Accepting the guitar back for a moment, Jake began the distinctive, fast-paced riff, keeping the tempo even. The one young musician kept filming; the other less experienced guitarist was focussed entirely on Jake’s hands.
“Your turn,” said Jake, passing the guitar back. “Did you feel the difference?”
“Yes, sir.”
With renewed faith in his ability, the boy played the intro to the classic rock song again. This time, the improvement was audible.
“Well done,” complimented Jake. “A fast learner. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you,” replied the boy. “I wish you’d been my guitar teacher.”
“If you learn as fast as that all the time,” began Jake. “So do I.”
He noticed that the other boy had finally stopped filming and returned his phone to his pocket.
“What do you usually play?”
“A second hand Epiphone Les Paul. Budget doesn’t reach to an instrument like this,” replied the boy, passing the SG back to Jake. “At least not yet.”
The look in the young musician’s eye as he handed the guitar over resonated with Jake. On impulse, he passed the SG to Garrett and said, “I think this one has found its new owner in this young man. How much do I owe you for it?”
“What?” gasped the boy.
“Everyone needs a break now and again,” said Jake with a smile. “Call it me paying it forward. Helps keep music live and alive.”
“I don’t know how to thank you. I just can’t walk out of here with that…….”
“Sh,” interrupted Jake, clapping the boy on the shoulder. “What’s your name, son?”
“Rob,” replied the younger man shyly.
“Well, Rob,” began Jake as they walked towards the cash desk. “Thank me by playing this lady every day and bringing her to life on stage every night.”
As they locked up the music store a couple of hours later, Garrett commented, “That was a nice gesture, Jake. Really generous of you but can I offer a word of warning?”
“I know,” laughed Jake as he lifted his bags. “I can’t buy every kid a guitar.”
“You got it,” replied Garrett. “Although, if you hadn’t done what you did, I would’ve. There’s something about that kid I liked.”
“Maybe we can check out their gig on Thursday night?”
“Maybe,” nodded Garrett. “Not my favourite venue in the neighbourhood.”
“Well, let’s see how we feel. Could be fun,” compromised Jake, following his friend through to the elevator that led up to the apartment. “I’ll need to duck out to rescue my own guitars from the truck later.”
“Do I need to bring a guitar rack up?”
“Maybe,” answered Jake. “I brought four with me. Covers all bases if you ever decide how you’re launching that album next month.”
“Let’s talk about that over some Chinese food.”
“Deal.”
Despite having visited Garrett’s gothic palace on many occasions, Jake had never had a tour of the full apartment nor been in the kitchen. His host had shown him up a narrow spiral staircase to one of three guest suites. Almost shyly, Garrett had revealed his sprawling home spanned four floors then added that the upper two were mainly storage and rehearsal space. For the first time, Jake realised that the older musician occupied the entire building. In contrast to the olde worlde feel to the rest of the house, the kitchen was the epitome of modern. High gloss black units with the occasional red cabinet door continued with the gothic colour scheme that ran throughout the house but there was nothing else gothic about it. The older musician clearly loved his kitchen gadgets.
While Jake had fetched his guitars, his friend had gone out to pick up some Chinese take out for dinner from a small family-run Cantonese restaurant a couple of blocks away. As they sat at the black granite breakfast bar with their food cartons and a beer, Jake declared, “This may be the best Chinese food I’ve ever tasted.”
“One of the neighbourhood’s hidden treasures,” said Garrett with a smile. “Never had a bad dish from there.”
“So, what is the plan with the album launch?” asked Jake, cutting to the chase.
“Million-dollar question,” commented Garrett, evading the question.
“Well?”
Pausing for a chug on his beer, Garrett said, “Jethro has more or less talked me into a small select live launch on November 7th.”
“Where did you have in mind?”
“Local. No more than a five hundred-seater.”
Wrestling to recall the various small venues in the area, Jake said, “Gramercy Theater or Bowery Ballroom?”
“One or other. Waiting on your silver fox coming back to me,” replied Garrett calmly. “Then I can line up some guests to play. I’m sure as hell not doing a solo show!”
“Any show you put out there will sell out in seconds.”
“Maybe but I’ve little interest in that,” commented the older musician.
“Not too keen on a solo show myself,” admitted Jake as he finished his last mouthful of noodles. “Did one as a favour to my brother a few years back. Scared the hell out of me.”
“I’m torn,” confessed Garrett softly. “For years, my focus was to try to get Sal back on stage. Now, I need to force myself out there. Not sure I’m ready for that. Might be a step too far. Guest slots are fine. A whole show in my name is an entirely different game. That said, I’m proud of this record. I want folk to hear it, to buy it and, for that to happen, I need to promote the hell out of it.”
“Try one show. Small and local. See how it feels. Take it from there,” suggested Jake, feeling his blood chill at the mere mention of the late Salazar Mendes.
“You could co-headline?”
Jake shook his head, “Your record. Your show. Your name, Garrett. I’m just a guest. An unwelcome one at that.”
“You’re never unwelcome, son.”
“Thanks,” replied Jake softly, staring down into the empty Chinese carton.
There was silence for a
