs that I was not going to get to explain myself. My next class was math. Thankfully, the hallways were full of people this time, making getting directions a lot easier.

My math class was taught by an older lady who was actually normal. She handed me my book before class started, and did not lay into me about being late. Unfortunately, her attitude is where things stopped going right. I had never liked math, and mom had allowed me to push it off in favor of other subjects more often than she probably should have. My slacking in math did not seem a big deal until the class was handed a non-graded quiz the teacher could use to see if everyone had the concepts from the year before that would be built upon.

I only managed to answer ten of the twenty questions. There were concepts I either did not recognize at all or that I did recognize, but could not remember for the life of me how to actually work the problem. Nothing became clearer when she went over the answers after everyone finished. She may have been nicer than Mr. Bryant, but I was pretty sure I was more screwed in this class than his. There, I at least understood the subject matter.

I was happy to see the next class on my schedule was English. Unlike math, where apparently I am really far behind what’s expected of a high school sophomore, I felt really comfortable with language arts. Things got even better when the teacher turned out to not have some kind of unexplained hate for me. I did get a little worried when the teacher started assigning partners for an assignment. These kids had, for the most part, attended school together since they were little while I knew no one aside from Hanna, who was several grades above me.

Thankfully, my partner turned out to be a cute girl named Rhonda. She was short with shoulder-length brown hair wearing hip-hugging jeans and a t-shirt that came very close to breaking the no bare midriff rule. Her face still had a little baby fat giving her slightly chipmunk cheeks, which actually worked to make her even cuter.

“Hi, I’m Charlie,” I said as we turned our desks around to face each other.

“I know, she just said our names.”

“Yeah, but we’ve never met, so I thought I should introduce myself.”

“Ha! A boy with manners! That’s new.”

“We’re very rare. Seeing one of us is like seeing Bigfoot.”

“You realize I’m going to call you Bigfoot from now on, right?

“Shit.”

She giggled and said, “You didn’t think that through.”

“Nope. In my defense, my brain goes kinda mushy around cute girls.”

“Nice try, but I’m still going to call you Bigfoot.”

“It was worth a shot. Let’s get to work.”

The assignment itself was easy, and Rhonda and I worked well together, finishing the assignment before the other groups. Rhonda turned out to have a fairly wicked sense of humor while not being mean, which was a good combination. I tried giving her my best lines, but I did not have a lot of experience flirting with someone my own age since most of the girls I had hung around in the past were other musicians playing clubs with my dad. While that did make my game a little amateurish, it had allowed me to get over any shyness around girls. I had spent the better part of my youth hanging out with rocker chicks, who did not mind having a kid around backstage as much as most of the guys did. I’d heard the most ridiculous passes at them from guys over the years and the occasional line that worked.

My upbringing might not have been the ideal socialization, but it did make me comfortable talking to new people and kept me from being intimidated by pretty girls. I hoped my confidence, or at least lack of fear, made up for any slack in my game.

When the bell rang and we went our separate ways, I hoped we would end up paired again.

I was in a good mood as I walked into the cafeteria and then I stopped cold. This was another new experience for me. The first thing I noticed as I exited the hallway that led into the cafeteria, was the wall of sound. It was loud. Not standing next to a speaker loud or even yelling lead singer loud, but a constant din of noise produced by a hundred conversations.

There were people everywhere. Some already sitting, some inline getting food, and some just milling about. As I walked towards the lunch line, I tried to figure out where I was supposed to sit. There were not any empty tables, and everyone seemed to know where they should be sitting.

While lunch looked to be some kind of burrito, I was on the school lunch assistance program. Mom had shown me what I was supposed to do before the year started after we got signed up. Kids on the program did not get the normal lunch. Instead, they got a special lunch for kids who were either on the program or had too much lunch debt to be allowed to buy anything.

This special lunch turned out to be a brown bag with a plain baloney sandwich, an apple, and a bottle of water. Even compared to the not that appetizing looking burritos I saw on people’s plates, this lunch was sad. My sad lunch was, however, all I was going to get.

I found an empty spot at the end of one of the tables and sat down to eat. While I ate I watched the lunchroom, trying to work everything out. I’d expected people to split off into groups, but it surprised me how obvious it was, to the point where I could make guesses as to what some of the groups were. The sports kids were the easiest to pick out, since most were in letterman jackets which helpfully told me which sport they played. The girls at their table all seemed to fit a type too, my best guess being that they were cheerleaders.

Other tables were filled with kids whose styles marked them out. Kids in cowboy getup, a fairly small group of Goth kids, and a table of ratty kids with greasy hair and glazed over eyes. There were other groups I couldn’t work out, since they were dressed normally, and nothing they did stood out as a stereotype. I did notice Rhonda at one table surrounded by fairly well dressed girls, all talking animatedly to each other.

One thing that seemed clear was that everyone here clearly knew each other and knew where they fit. Being the new kid in a small town put me at a pretty severe disadvantage and I’d be eating alone until I found a group of my own.

The rest of the school day went about like the first half, although without Mr. Bryant. Some of the classes, chemistry specifically, I really struggled at while other classes seemed to go okay.

Hanna was already in her car when I got there after class, arms crossed leaning against the driver’s side door. She didn’t say anything to me as I walked up, just getting in the car while I limped over to the passenger’s side, stored my crutches and wedged myself in.

“Thanks again for the ride and helping me with your work,” I said.

“Sure,” she said, pretty much killing any attempt at conversation.

We sat in silence as she drove. I looked out the window at the area as we drove North on the main street headed up onto the freeway. I hadn’t had a lot of chances to look over the town, since mom was always busy and I didn’t want to go wandering by myself and not be able to find a way back. Plus, I preferred playing my guitar to wandering anyways.

The town wasn’t the single main street with scattered farmhouses that had been the mental image of small-town America I’d had before moving here. It also wasn’t that far from it. The school was on the north side of town, which was about a mile and a half long and a mile or so wide. The school and its sports fields were across from several blocks of businesses that I could see as we pulled out of the parking lot. I knew there was more to the town south of the school, but I hadn’t seen it yet.

Beyond the school were small groups of houses down side roads, visible through the trees that filled up the unused land. We passed the street that led towards Hanna’s house and the trailer park and pulled up onto the busy freeway filled with cars and trucks headed between Atlanta hundreds of miles to the south, and the northern and eastern states. While the highway was officially labeled US 441, mom had pointed out when we moved here this freeway was called the Blue Ridge Parkway. It came out of the Smokey mountains and led up into the Shenandoah valley before branching off into other freeways to take people up north or off towards the coastal cities.

The bar and restaurant sat just off the highway one exit up from Wellville, a big neon sign high enough to be seen from the highway announcing its presence.

The building itself had weathered its wood and turned a dark shade of gray. The restaurant was rectangular and pretty wide, with a porch that stretched the entire front. It also had a very ‘local’ look, not like the chains you usually see catering to drivers. If I’d just looked at it while driving by, I would have probably passed the Blue Ridge up, assuming it was a bar for locals more than a place to get something to eat.

The parking lot was fairly empty, although that was not so surprising considering the time, three in the afternoon being well before dinner time for most people. Hanna pulled into a spot off to the side of the building, turned off the car and got out, standing impatiently while I worked my way out of the car. As soon as I was out and my door was shut she locked it and walked towards the entrance, leaving me to follow in her wake.

She waved at an older man sitting in a chair on the restaurant’s porch, leaning back against a wall, as she went inside. The man gave me a nod and warm smile as I passed him, very much in contrast to the standoffishness that I’d gotten from Hanna so far. I would be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate a friendly welcome.

The restaurant itself was what I’d pictured in my mind, bringing back thoughts of my childhood with my dad. One side of the rectangle was a bar with a huge mirror and rows of liquor bottles. At the far end of the rectangle next to a door, which I assumed led to the kitchens, was a stage and an open area used for dancing. Booths lined the wall opposite from the bar and next to the door we’d entered through, with rows of tables filling the middle section. The bar, the layout, the smells of food, and beer mixing in the air reminded me of so many of the places my dad had played.

At the moment, only two of the tables had anyone sitting at them, along with two more people sitting separately at the bar. Hanna breezed through the restaurant with me in tow, waving at the bartender as we walked through the door I’d correctly identified as the kitchen entrance.

This was also familiar, since many of the bars my dad had played at didn’t have a backstage area, and I’d for whatever reason sit in one corner of the kitchen instead of out in the Winnebago. I actually preferred those times, since having a kid around was a novel experience for most of the cooks, who took it upon themselves to feed me, usually with much better food than I’d otherwise be getting.

The kitchen was the source of the good smells, with pots bubbling away and people moving about chopping and cutting. Thanks to my frequent spot in the corner of kitchens watching the cooks work, I knew they were prepping for the dinner rush, assuming places like this got a dinner rush.

“Hey, Chef,” Hanna said, stopping by an older Asian man wearing a ball cap, a t-shirt and jeans, and an apron.

“Hey,” he said, giving her a one-arm hug while he continued to stir whatever was in the pot in front of him. “This the kid you called me about?”

“Yep. This is Charlie. Charlie, this is Li Tang, but everyone calls him Chef.”

“Diego, come finish this stock,” he shouted to a guy who was probably in his twenties.

He handed the big wooden spoon he’d been stirring with to Diego and wiped his hands on the apron tied around his waist.

“Let’s step outside and talk. Hanna, go sit in one of the booths and start on your homework. No chit-chat until you make some progress.”

“Yes, Chef.”

Hanna smiled at him and went back through the door, leaving me alone in the kitchen. Chef turned the other way and pushed through a door that opened up into a cleared area with a grill off to one side. A dozen feet behind the kitchen exit was a wall of trees. You couldn’t see the parking lot or the highway from this spot, making this area feel surprisingly secluded.

“Hanna tells me you need a job.”

“Yes, Sir. My mom already works two jobs, and we’re still living hand to mouth. I was hoping to make enough money to help her out a little with the bills.”

“Tell me a little bit about yourself. What can you do? What are you good at?”

“I... I’m not sure, honestly. I haven’t ever had a job before, because until this summer we were moving around all the time following my dad. We were never in one place long enough.”

“What does your dad do for work?”

“He’s a musician.”

“He had you and your mother travel with him?”

“Yep. We lived in an RV, mostly in campgrounds. He played all over, but mostly in the south and east coast.”

“Why did you all decide to settle down now?”

“My dad isn’t around anymore, and my mom wanted us to settle down for my last couple of years of school.”

“When you say he isn’t around anymore, what does that mean?”

I looked down at the ground. Whenever I talked about my dad, I was usually fairly vague, trying to avoid directly telling people the truth. Usually, no one pressed me on specifics.

“He got in a bar fight and stabbed a guy. He’s in Lanesboro serving seven to ten.”

I’m not sure what reaction I was expecting, but I wasn’t expecting no reaction, which is what I got.

“Tell me about how you hurt your foot.”

“I was headed to the bus, which meant I had to cross the creek behind Hanna’s house and through her back yard, although I didn’t know Hanna yet or that it was her back yard. I saw three kids about my age picking on this younger kid. They were threatening the younger kid and telling him to give them his money. I couldn’t just walk by and let them beat this kid up, especially after they pushed him down, so I stepped in to help. They broke my foot and bruised my ribs, but at least the kid got away.”

“You didn’t know Hanna’s cousin, why did you help him when you knew there were three of them and only one of you?”

“I guess because I couldn’t not help him. I wasn’t going to let them beat up a little kid.”

“Have you had any kind of self-defense lessons before?”

“No, I’ve never really been in a fight before. I’ve seen my dad in fights though. I did what I always saw him do.”

“You said you’ve never had a job before?”

I took a second to answer, trying to keep my bearings as he kept changing subjects.

“No, I haven’t. I’m a pretty quick learner, though, and I’ll work hard. Hopefully, that can make up for my lack of experience.”

“I’m not worried about your being able to actually do the job. Hanna wouldn’t have brought you to me if she thought you weren’t a good fit.”

“Her mom pushed her into helping me find a job.”

“Even better. Jennifer Philips is an excellent judge of character. More important than her recommendation is your decision to help Hanna’s cousin. This is my business, and I expect you to work hard, but I take chances on people that I think are worth the effort. Once you’re here long enough, you’ll find out everyone who works for me has a story. I believe in helping people who need a hand up and are willing to do the work necessary to get back on their feet. You seem like the type who’ll do just that. You are, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Hanna explained that she’s your ride, and as long as you don’t have your own transportation, you’ll have to work the same schedule as her.”

“That’s true. We can barely afford mom’s car, and it’s always just about to break down.”

“I can work with that. I’ll put you in the kitchen with me, and you’ll work on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays. Hanna will tell you the times. I expect you to give me everything you have every day, is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Now get going, I have work to do.”

I turned and walked back through the kitchen to find Hanna. I couldn’t put my finger on why, but I actually liked Chef’s abrupt manner.

When I came out of the kitchen, I found Hanna where Chef told her to go, sitting in one of the booths working on homework. I was honestly a little surprised by that. In my few days of knowing her, one of my impressions of Hanna was she did what she wanted to do, or at least made her objections known. She didn’t seem the type to meekly follow orders.

“I thought you’d be out here talking to someone.”

“Nope.”

I sat and watched her work for a moment. I had my own homework to do, but I didn’t want to start mine since I assumed we were leaving soon.

“Okay,” she said as she finished what she was working on at that moment and started packing up.

I expected her to head towards the door and even took a few steps that direction, and then stopped as I realized she’d walked in the other direction entirely. She was walking towards the stage on the other side of the room from the booth where she’d been sitting. The guy who had been propped up against the wall outside was now at the stage, moving things around. I hobbled to catch up to her as she stopped in front of the elderly man.

“Hey, Willie,” She said to him.

“You headin’ out already?”

He stepped down from the stage and opened his arms. Hanna leaned in and hugged him.

“Yeah. We just stopped to talk to Chef about giving Charlie here a job.”

“I’m guessin’ you’re Charlie,” he said, letting go of Hanna and extending his hand.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Charlie’s dad was a musician.”

I looked at Hanna, surprised. She’d more or less ignored me since dinner yesterday, and even then she hadn’t paid that much attention. While it was just a factual statement, the pleasant way she said it took me off guard, considering how she’d acted around me so far today.

“Really? Anyone, I’d know?”

“I doubt it,” I said, looking back to him. “He mostly played clubs around the South and up the east coast.”

“What’s his name?”

“John Nelson.”

“Hmm, naw, doesn’t ring a bell. There are a lot of us out there playin’, though.”

“Charlie plays, too,” Hanna offered, causing me to look at her surprised again.

“Is that right? You any good?”

“I’m okay. My dad and some of the people working gigs with him taught me when I was a kid.”

“Let’s hear what you’ve got,” he said, picking up a guitar sitting in a holder on the stage.

“I couldn’t …”

“Nonsense. Play me somethin’.”

I looked at Hanna, who gave me a blank expression in reply, returning to her the aloof girl I’d known so far. With a shrug, I reached over and took the guitar from him, putting the strap around my neck. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a pick I usually carried.

“Ha, there’s the sign of a real guitar player.”

I grinned at him, “My dad always said ‘a real artist always has his tools with him. You might not carry around your ax, but at least carry your pick, just in case.’ He always called his guitar an ‘ax.’ Probably a holdover from his days playing in the late seventies and early eighties.”

“Yeah, I met the type. He ain’t wrong though, at least for those that like usin’ picks.”

I strummed a few cords to get the feel of the guitar and make sure it was in tune while admiring how beautiful the instrument was. The guitar was an older style electric with a dark red body and a white stripe running up the neck.

I closed my eyes and started playing the song I’d been working on for the last few months. I can’t remember where I first heard the tune, only having a vague memory of a guy at one of the clubs my dad played at noodling on his guitar backstage. I’d been taken by the song and worked on it off and on over the years, although I’d focused on it more after dad got locked up. I liked the melody because it was fast yet still distinct with articulation in the notes. The song had a very distinct face melody that felt somewhere between rock music and something you’d hear on a banjo.

I started haltingly at first, aware of my audience, but, as always happens, I fell into the music after a few seconds, letting the notes sweep me away. I stopped rather abruptly after just over a minute as I got to the end of the section I’d managed to work out. I remember the song being longer, but I hadn’t figured out the other sections yet, leaving it a hazy memory instead of something I could actually play.

I opened my eyes to see Willie grinning wide at me and Hanna’s mouth hanging open.

“Holy crap,” Hanna said.

“You don’t hear Danny Gatton played much. I bet he died ten years ‘fore you were born. Where’d you pick that up?”

“I don’t know. I heard someone playing the song backstage at one of my dad’s gigs and have sort of been working it out since then.”

“Damn, son, that ain’t easy to play, even if someone’s teachin’ it to you.”

I shrugged and looked down at my feet. Compliments weren’t something I knew how to take very well.

“Can you do somethin’ for me?” he asked, picking up a second guitar off the stage.

“Sure.”

“Try playing this,” he said and played about twenty seconds of a melody I vaguely recalled.

He finished, and I stood still for a second, letting the music settle into my brain. I did the same thing I did when I learned songs from musicians we met on the road. I listened and tried to internalize the music I heard, instead of thinking of notes or watching someone’s hands.

With a slight nod to myself, I played the section back at him.

“Now, this one.”

He played a different and somewhat longer piece. I repeated my process and played the string of notes back. We did this four more times before he sat his instrument back down and reached out for the one he’d let me use.

“You say Chef gave you a job here?”

“Yes, Sir. In the kitchen.”

“How would you feel about, before your shifts, or after if it ain’t too late, sitting down with me. I think I could teach you a thing or two.”

“I’d love that, but Hanna’s my ride to work. I can’t get here until she does.”

“She usually comes in early to jaw with friends or do her homework. Would you mind, darlin’?”

“No, I can bring him in thirty minutes or an hour early.”

“Then I’d appreciate the offer,” I said. “I’m a little confused as to why... not that I wouldn’t appreciate learning whatever you can teach me.”

“You’ve got real talent. I haven’t seen playin’ like that since T-Bone Walker back in the Chitlin Circuit days. I can tell you’ve had no real trainin’, but you’ve got some raw talent. I can’t rightly stand by and let stone like that go unpolished.”

“Well, I don’t know about that, but sure. I’d love to get some pointers. I think I’ll be working Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays.”

“Sounds good to me. You kids scoot now. Go out and some fun.”

We waved goodbye and walked out of the restaurant while Willie turned to finished whatever he’d been setting up when we first walked up to him.

“You said you played, but holy crap,” Hanna said when we were out of the restaurant.

“I guess.”

“Charlie, come on, man. That wasn’t, ‘I guess,’ that was frickin amazing.”

“Thanks, but can we not make a big deal about it.”

She gave me a sideways glance as we got to her car and said, “I guess, but you’re going to have to play for me sometimes in exchange.”

“I can do that,” I said, smiling back at her, happy that I’d apparently broken through the shell she’d put around herself.