c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(4-24)
Holden Bryce had lived by himself in a singlewide trailer, in Thompson Township, since the breakup of his Heavy Metal band in 1989. He still lingered in that lost decade, mentally. Though since those exciting days after his high school graduation, he had lost dexterity in both hands. His prowess with riffs of Eddie Van Halen or Ritchie Blackmore had been diminished by age and fatigue. Now, he was more comfortable playing lazy, cowboy ballads. Something that made him feel slightly frustrated whenever picking up a fretted instrument. Years had passed since he attempted to do any serious gigging around the county. But his muse kept speaking in whispers, with ideas for compositions that bounced around inside of his skull.
Though his fingers were no longer nimble, every brain cell was still plugged into the creative continuum.
Late on a Monday evening, he sat in front of the household computer. Scrolling aimlessly through listings on the eBay website, for amusement. He looked at Gibson, Fender, and other axes that were available for purchase. Though most were priced far out of his comfort zone. Amplifiers and accessories had been sprinkled throughout this varied mix of entries. Their presence made him remember that his own stable of relics was buried in a walk-in closet. Far at the back of his boxcar dwelling. Boxes of junk had been stashed everywhere, over the years. Shelves of records lined what had originally been a bedroom. Cases of cassette tapes were stacked almost to the ceiling. He had managed to fill the space left when his wife of a dozen years exited, after an argument over buying a Rickenbacker guitar. Something he did impulsively, because it was an oddball model, offered at a tempting price. A collector’s prize!
He won the online auction, but lost his spouse. In Rock & Roll terms, it was a trade-off worthy of being written into bold lyrics of an anthem for the stage. Something he did later, with the gusto of a fan living on high-octane dreams. Yet he still missed his opposite half.
Now, he could only get to two of his plectrum trophies. A pristine, fender Stratocaster, which he had stored in a G & G reproduction case. And a Gibson Les Paul Special. Both were in a corner behind his file cabinet. He had wanted to pluck away at the pair, for many years. But could no longer get to any of his related audio equipment.
Then, an item appeared in his feed over the eBay site. It was a curiosity that caught his eye, an affordable, Ibanez practice amp. Described as having 14 watts of total output. Comparable combos he saw were all going for a hundred dollars or more. In truth, he lusted for a vintage, Pignose tone-booster, which had more mojo and street credibility. But he figured that this alternate device would sit by the corner of his desk, anonymously. Perhaps he could once again bash out power chords, and rattle the windows of his manufactured home, with joy.
The idea caused him to put in a lowball offer. Something he did while drinking Miller High Life, and Evan Williams bourbon. Days passed with other chores and responsibilities taking hold. Then, he happened to be checking e-mail messages in his account. And there was a notice that made him sit up straight in his roller chair, and howl like Ozzy Osbourne, onstage.
“You have won your item! Click here to complete this transaction through PayPal, and take delivery via USPS! Our website awards you a gold star for being a Power Purchaser! Congratulations!”
Thoughts of the score dogged him throughout the days that followed. He was already writing lyrics on the backs of junk-mail envelopes and paper grocery bags. But now, he strummed on a guitar while brainstorming through a series of random ideas. These musical underpinnings sounded hollow without any sort of amplification. Yet he had been electrified by the blessing of chance. Finally, he revisited his ode to separation, and divorce. Feeling undeniably blitzed, he vocalized the words from memory, while nearly toppling over in his leather chair.
“A black-n-gold Ric hanging low on my shoulder strap
Kicking out the jams, just for a laugh
She said ‘I don’t know that damn song at all!’
Then packed her bags, and went to live in a hostel hall
That’s a down-low kick
A ballbust on the bricks
But I took it like a fan
Rock & Roll is always my plan!”
When the jam box arrived, it ended up on his stoop by the front steps. The packaging was remarkable for someone selling on a bidding site. Lots of packing material inside of a repurposed Amazon box, with plastic wrap used to shield the contents. This sheath was surprisingly difficult to pierce. So, he spent several minutes, working carefully with a pair of scissors from the kitchen. Each poke made him nervous about ruining something inadvertently. But eventually, he had managed to shuck the device like an ear of corn, and had it sitting on an end table by his sofa.
A brew and shot of liquor consummated his celebration. Afterward, he returned to the home studio in his old, master bedroom. And started rummaging through desk drawers and dusty cases, for a cable to hook up his guitar. A pounding in his chest quickly signaled that this fruitless search had elevated his pulse. There were camera cords, printer cables, and spools of speaker wire, everywhere. But nothing of the kind that he was seeking. Not a single ¼ inch, end-to-end conduit for his passionate expressions.
“WHAT THE FRIG? I THOUGHT THERE HAD TO BE A HOOKUP AROUND HERE SOMEWHERE! I JUST USED IT THE OTHER DAY! WELL, MAYBE 14 OR 15 YEARS AGO... RIGHT AFTER STACIE BUSTED ME WITH THE BARGAIN BASEMENT ELDORADO 250! THOSE ARE GOING FOR A COUPLE GRAND NOW! THAT WAS A KILLER DEAL!”
He looked in the cases of all his tuneful plucksters. And in every drawer, even where spoons and spatulas were stored, by the stove. Not a single connector could be found, anywhere.
His dream of revisiting the land of jukebox heroes had been derailed.
“DAMMIT, I JUST HAD ONE HERE! I JUST HAD ONE! I DID!”
A red light on the amplifier panel indicated that it was powered and ready. Yet that status of technological willingness did him no good at all. He traced the EQ controls and master volume knob, which seemed to have rearranged themselves into the arc of a grin. It was as if the silent machine had decided to mock him for being inept and unprepared.
“I’M NOT THAT DRUNK! SHEESH, HOW MANY NIGHTS DID I GIG WITH THE BAND WHEN ALL OF US WERE HIGH AND EFFED UP AND FLYING THROUGH OUTER SPACE? AND SURROUNDED BY HOT CHICKS IN LEATHER AND LACE?”
Gulping down shame and resentment, he fell into the roller chair. It slid backwards and slammed into a bookshelf full of limited-release, boxed sets of vinyl records and compact discs. Crowded into the tower furnishing with books, and VHS tapes.
His head rang like a bell. It reverberated with the stinging cackle of his ex-wife, passing judgment.
“YOU’RE NOT THAT DRUNK? HAH! NO, NOT AT ALL! I GET IT, LOSER! NOTHING IS EVER YOUR FAULT! SO, SIT THERE AND CRY IN YOUR BOOZE! YOU’RE A ROCK STAR WITH NOTHING BUT AN AIR GUITAR!”
Wright on, right on!!
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