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SINISTER

3.

I found Garren on the steps of Manitou High School. He was cramped over one of his journals, head bent down towards the page he was writing on. I honked. He shot up and headed towards me lugging his backpack.

“What took you so long?”

“I had music class,” I said.

His eyes blazed as bright gas flames and made me smile.

“I’ve got seven hundred dollars,” he said, adjusting the backpack on his lap. “You think it’s enough?”

“For a new one or something used?”

“Used,” he said. “I like guitars with a little history to them.”

“Definitely enough.”

He slammed the door shut and I pulled away from the curb.

“Hope so.”

I shifted from second gear into third and cracked his leg above the knee with my hand. I was sure I felt bone, the flesh on him was that thin.

“If we don’t find something today you can keep playing my acoustic. It’s no big deal.”

“I know,” he said. “I just want something that’s mine.”

We’d been friends since we were little kids. Sometimes people come into your life and you know you’re going to keep them. My classmates at school were temporary. After graduation, I’d never talk to them again. But Garren, he was different.

“Hey, if we have any money left we can get a nickel bag or something. If you want to, I mean.”

Garren never referred to his money with the words “mine” or “my.” It wasn’t in him to do so. I was his friend and that meant, at least in his head, that whatever he had belonged to me, too.

“I’ll just take a bottle of something.”

“That’s cool.”

Pot was okay. I liked it just fine. But alcohol was my preferred drug. It hit my insides deeper than marijuana. Besides, I never had to air the raunchy stink out of my room or my car after drinking.

I asked him, “You want to score that weed and stuff tonight?” I hoped he said yes.

“Can’t,” he said. “I told my boss I’d close that fucking taco shop. Maybe Friday after we rehearse?”

He stuck his index finger in his mouth and started biting the nail. He tilted the finger to get after the side, then forced his hands into his lap. He’d been devouring his nails since I’d met him. He gnawed them below his fingertips, then turned the edges into pulp. The biting distracted me and I almost missed the mall’s entrance. I had to slam on the brakes as I cranked the wheel and we bounced into the parking lot. Garren put one hand on the dash, bracing himself.

“Maniac,” he said. “Someday you’re going to kill me.”

Rock Garage occupied the corner space in a run-down strip mall. The parking lot was full, so I steered us through the lanes and slid into the first space I found.

“Don’t get out yet.”

I keyed the engine off. “Why?”

“I just want to hang for a second.”

I saw some kids loitering near a sporting goods store between us and the Grand Re-Opening sign pointing to Rock Garage. They were tall, wide shouldered kids in Manitou High School letterman’s jackets. Once in a while, Garren showed up at my house with a black eye or a split lip. When I’d ask him about it he’d smile and tell me something like, “Ran into an asshole, don’t worry about it.”

Were these lumbering jocks the type that would beat up on a skeletal kid like Garren? I could picture it. Some guys were born assholes and others learned how to be one. Either way, high school was the domain they ruled. I almost asked him, but the kids didn’t hang out for long. When they headed toward their cars I opened the trunk so Garren could store his backpack.

He stood it up on the trunk bed and unzipped a pocket. Then he pulled out a wad of cash and a pack of cigarettes. I waited for him to stash his journal, a battered composition book with a cheap pen sticking up from the pages. He didn’t.

“You’re going to do some writing while we look at the guitars?”

“You never know when inspiration will strike.”

Even if he hadn’t been frail, five foot ten and a hundred and twenty pounds with his pockets full of dirt, he would’ve been a target. It was the bad haircut, like he’d chopped at his hair himself and then used something like Vaseline to make it lay down flat. His plain brown hair was a mess of uneven edges and cowlicks. It was his cheap clothes, too; department store shoes worn down to the insoles and jeans he’d worn out but never replaced.

Then there was the backpack. He lugged that bag around everywhere, his overstuffed companion. In addition to his current collection of books, he kept a change of socks and underwear, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a package of beef jerky and small boxes of cereal. He’d explained to me, “You never know when you’re going to be really hungry for cereal or jerky.”

It was even more about the ever present journal and the ease in which he told people about it. “I’m working on a collection of poetry,” he’d say. Or, “I’m going to write some novels someday so I’m taking a lot of notes while I’m young.”

And finally it was his walk, his uncoordinated, unsure of himself gait. Maybe all those things were minor, but in the world of teenagers it’s the minor shit that gets you killed.

He lit a cigarette. I walked slow, giving him time to savor it, but he smoked it fast. He barely finished exhaling before he had it in his lips again, drawing smoke as deep as it would go inside of him.

“Thanks for driving me down here,” he said. “It would’ve been a long walk.”

When my mom met Garren, she’d called him, “The baby faced, blue eyed boy.” He’d kept that look. He beamed at me, his face still that of a child instead of a seventeen year old. His eyes remained a shade of blue that made me think of fresh water paint, when the kid’s set of colors is new and at its strongest. At least he had that going for him, eyes that girls would fall in love with – someday.

“Come on, let’s go,” he said and stomped the butt out.

Rock Garage rattled with noise. Guitars adorned entire walls and glass counters of accessories ran in front of them. In the center, amplifiers were stacked on top of each other. Someone was drumming in another room and not keeping time at all.

“This place kicks ass,” Garren said.

In the middle of the store, a guy in long-haired and a gas station shirt had a Stratocaster plugged into a black tube amp. He was ripping blues licks off the guitar’s neck and they made my insides stir. Garren headed right for him and I followed.

The guy had some spooky-good chops, I thought.

A burst of flashing light filled the room and I noticed the photographer then. She was my age and wearing tight jeans. She put her camera to her eyes, aimed at the guitar player and took another shot. Then, from my peripheral vision, I saw someone approaching us and turned to see who. His Rock Garage nametag said CJ.

“Nothing like some low down, devil music,” he said.

“Right.”

“What can I help you with tonight?”

“We’re just -.”

Garren blurted, “Look at that gorgeous girl.”

Then he walked fast, almost sprinted, past the guitar player to the back of the store. I noticed the bluesman grin as Garren strode by him, and thought nothing of it. I trailed after my friend and CJ followed me.

The “gorgeous girl” was propped up against the wall; a guitar so weathered that deep, spider web patterns of cracks covered most of its body. It had been a rich, crimson color at one time, but the paint had darkened to an ugly shade of rusty brown, like dried blood. It had no strings and, even from afar; I saw black corrosion eating at the pick-ups. The head stock had five tuning pegs, one being completely gone.

Garren looked back at me and uttered, breathless, “Isn’t she beautiful.”

CJ came up beside us as Garren kneeled down to look at the wreck of a guitar. His eyes were wide. “How much do you want for this one?”

“How much you looking to spend?” CJ replied.

Garren moved to pick up the guitar. I swatted his hand away before I realized I meant to do so. It had been instinct, a parent keeping junior away from the pretty candle flame. Garren didn’t register that I’d hit him, I guess, because his boney fingers went right back up and fiddled with a cardboard tag wrapped around the neck. He leaned in close to read it.

“Looks like somebody dropped it off for a repair,” he said.

“So it’s broken.” I slapped at his shoulder. “Okay, let’s look at something else.”

“Does that mean you can’t sell it to me?”

“I own the whole store including its abandoned instruments,” CJ said.

“I got seven hundred dollars.”

“No,” I said and kneeled down next to Garren. “Hold on a second, okay?” I lowered my head, trying to give Garren a silent shut-up look and shook my head – no.

He kept his gaze purposefully turned away from me.

“I’ve got a few specials going on right now, all in honor of the re-opening. For seven hundred dollars, I can almost get you into a new Kramer. That’s what Eddie Van Halen plays, you know.”

“Kramers are great, but I like her,” he said. “How much?”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Play it,” Garren said.

“You’ll have to restore it first,” CJ told him. “Have you ever restored a guitar before?”

“No.”

“Have you ever played a guitar before?”

“He plays my acoustic whenever he wants,” I said.

“She’ll be the first one that’s all mine,” Garren said.

CJ started to say something, but the photographer walked up to him. We must have looked ridiculous, the store’s owner and two teenage boys kneeling in front of a broken-down, relic of a guitar. She looked us over, her serious expression unchanged.

“Excuse me a second,” CJ said and walked away with the girl.

I turned to Garren.

“That,” I said, “is a gorgeous girl. This guitar you’re drooling over… It’s a piece of shit.”

“I disagree.”

“You can disagree all you want, but it’s still POS brand.”

“To you it is,” he said, and his voice had a low tone that I’d never heard before.

“What?”

He cleared his throat. “Nothing.”

“Let’s look at the Kramer guitars the guy was telling you about and see what used ones he has. We can probably find two used guitars for seven hundred dollars.”

Garren shook his head as CJ returned. I stood up, but Garren stayed put, kneeling in front of the guitar.

He asked CJ, “We got a deal or what?”

“That guitar’s dead, kiddo. Let it rest in peace.”

“What do you mean – dead?”

“Her neck is twisted. The pick-ups are smoked. There’s nothing to salvage except the body, and that’s got such severe water damage I don’t know if it’s even possible.”

“Necks can be straightened and electronics can be replaced,” Garren said. “I’ll sand the body back to original spec.”

“Look, I’m just like you. The sight of an old guitar leaves me weak in the knees, like I’m looking at a woman’s body. But this one -.”

“You can’t just leave her on the floor all dead and rotting.”

“I thought I’d make it into a piece of art and hang it up in the bathroom,” CJ said. “I was going to spray-paint the whole thing orange and put a clock on it, something like that.”

Garren looked appalled at the idea.

“You want it that bad, you can have it. It’s yours.”

“What?”

“It’s yours,” he repeated. “When you decide you want one you can actually play, come back and see me. We’ll find you something with a little life left in it.”

“You’re seriously giving her to me?”

He looked like he was about to cry; and it made my stomach churn a little bit.

“Hold on, there’s a case for it downstairs.”

CJ went to find the case and I stuck my hand out. “Congratulations. You now own a dead guitar. I can’t wait to jam with you on that.”

“I can’t believe it. That guy’s generous, huh.”

“Considering he could’ve had a bunch of your money for a piece of trash he was going to hang over the toilet, yeah, that’s a good guy. You got lucky.”

“I did get lucky,” he said.

He stared at the old guitar for another moment.

“I want the first time I touch her to be stuck in my memory.”

Then, slow and reverent, he reached out and picked it up.

“Killer sweet,” he said.

He stood, the old guitar cradled in both arms and held tight against his chest, its neck and headstock aimed toward the ceiling. CJ came back with the case. He carried it under his arm rather than by the handle and when he sat it down I saw why. All the latches were gone. I saw ragged tears in its covering, like torn flesh, where the screws and hinges used to be. Had he picked it up by the handle the cover would have fallen open. He set the case on the floor and lifted the lid.

A black book, cracked leather cover and yellowing pages, lay wedged in the space where picks and extra strings could be. Garren grabbed the book, opened it to a random page, then cast it aside. He set the guitar against the cases red padding and lowered the lid, inch by inch.

“Have fun,” CJ said.

“Honest, man, I can’t thank you enough.”

CJ stopped him with a wave. The store had gone quiet. The bad drummer had stopped pummeling the bass and snare. The bluesman was gone, his Strat left in a stand next to a black amp.

“Don’t forget your journal,” I told Garren.

He grabbed it from the floor and handed it to me to carry along with the leather bound book. He used both arms to carry the guitar, protecting his new treasure.

“I really do appreciate it,” he told CJ. “I think this is the coolest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“You might feel differently when you try to fix it,” he said. “Thanks for coming in.”

Garren headed out and I lingered behind to tell CJ that we’d see him again. It was kind of a thank you for not taking advantage of Garren and accepting his money. He probably thought the kid was a mental patient or something.

“Look out for your little brother,” he said to me. “He’s got a bad case of something that’s yet to be diagnosed.”

His request made me laugh because Garren was, in many ways, my little brother. He was not the one I’d requested from my parents when they were still together. I’d wanted one that could play guns with me and wrestle without getting hurt and crying. But he was a year younger than me and the one I’d ended up with; and I took the responsibility seriously.

It also made me laugh because Garren was definitely, without question suffering from some sort of madness. He always had been. It may have been plain weirdness or something worse, but it was loveable, and good hearted. And I didn’t care.

“So you play acoustic?”

“Yeah, I goof around with it. Keyboard is more my thing, though, and songwriting.”

“The studio opens next week,” he said, motioning at the stairs. “If you’d like to do some tracking, let me know.”

“Will do,” I said. “Later.”

Garren had the guitar propped up against the back of my car and a cigarette burning in one hand.

“I told you I liked guitars with a little history to them,” he said, his eyes shooting sparks.

“It’s got plenty of history,” I said. “Too bad it’s too dead to talk about it.”

“She’ll be all right.”

“Whatever you say, weirdo.”

“I have to work tonight,” he said. “So you have to drop me off at the restaurant and hold on to my girl.”

“I will,” I said. “You want to move it so I can open the trunk?”

He jabbed the cigarette between his lips and slid the guitar off my car. I opened the trunk lid. He motioned at the backpack so I hauled it out and he laid the guitar down inside. I dropped the book that had come with the case on top of it and slammed the trunk lid.

“Don’t leave her in the trunk,” he said.

“Worried it might get cold?”

“What if someone steals your car?”

“No car thief would be caught dead trying to jack my car.”

“Just take her inside and keep her in your room.”

A car engine started up and I glanced in the direction of the noise. An old black truck growled past us. Its driver was the guy who’d been playing the blues in Rock Garage. He grinned at us from behind the windshield, then lifted one hand off the wheel and waved.

“Please?”

I didn’t want that nasty old guitar in my room.

“Fine.”

“Thanks.” He dropped his cigarette and twisted his shoe over it. “I got a really good feeling about her. And you know what?”

“What.”

I watched the truck drive on to the street. Rectangular brake lights flashed two times in dull red as the driver taped his brakes.

“You’re a good buddy, even if you do call me names.”

*     *     *

I dropped Garren off at Taco Grande, u-turned and merged back onto I-25. Highway driving required loud music, no matter what Mr. Edgars thought, and as I broke the speed limit I poked my stereo’s on button. I’d had the volume way up, so the static that detonated in my car startled the hell out of me. It was an exploding roar, raw electricity being broadcast.

“Shit!”

I twisted the volume knob, dropping the noise to hissing pops and cracks. Manitou sat between Colorado Springs and Denver. On the highway, I could pick-up radio stations from both cities. I pushed all the frequency buttons, hoping that KILO had lost its transmission. All the stations gave me the same hissing buzz. My stereo was broken.

At least I knew what to ask for as a graduation gift.

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