alcala0001
10-22-2010, 07:26 PM
Joe was on cloud nine as he walked out of the executive building his manager had sent him to. Just a few days ago he had been devastated by his band's decision to cut him. Melancholy turned into nervousness when Tom, his manager, had told him about an audition he had lined up with an up-and-coming label. Anger over being replaced by a studio fill-in was fading fast. The cold Autumn air stings his nose as he walks down the sidewalk, keeping an eye out for a taxi to flag down. As he passes by an alley he hears a note ring out in the cold. It's fat and sizzles in the brittle cold air, vibrato sustaining it and making it wail. So much expression in a single note! Joe stops dead in his tracks and an elderly lady, bundled up and carrying a large purse, bumps into him, cussing as she moves around him.
The alley is dark, as he squints, trying to see in the shadows cast by the surrounding buildings. A flurry of soulful notes rings out in the gloom and he can't resist the urge to investigate, as his feet turn and step off of the pavement and into the littered, oil-stained gravel. The street noise fades away as his ears filter out everything but the sad, soulful guitar notes that ring out. Joe passes broken wood pallets and discarded appliances; corpses of beer bottles and twisted, dried out cigarette butts litter the dark, gloomy ground. Joe's musical ear listens to every nuance of the playing as he ventures deeper into the murk. Every note is perfect, lending it's own color to the tapestry unfolding in his mind. The playing isn't very technical, but the expression and emotion thats behind it makes his heart ache. Joe's feet, ears and heart lead him to a lean-to made of a rusted sheet of galvanized steel held up by an old scrap of grey lumber and what looks like a shoelace.
The old man is playing an old beat-up and scarred electric guitar, it's make and brand doesn't look familiar to Joe. Neither does the amplifier; an old, decrepit-looking box with missing knobs and a tail of duct-taped cord leading to an electrical outlet. The old man is wearing a dirt-stained track suit and his face is obscured by a long, scraggly grey beard and dark sunglasses. An equally beat-up and run-down guitar case sits open in front of him - looking like a yawning casket, a few grimy coins in the bottom. He doesn't stop playing as Joe watches, he only pauses long enough to reach out and shake the lid of his open case, jingling the coins inside. Getting the hint, Joe reaches into his pocket, feeling for change, but stops himself. The old man's playing is so moving that he pulls out his wallet and hands him a fiver. Joe crinkles it before he lets it drop into the guitar case, just in case he's blind - so he could hear it. His only acknowledgement is a slight nod as he continues to play his guitar. Why isn't he playing out in the street? He would make more tips for sure! Maybe he's worried about getting his possessions stolen. Joe doesn't blame him - but surely this dingy alley is more dangerous?
The old man ends his soulful playing with a long, strangled note, brimming with feeling. He dips his head for a moment, seeming in contemplation and lifts his head in Joe's general direction. Yep. He's blind, alright. "Help and old man up?" He asks. He offers his guitar, holding it by the neck and extending it to Joe. Joe grabs it and takes his hand, gently hauling him up, his knees wobbling a bit. He smells like smoke and sour wine, mingled with dirt and a hint of body musk. "Thank you, young man". he says, reaching out for his guitar back. He stoops, picking out the money and then puts his guitar in, latching the beaten case closed. With a yank, he pulls the amp's cord out of the outlet and pulls it in like a fisherman recovering a drag line, coiling the cord as he does. "Whoa, you're amazing!" Joe gushes, embarrassed by what a groupie he just sounded like. "Much obliged, young man." he replies, with a dip of his head. "Where did you learn to play like that?" Joe asks. "Oh, here and there" Is his answer. Joe follows him as he makes his way out of the alley. "I'm a guitarist too." Joe offers. "You don't say.." the old man replies. Joe offers him a hot meal, and the old man accepts. Joe even helps him carry the old amp, leaving the old man a free hand to clutch at his sleeve for guidance.
Joe didn't offer the old man a meal out of pity or charity. He was interested in this old man and his uncanny ability to tug at his emotions with his playing. They found a little deli and had sandwiches and hot coffee, the old man wolfing his food down, his beard littered with crumbs and coffee droplets. He said his name was Bill and he had lost his job some time ago, landing out on the streets where he made his home. He said he didn't mind it much, especially when there were charitable people like Joe who took pity on him. Bill said that he used to teach music and he would like to get another student one day. "Yea, but the stuff you were playing, man! That kind of feeling can't be taught!" Joe observed. "Yes it can. I've taught a few people and it's all in the teaching." Countered Bill. Joe's heart leaped. If he could get Bill to teach him some stuff, he could use it in his next meeting with the record execs. "Uh.. Um. What would you charge for lessons?" He asked Bill, expecting some small monetary pittance. "Well, I would ask for a place to stay and a few other things." Said Bill. Wow. Joe was not expecting that.
Joe unlocked his door, pushing it open to be greeted by the familiar smell of his dumpy little studio apartment. He fumbles his arm around the corner and the lights come on with a soft click. He sets the old amplifier down and tugs gently on Bill's arm, leading him in, his battered guitar case skittering across the door as he enters. Joe gives Bill a quick summary of the apartment layout, instructing him not to drink all the beer, but he could drink a few. Joe goes into his room and comes out with some old workout clothes for Bill to change into, bidding him good night and asking him to keep the noise down."
Joe awakens at 5:30 in the morning, giddy with excitement. Hopefully the record deal will come through and he could tell his boss exactly where to shove this job. He makes his way out of the room for coffee and sees Bill sitting at the small round table, wearing the clothes he had offered up. "Good morning Bill." He mumbles. "Sit down Joe." Says Bill. Joe notices a pen and paper on the table, a note scrawled in a fine hand. Pulling up a chair, he picks up the paper and reads it:
I, Bill, do hereby agree to teach you, Joe, to play guitar to the best of my ability, lifting your music to unimagined heights. In addition to providing a place to stay, you also agree to follow my directions - no matter how strange. Also, you will agree to permit me a favor, to be called in at a later date. These terms are non-negotiable.
- Bill Z. Bubba
Haha. Ok sure, I'll play along, Joe chuckles to himself as he signs his name next to Bill's. "I'll be home about 3:00, so lock up if you leave." Says Joe as he turns around to prepare two cups of coffee. "That would be fine. We can start your lessons then." Replies Bill, smiling. Hot cherries smolder behind the lenses of his sunglasses.
The alley is dark, as he squints, trying to see in the shadows cast by the surrounding buildings. A flurry of soulful notes rings out in the gloom and he can't resist the urge to investigate, as his feet turn and step off of the pavement and into the littered, oil-stained gravel. The street noise fades away as his ears filter out everything but the sad, soulful guitar notes that ring out. Joe passes broken wood pallets and discarded appliances; corpses of beer bottles and twisted, dried out cigarette butts litter the dark, gloomy ground. Joe's musical ear listens to every nuance of the playing as he ventures deeper into the murk. Every note is perfect, lending it's own color to the tapestry unfolding in his mind. The playing isn't very technical, but the expression and emotion thats behind it makes his heart ache. Joe's feet, ears and heart lead him to a lean-to made of a rusted sheet of galvanized steel held up by an old scrap of grey lumber and what looks like a shoelace.
The old man is playing an old beat-up and scarred electric guitar, it's make and brand doesn't look familiar to Joe. Neither does the amplifier; an old, decrepit-looking box with missing knobs and a tail of duct-taped cord leading to an electrical outlet. The old man is wearing a dirt-stained track suit and his face is obscured by a long, scraggly grey beard and dark sunglasses. An equally beat-up and run-down guitar case sits open in front of him - looking like a yawning casket, a few grimy coins in the bottom. He doesn't stop playing as Joe watches, he only pauses long enough to reach out and shake the lid of his open case, jingling the coins inside. Getting the hint, Joe reaches into his pocket, feeling for change, but stops himself. The old man's playing is so moving that he pulls out his wallet and hands him a fiver. Joe crinkles it before he lets it drop into the guitar case, just in case he's blind - so he could hear it. His only acknowledgement is a slight nod as he continues to play his guitar. Why isn't he playing out in the street? He would make more tips for sure! Maybe he's worried about getting his possessions stolen. Joe doesn't blame him - but surely this dingy alley is more dangerous?
The old man ends his soulful playing with a long, strangled note, brimming with feeling. He dips his head for a moment, seeming in contemplation and lifts his head in Joe's general direction. Yep. He's blind, alright. "Help and old man up?" He asks. He offers his guitar, holding it by the neck and extending it to Joe. Joe grabs it and takes his hand, gently hauling him up, his knees wobbling a bit. He smells like smoke and sour wine, mingled with dirt and a hint of body musk. "Thank you, young man". he says, reaching out for his guitar back. He stoops, picking out the money and then puts his guitar in, latching the beaten case closed. With a yank, he pulls the amp's cord out of the outlet and pulls it in like a fisherman recovering a drag line, coiling the cord as he does. "Whoa, you're amazing!" Joe gushes, embarrassed by what a groupie he just sounded like. "Much obliged, young man." he replies, with a dip of his head. "Where did you learn to play like that?" Joe asks. "Oh, here and there" Is his answer. Joe follows him as he makes his way out of the alley. "I'm a guitarist too." Joe offers. "You don't say.." the old man replies. Joe offers him a hot meal, and the old man accepts. Joe even helps him carry the old amp, leaving the old man a free hand to clutch at his sleeve for guidance.
Joe didn't offer the old man a meal out of pity or charity. He was interested in this old man and his uncanny ability to tug at his emotions with his playing. They found a little deli and had sandwiches and hot coffee, the old man wolfing his food down, his beard littered with crumbs and coffee droplets. He said his name was Bill and he had lost his job some time ago, landing out on the streets where he made his home. He said he didn't mind it much, especially when there were charitable people like Joe who took pity on him. Bill said that he used to teach music and he would like to get another student one day. "Yea, but the stuff you were playing, man! That kind of feeling can't be taught!" Joe observed. "Yes it can. I've taught a few people and it's all in the teaching." Countered Bill. Joe's heart leaped. If he could get Bill to teach him some stuff, he could use it in his next meeting with the record execs. "Uh.. Um. What would you charge for lessons?" He asked Bill, expecting some small monetary pittance. "Well, I would ask for a place to stay and a few other things." Said Bill. Wow. Joe was not expecting that.
Joe unlocked his door, pushing it open to be greeted by the familiar smell of his dumpy little studio apartment. He fumbles his arm around the corner and the lights come on with a soft click. He sets the old amplifier down and tugs gently on Bill's arm, leading him in, his battered guitar case skittering across the door as he enters. Joe gives Bill a quick summary of the apartment layout, instructing him not to drink all the beer, but he could drink a few. Joe goes into his room and comes out with some old workout clothes for Bill to change into, bidding him good night and asking him to keep the noise down."
Joe awakens at 5:30 in the morning, giddy with excitement. Hopefully the record deal will come through and he could tell his boss exactly where to shove this job. He makes his way out of the room for coffee and sees Bill sitting at the small round table, wearing the clothes he had offered up. "Good morning Bill." He mumbles. "Sit down Joe." Says Bill. Joe notices a pen and paper on the table, a note scrawled in a fine hand. Pulling up a chair, he picks up the paper and reads it:
I, Bill, do hereby agree to teach you, Joe, to play guitar to the best of my ability, lifting your music to unimagined heights. In addition to providing a place to stay, you also agree to follow my directions - no matter how strange. Also, you will agree to permit me a favor, to be called in at a later date. These terms are non-negotiable.
- Bill Z. Bubba
Haha. Ok sure, I'll play along, Joe chuckles to himself as he signs his name next to Bill's. "I'll be home about 3:00, so lock up if you leave." Says Joe as he turns around to prepare two cups of coffee. "That would be fine. We can start your lessons then." Replies Bill, smiling. Hot cherries smolder behind the lenses of his sunglasses.