Shredder
by Keith LaFountaine
part 1
The bar smelled like the inside of a cigarette and looked about as ashen as one, too. In other words, it was perfect.
David led Mandy toward the collection of tables in front of the stage, a generous term for the lip of wood the guitarist stood on. As he weaved by two portly bikers who were sporting leather jackets with matching viper patches, he glanced her way. Mandy’s eyes were wide with excitement, her mouth hanging open, her head tilted toward the right so she could hear the music more clearly.
When they got to the last empty table, which was a round thing into which someone had carved Long Live the Blues, Mandy sat down, and he leaned in close to her ear. “What do you want?” he asked.
“Something with gin,” she responded. “A lot of it.”
David kissed her on the cheek. He stood and walked into the fray, swerving around a young couple who were locked at the mouth. A haze of fuzzy guitar broke through the air. The crowd roared in approval.
At the bar, he leaned across the polished wood and shouted, “Can I get two gin and tonics?”
The bartender nodded, swept her hand through her short-cropped brown hair and went to work, pulling gin out from the well. Her septum piercing glittered under the dim yellow lights. David turned to catch a glimpse of the guitar player while she prepared the drinks.
He’d seen the flyer out of happenstance, while walking to the coffee shop down the road from his office. It was surprisingly plain, with a picture of Earl Reynolds, the guitarist, seemingly copy-pasted from a website. Underneath the black-and-white photo was a place (Dandy’s Bar), a time (9:00 pm), and a suggestion (Get Ready for Some Rockin’).
At first, he’d shrugged it off. But on his return journey, latte firmly in hand, David had pulled out his phone and snapped a photo of the flyer. Mandy was on a grind, buying every BB King and Muddy Waters album she could find at the record shop downtown. What better way to win some brownie points than to bring her to a live show?
The bartender finished off the drinks, sloshed them into two plastic cups, and affixed a wedge of lime to each. She pushed them toward David, and he handed her some cash.
“Open or closed?” the bartender asked.
“Keep it open for now,” he said.
Then, he returned to the chaos. The couple that had been sucking face were broken apart now, joined at the hip and nodding to the croon of the guitar’s soulful wail. One of the bikers leaned against a wooden post, pulling back a glass bottle of beer. The air reeked of smoke and sour alcohol, but David sucked it all in, relished it. For a while, he’d wanted to be the man on the stage, to have a cigarette hanging limply from his lips while his fingers bled and his guitar wept. But such dreams were just that: dreams. By twenty-seven, he’d awoken to the realities of the world.
“He’s good,” Mandy said when David plopped a plastic cup in front of her.
“Definitely,” David agreed.
From their table, they had a perfect view of the stage, marred only slightly by a photographer up front who sat on his knees and raised his camera every few minutes to snap a picture of Earl in action.
Earl had his eyes scrunched closed. His umber skin glowed under the bar’s buttery lights, and his fingers danced across the fret board, thin as bones. David sipped on his drink. Earl lifted his shoulders, pulling the strings into a hefty bend, and the resulting tone was beautifully mournful, the kind of sound that ancient Greeks thought sirens were capable of. And then Earl unleashed a flurry of notes, his fingers writhing on the guitar like possessed snakes.
Earl’s eyes popped open, and David noticed how deep and rich they were, how they sparkled, the ring of dampness collected in his eyelids. A tear streaked his cheek as the music became furious, panicked even, as the notes grew harsher and sharper and more pronounced. His hand was further up, toward the double-dotted twelfth fret, and the shrieking cry that poured from the speakers reminded David of Jimi Hendrix in his prime, plucking away at Woodstock, mimicking bombs and screams.
The song broke into a crescendo, and more tears poured from Earl’s eyes. The fretboard was streaked with blood, and the contrasting colors created a queasy sensation in David’s stomach. And then, in one furious blow, Earl ended his song and nodded toward the crowd.
A roar ascended like a grinding wave. David and Mandy clapped fervently. Earl didn’t waste time or mince words, though. Instead, he barreled forward into the next song, pausing only to wipe some of the blood from his guitar.
“How long is his set, do you think?” Mandy asked, taking another sip of her cocktail.
“Don’t know,” David admitted. “The flyer didn’t say.”
* * *
Earl played for three hours that night. By the end of it, his face was mopped with streaks of sweat and grit. His fingers were worn nubs, bloody as all hell and caked in nickel from the strings. He rose a weary hand to the crowd and packed up the guitar. The snaps of his hard-shell case cracked in the bar. Behind David, patrons filtered out through the front door. The cacophony wore down to a manageable hum.
“I’m gonna go close the tab,” David said.
“Can I have the keys?” she asked. “I’m just going to wait in the car.”
“Sure,” he said, fishing them from his pocket. “Here.” He pushed them into her open hand.
Kissing her on the lips, he plucked their empty plastic cups from the table and walked over to the bartender. As he closed out the tab and paid their remaining balance, he glanced back over at Earl. He was helping break down the equipment, chatting with the tech guys the bar provided. For a moment, David was struck by how gaunt Earl seemed. His body was sticks and bones, as his mother would have said, like a cross between an action figure and a slab of driftwood.
“You ever meet him before?” David asked the bartender, jerking his thumb toward Earl.
She shrugged. “Sure. Nice guy. Comes in here a lot. Great tips when he does.”
David nodded, then took a few singles from his wallet and stuffed them into the appropriately marked Tip Jar, which, he noted, was almost entirely full; great tips indeed. He slipped his wallet into his back pocket and walked toward the stage.
“Sorry to bother you,” he said as he approached Earl, “but I couldn’t help but notice how great that set was.”
Earl turned. His brown irises were surrounded by bloodshot sclera, and deep bags hung underneath. He offered a curt smile. “Appreciate it,” he mumbled.
“You know, I used to play when I was a kid,” David continued. “Nothing like you, of course. But I dabbled. Wanted to start a band of my own sometime.”
“Did you now?” Earl asked.
“Sure,” David said. “Sure, I did. Of course, then I started dating. Got married. Life kind of kicked me in the ass, and I dropped all that stuff behind.”
“Trust me,” Earl said, staring David dead in the face. “I wish like hell I was you.” He turned and finished breaking down the equipment on stage, ripping strips of gaffers’ tape up from the wooden floor.
* * *
As he slipped into the car, David couldn’t shake Earl’s parting words. He glanced over at Mandy, who had her feet up on the dashboard.
She glanced his way, her brown hair tousled and shimmering in the glow of the streetlights. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing,” David said. He started the car, comforted by the soft hum of the engine. “Just... he didn’t seem happy at all. I chatted with him after closing the tab. I don’t know. He just seemed miserable.”
Mandy nodded. “This lifestyle will do that to you. Always on the road. Always playing. Never able to settle down.”
David scratched his neck. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess.”
He shifted into reverse and backed out of the parking lot. On their way home, Mandy hummed one of the song’s they’d listened to that night: “The Thrill Is Gone.”
* * *
Two weeks later, on a Monday, David slipped the dusty strap over his head, settled it down on his shoulders, and pressed his left hand’s fingers against the strings. The electric guitar still stank of the pawn shop — must and stale beer and perspiration — and the strings looked like they hadn’t been changed since the Cold War. All the same, the feeling of holding a guitar was intoxicating.
It was a gorgeous thing. A ’67 Fender Strat, cherry red with a flash of white. It was a little battered, and the fretboard’s wood had been worn away. It was clean but visibly used. In a way, that made it all the more exciting to play. The shop owner, an old guy named Eddie with a gut bigger than a minifridge, said the previous owner itched the back of his head with a hunting rifle. Nasty way to go. But hey, the guitar was cheap.
David grabbed a pick from the plastic baggie on the table. It was another purchase, from a guitar center a few blocks away from the pawn shop. Behind him, an old amp warbled, the sound tinged with fuzz.
He strummed once, good and hard, while forming an E-chord. The resulting sound was deep and brilliant and, though the amp made the chord sound crunchy and ominous, David still savored the brilliance of it. The strings buzzed against his fingers, and he pulled them away, pressing one to his lips. It tasted of metal, but David loved that, too.
Was that how Earl felt every night on stage? Was that the power he felt while music and soul streamed out of his guitar like a screaming choir on the day of judgment?
He turned when a loud knock on the garage door superseded the guitar’s cry. Mandy leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed, an eyebrow raised.
“Gettin’ back into it?” she asked.
David shrugged. “Figured I’d try it out again.”
“You look good,” Mandy said with a coy grin. “Where’d you find it?”
“Pawn shop on 12th,” he said. “Owner had it listed for $75. Can you believe it?” A ’67 Fender Strat and he sells it for $75?”
“Yeah, that is odd,” Mandy agreed. “Listen, I’m headed out for a run. Dinner at six?”
David smiled. “You can count on it. Gonna noodle a bit more and then I’ll get on it.”
Mandy blew him a kiss. “Love ya. Don’t go crazy. Last thing you need is blood blisters.”
* * *
Sweat leaked from David’s brow. It stung as it dripped into his eyes, and he tasted the salt in it as rivulets ran down his lips. He’d stripped off his shirt, and now it was just the bare guitar pressed against his skin, the wood chafing as he slid his hands up and down the frets.
The sound it produced was cacophonous, deserving of a stadium, deserving of a crowd. But David didn’t need one physically; when he closed his eyes, he saw them. Women in the front row, with t-shirts that screamed his name in all caps, and tattoos of his lyrics on their flesh. One, a tanned woman with ropes of muscle lining her arms and a short pixie cut, lifted her shirt and bared her breasts as he launched into an uproarious solo.
Drums pounded behind him, thick and heavy, and he beat at the Fender. It wailed in response, a human scream, bloodcurdling and honest. It was in that moment that David understood how Jimi Hendrix made his guitar cry during Woodstock. The guitar was a perfectly human thing, a fleshy appendage capable of the emotional spectrum, the strings resembling glittering veins, and the sweat; well, those were her tears.
“David? DAVID?”
He wrenched his eyes open, and there, in the doorway, stood Mandy. A frown slashed across her face. Her eyes were tight. She tapped her fingers on her right forearm.
“Yeah?” he asked, mopping the tendrils of sweat from his face. It splashed down onto the floor like a summer rain.
She opened her mouth, but then closed it and shook her head. It was only after she retreated that David checked his phone to see it was ten of nine.
* * *
David lay in bed staring at his fingers. They were chafed and raw, beet-red, and blisters formed on each one, swollen like little alien pods. He glanced over into the bathroom and saw Mandy. Small pops echoed as she flossed her teeth.
“I’m sorry, hon,” he said, resisting the urge to stare at his fingers again.
She sighed. Pop. Pop. Pop. She tossed the floss into the trash. “I’m not that mad. It was mostly frustrating. You said you’d make dinner tonight, and I was really looking forward to that. But instead, I had to nuke some leftovers while you wailed away in the garage.”
“I know,” he admitted. “I don’t know what came over me. I just couldn’t stop. Babe, this guitar... I can’t express how incredible it is.”
“You were playing like a pro in there,” she remarked, turning, a faint smile curving her lips. “I was impressed.”
“Might go try out for an open mic night in a couple weeks,” he admitted.
His gaze shifted. The blisters gleamed under the yellow lamp’s light.
* * *
Blood streamed down the guitar’s neck. Another blister gone. That was fine. Flesh gave way to flesh, and the guitar’s veins were just doing what they needed to do. They made him stronger, more durable. And hell, the blood looked good streaked across the cherry-red paint.
The music flowed out of him, a constant stream of it. He was back on that stage, playing, playing, and the woman stared at him with rapturous eyes. Her name was Whitney. She was a college sophomore, and she’d grown up on the Ramones and the Sex Pistols. What fiery parents she must have had. He stared at her as he launched into a roaring solo. A wrenching mouth birthed from the guitar’s off-white center, and it screamed as he played. Blood dripped free, and he chewed on air while sweat dribbled down his bottom lip, twisting to the wooden floor in thick spirals.
The girl screamed his name, and David smiled as he gave himself to the crimson tones. To the dead music. To the live spectacle.
* * *
Mandy stared at her husband from the bed as he stripped off his day clothes. His fingers were gnarled things, bloody and stubbed with forming callouses. His arms were a little ropier than she remembered, a little leaner. After three weeks of daily play, it made a morbid sense that they would look better than the rest of his body. That was disturbing.
He’d never been subject to a beer belly, but David had always packed on a couple of extra pounds around his midsection. Now, those were gone, bled away, but he didn’t look muscular down there so much as he looked drained. Emaciated. David’s ribs poked at his flesh like toddlers holding knives, and his stomach had turned concave, if that was even possible. But he looked happier than he’d been in years. How was that possible? How could he look starving and wear a bright smile? An honest smile?
It was all those hours in the garage. She was sure of it.
“Babe,” she said, chewing on the inside of her cheek, “don’t you think you should give the guitar a rest? At least for a little bit?”
“What are you talking about?” he asked. “I’ve got an open mic next weekend. I need to be at my best.”
“You sound great,” Mandy said, which was true. “You just look a little skinner than usual is all.” She wished there was a more honest way to put it.
“Oh, come on,” he scoffed. “I needed to shed a few pounds anyway.”
“But—”
“Babe,” he said. His voice turned stern suddenly, and his eyes narrowed. “Give it a rest. I’m not stopping. Not now.”
She wanted to fight him, but what good would that do? Short of junking his guitar, which was absolutely an overreaction, there was no way for her to permanently stop his daily — and sometimes nightly — sessions.
So, instead, she turned over in bed and pressed her face into the pillow. She had plenty on her mind aside from David anyway. Lacy in accounting had told her that the budget was about three thousand short of expectations, and her mother was asking her again when she would have a grandchild. She’d never asked David that question, unsurprisingly enough.
Mandy closed her eyes. No use in worrying about it all. Tomorrow she could figure out a better way to handle the guitar thing. A better way to handle Lacy and her mother and every other damn problem in the world. Tomorrow, tomorrow.
She opened her eyes. “Dave, I’m...” But when she turned, she realized her halted apology would have fallen on air.
David was gone. Moments later, the garage door closed, followed by the tinny twanging of his electric guitar. He used headphones at night, at least, but the sound the strings made was uncomfortably akin to mosquitos buzzing.
She turned back to the pillow, and a hollow feeling sunk into her chest.
* * *
Copyright © 2023 by Keith LaFountaine
