Don’t Fret
by Allen Cash
part 1
As the smoke cleared and the ringing of the amplifiers faded, Iggy Blane could still hear the crowd cheering for more. He sat rubbing his leather wristbands. His brother had sent them from overseas for his fifth birthday, in hopes of apologizing for not being there. Iggy had never seen his brother again and hadn’t taken the wristbands off since. War is a bitch.
The last set was over for the night. Iggy, Zak, and Lance packed up their microphones, drums, guitars, and other equipment needed to “melt faces,” as Lance would say. Zak threw a bag of sound cables into the back.
“Killer show tonight, guys! Iggy, you thrashed on that solo, dude,” Zak said while performing a lousy air guitar. Zak was always fired up at the end of a gig.
Iggy knew it wasn’t that great but didn’t want to kill his friend’s buzz. “Yeah, man, you sounded great! How do you get your voice so gravelly?”
Zak’s face twisted into a look of confusion. “I gargle with paint thinner,” he said. “Now, come on, let’s go find some rocker sluts!”
They piled into Zak’s jet-black van with Hell’s Wristband scrolled along the side in red letters. Cruising down Highland Drive at this time of night was depressing. Scraggly homeless guys played grab-ass beside burning barrels, hookers wandered in and out of alleys looking for a lonely john. It was a wasteland until the sun broke.
Iggy had his forehead to the glass, watching it all go by, when the most beautiful guitar he had ever seen appeared in a shop window. Electricity shot through him, and he sat up. The shop fading behind them, he caught the name before it was out of sight: Mr. Choo, Oddities, and Antiquities.
“Yo! Zak, stop the car! Hurry up, man, stop!”
“Hell no, bro, we’re hittin’ the late-night clubs, dude!” said Zak, fumbling with a bent joint and a stubborn lighter.
Iggy grabbed the joint out of Zak’s mouth and threatened to break it in half.
“Okay, okay,” said Zak, “just chill I’ll pull over.”
“I’ll catch you guys later,” Iggy yelled over his shoulder.
“You’re a freak, dude!”
But all Iggy heard was squealing tires.
* * *
Mr. Choo’s shop occupied the middle of a three-unit strip mall. Iron gates adorned the plate-glass windows. The building was an old one-story heap. Time had settled in long ago and continued its assault.
The window displayed an array of oddities that would intrigue the most skeptical of patrons. An old lamp stood with a soft glow from beneath a shade made of organic material, thin and waxy-looking. A skinny forearm shot up, ending in a bony monkey fist holding the bulb descending into a ram’s head at the base.
Next was a statue of a shrunken head on a stake held up by what appeared to be a monk with a big, toothy grin. Next to that was an elephant head wearing a thick chain made from a snake. Hanging from it was a glorious pendant in the shape of a cat praising the full moon. The cat was made of sapphire, emerald lit the moon, and gold made the stars.
Iggy would have found himself very intrigued if not for the next item to accompany this strange lot. The most amazing guitar he had ever seen, with a pearl white underlay boasting a fantastic scale pattern that reflected green and red like a hologram. The silver tuner nuts were inlaid with gold dragons, and the fretboard was magnificent.
Ancient Chinese runes labeled the third, fifth, and seventh fret. Nine through thirteen were branded with what seemed to be claw marks. A giant reptile eye surrounded the sound hole. The only thing missing was the strings.
As Iggy entered the shop, an odor of incense and old paper washed over him. He immediately felt uneasy, causing the skin at the base of his neck to tighten and prickle.
Strange artifacts adorned the shelves, shrunken heads, and jars of bones. Pelts of strange animals hung from the wall. Lamps shrouded by the waxy material cast a soft, yellow glow across the room. More works of art were scattered around the shop, but Iggy was interested in only one item.
Making a beeline to the window, the items from outside presented themselves in all their strange glory. Standing tall, the monkey lamp was shoulder height. Reaching out and putting the shade between his thumb and forefinger, the material was firm and smooth. Is that skin? he wondered.
As he shook off the chill that embraced his spine, he took another step to the right, finding himself staring at the bizarre and awesome guitar. This one appears to be handmade. It was one of the baddest-looking, most shreddable axes in the metal world. The dragon-scale pattern across the body and up the neck changed color from green to red as it reflected the soft yellow light.
Iggy was mesmerized.
Just before he could grab the guitar’s neck, a high-pitched voice rang out behind him: “This no pawn shop, you go now!” Mr. Choo’s words came out as if delivered at the end of a whip.
The short, elderly, plump man was wearing a beige robe and sandals that shuffled to the rhythm of his step. Making his way toward Iggy, the old man stopped and repositioned an item and straightened another along the way. As he made his way closer, Iggy saw that he wore an overindulgent Fu-Manchu moustache. Bags of skin piled around his eyes, making them squint even more than necessary.
He made a final adjustment to a stone sculpture depicting a basket swarmed by rats. “This no for you. You go now.” Mr. Choo turned to Iggy, his forehead making waves that rippled to the back of his head. “Are you lost, young man?”
“No, sir, I was interested in this guitar.”
“This guitar no for you. It a decoration,” said Mr. Choo, his fingers intertwined and his head bowed.
“Well, it frickin rocks. I’ll give you two hundred dollars for it.” Iggy said, digging his wallet out.
“No... No... this decoration, it no for sale for you.”
“Well, why not for me?
“Because you play it! It no for play. It decoration.”
“Well, I’ll give you five hundred dollars for it.”
Mr. Choo looked down at his sandals and then to the ceiling. Looking back at Iggy with even more lines in his face, he asked, “You give Mr. Choo five hundred dollars for guitar?”
“Yes. Yes, I’ll give you five hundred,” said Iggy.
After slowly counting the money, Mr. Choo said, “Okay, you take guitar but no play. It a decoration.”
* * *
Iggy got home and immediately put strings on his new guitar. He knew what old man Choo had said, but whatever. How could he not play? After putting in the new strings, Iggy picked up the guitar, gave it a quick tune, placed his fingers in the A-major power chord position, and ran the pick down the strings.
A thunderous bass sound reverberated through the small apartment and sent a chill down Iggy’s back. His whole body shuddered, and his legs faltered a bit. The guitar seemed to vibrate and melt into his body. With another down-strum, he felt a sensation of arousal and fear at the same time. His lips worked back and forth, and he tasted sweat on his upper lip and felt drops run down his neck.
Running the pick across the strings again, his fingers seemed to take over and, before long, he was ripping solos he had only dreamed of.
He played for the next two hours straight before hunger and exhaustion took over. It was well after two in the morning, and he had to work the next day. Tearing himself from the guitar was like pulling a fresh scab. With almost a feeling of guilt, Iggy placed the beauty in a wall cradle, promising to play it again tomorrow.
* * *
The next morning, Iggy woke up to a fuzzy mouth, a pounding head, and a sore back. Having to be at his day job by nine, he dragged himself out of bed. Thanking himself for not staying up any later, he looked into the mirror. Sagging skin and protruding bones were what stared back; his wristbands threatened to slip off. Big, dark circles surrounded his eyes. I gotta get some rest.
After work that afternoon, Iggy burst through the door, eager to play. There was a message from Zak on his machine:
Hey, man, just wanted to remind you we have a gig tomorrow night, so we gotta rehearse tonight. Oh, and pick up some food on your way. Seven sharp. Later, bro.
Iggy grabbed his guitar and thought about how rehearsal tonight was going to blow their minds.
After a couple of hours of shredding the warlock, Iggy jumped in the shower to get ready for rehearsal. While towelling off, he looked in the mirror and noticed wrinkles around his eyes. Man, I gotta get some sleep once again slipped through his mind. He threw on some jeans, a Motley Crue tee shirt and was out the door.
Pulling into Zak’s driveway, Iggy noticed an unfamiliar truck parked next to Zak’s van. The garage door was open halfway. Iggy could hear the beating of drums as he swung around. He pulled his Camaro up next to the mystery guest and went inside.
The drumming stopped the moment Iggy stepped into the garage. Three guys stared at him through a haze of pot smoke.
“Whoa! Dude, what’s up? I didn’t know we were going to dye our hair!” said Lance.
Zak got up from the musty, stain-ridden sofa and handed the remaining half of a blunt to a tall, thin guy wearing a Led Zeppelin t-shirt. “What...in hell is going on, bro?” he asked.
“What are you talking about? I didn’t dye my hair,” Iggy said while walking over to the bathroom. When he looked in the mirror, his heart stopped. Streaks of white ran through the length of his jet-black hair. “What the hell?” he said in a whisper.
Zak busted in behind him, filling the door in the mirror’s reflection. “Hey, man, don’t worry, I like the enthusiasm, but white hair is not a cool look. So just change it back. Okay, man? Cool. Okay, let’s practice.”
Iggy took one last look in the mirror as he turned and followed Zak.
Lance had picked up the beat he was working on, and Iggy was introduced to the Zepplin fan, Jake, Zak’s friend from high school. Jake had been out of town working as a music promoter and heard Zak had started a band.
“I know a few people in the industry,” Jake told them, “so I figured I could hear a little tonight and, if it sounds good, I will get some money guys to check you out tomorrow night.”
“That would be great!” said Iggy, choking on harsh smoke. “Hey, look. I got a new axe, check this out.” He handed the smoke back to Zak and opened his case and strapped the guitar over his shoulder.
Zak, wide-eyed, could not believe it. “That thing is epic!” he said. “Where did you get that?”
“From some old antique shop, last night, when I jumped out.”
“Well, it rocks! Does it sound as badass as it looks?” Zak reached out to touch it. Without thinking, Iggy slapped his hand away. A look of shock raced across Zak’s face.
“Don’t touch! Just don’t touch it, okay?”
Zak pulled his hand away slowly. Staring at his friend, he looked confused and a little apprehensive. “Okay, cool man, cool. Let’s play.”
After only a few minutes of ripping out some face-melting licks, Iggy realized he was the only one playing. When he looked up, three faces were staring back, jaws on the floor in shock, confusion, and awe.
“What? You don’t like it?” said Iggy.
Jake had turned and was on his phone, shaking his head up and down. Zak attacked Iggy with an onslaught of hugs and shoulder punches. “That frickin rocked! Wow! I can’t believe it! How did you learn to play like that?
Jake turned back to the group, sliding his phone into his pocket, wearing a sideways grin, and said. “I just talked to Sammy Buttler, and he said he will be there tomorrow night.”
“Who is Sammy Buttler?” said Lance.
“Only the biggest agent for upcoming bands. He signed that band ‘Rage Warriors’ last summer.”
“Oh man, I hear them on the radio. Do you think he could do that for us?” said Lance.
“If he likes what he hears,” said Jake, “which I think he will, then for sure.”
“Well then, let’s rock and roll, baby!” said Iggy as he let out a mind-shattering riff.
After an excellent set, they decided to take a break. Iggy went to take a piss. He glanced in the mirror, his hair was jet black, and the bags under his eyes were gone.
Iggy’s thoughts raced as he stared at his urine bubbling into the toilet bowl. How could his hair change like that? Am I sick? I feel fine.
After zipping up and splashing some water on his face, he decided to let it go. Telling himself he was just over-amped by the chance to play in front of Sammy Butler. One last glance in the mirror revealed everything was normal, and he headed back to practice.
* * *
Copyright © 2025 by Allen Cash
