Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Hit Me With Your Best Shot


She carried her naked Ovation, no case, to her first lesson with Mr. Meyers.  Later she carried it to her first gig with a rock band. She can’t remember the name of that band.  She can see all the band members in her mind’s eye but can’t place their names.  Hell, she even slept with the drummer five times. Or was it ten?  Off they would go after practice on some nights or on days off to the Motel 9.  He would always be the gentleman and pick her up, say hello to the Mother if she was there and then head out for some afternoon delight.  Not a Motel 6 or a Super 8.  It didn’t feel as sleazy in a more ‘upscale’ motel.  It wasn’t sleazy at all.  He was sexy hot.  He had actually come on to her, winking at her from his kit behind her, watching her ass move as she took her well-rehearsed in the mirror rock star stance, legs spread wide, one knee bent forward or resting on the monitor, with her guitar, the boat paddle as the lead guitarist called it, strapped low on her hips, screaming out a few Pat Benatar tunes.  Hit me with your best shot.  He did and she let him.

The guitar carried her though a lot of disappointment and loss. It helped her write woe is me, love unrequited, love lost songs when she could face the pain front and center.  When she couldn’t, her   That guitar stood beside her as she sang next to her bandmate when he moved on to her fellow vocalist.  She hid behind her guitar when the deepest wound was inflicted, sobbing through an emotional love song, screaming the lyrics to a believing audience. “Man, she sings from the heart.” If they only knew.

anger fueled fingers into power chords of protest and anti-war songs.

That guitar gained and lost her friends.  When she landed in the hospital for a week and then a month   “You have your own.  Why do you need mine?” she replied.  The guitar stayed with its owner and that friend was carried to the pile of exes – boyfriends, lovers, parents, best friends.
recovery, her so-called best friend asked her not, “Is there anything I can do for you?” but “Since you won’t be able to play your guitar, can I have it for a while?”

The guitar finally landed in its own case and was carried to the closet after her first child was born.  The depression hit and it must have been worse than during her protest war, I hate my parents, no one loves me not even my mother, you fucking asshole best friend songwriting days, because she lost all desire,  
energy, gumption, her need to pick it up and allow it to carry her over this hump. The hump was too big.  It carried too much sorrow for too many years.

The guitar was carried to the moving van and into the new house, where it was carried down to the basement where all things bad go to hide.  Three years later, it called to her, a sweet, ‘remember me?’ call to reunite, share memories from their past, rekindle the romance that once burned calluses onto her fingertips from too much playing. She had been singing in a band without her trusted old friend and her fingers were rusty on the strings so she took her old pal for a class at Old Town School of Music where she met new bandmates for a new version of an old band.  Once again, she took her rock star stance on stage and the two of them, trusted guitar and she, wrote new woe is me love lost but I could give a shit about you anymore, you dickhead love songs and re-grew the calluses on her fingertips.
 
The guitar and her enjoyed the next ten fruitful years together, carrying each other through broken strings and marriages, cracked Ovation body and warped cracked-in-the-head mother, children and plenty of solo gigs, just her and it, before setting it aside once again to deal with life, work, children, dying father, sickly warped cracked-in-the-head mother, another go at acting and a new business.

She picks it up every now and then when a special song is needed for a friend’s living wake or one time stage performance.  It is old, wise, with a sweet aged sound, cracks and all, and her body knows it well.  They fit together like a puzzle, each holding an edge of themselves to the other, creating one undeniable unit of sound, memory (when it does work) and friendship.

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