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He had wanted to learn guitar.
His oldest memory was the faint image of his dad perched on the edge of a stool in the kitchen, one foot higher than the other so his knee was bent, guitar body cradled on his thigh. Nick was seated on the kitchen floor, looking up at him. Dad was playing the song he always did when he wanted to cheer Nick up. Nick had been crying over something- something pathetic that children cry over. Morgan was nearby, folding filling into dumplings and watching the two of them, smiling.
Glenn’s guitar playing had always satiated him. The sight of him, hunched over watching his fingers as they danced on the frets, his hair a curtain in front of his face. Sometimes, when it got too long, the black strands would tangle with his strings. That was usually his sign to cut it back a few inches.
The song didn’t really matter. Dad knew so many songs. For a long time, Nick had though they were all his own creation. That he was the mastermind behind the hits that played on the radio, sung by unfamiliar voices. Nick mentioned it one time, buckled up tight in the backseat of Morgan’s sedan while they were driving to the grocery store. “This is daddy’s song!” He had told Morgan excitedly when the first few notes rang out. Morgan had chuckled and told him, “No, this is Led Zeppelin. Daddy just plays it sometimes,” not realizing the catastrophic blow the information would do to his psyche.
He got frustrated about it sometimes. Hearing songs on the radio played by unfamiliar hands and sung by unfamiliar voices. It felt like a betrayal- like something special had been stolen. Like his dad betrayed him and spread their secret songs to others. He got used to it after a while. Hearing those songs was often his only connection to Glenn for months at a time. The sentiment was bittersweet, but it took him back to those quiet moments from before, sitting on the kitchen floor, holding a freshly bandaged scraped knee close to his chest, and swallowing the sobs so he could hear the music.
He had wanted to learn guitar. Glenn had another plan in mind. “I think you should learn drums. You love to beat on your toys to make music. Drums are a lot like that.” He signed Nick up for lessons with the Glenn Close Trio's drummer. Nick played along during the lessons, complaining when techniques were difficult or the rhythm didn’t come naturally. Glenn encouraged him to practice when he could, but any practice Nick did was out of obligation, not passion.
When Glenn was gone for extended periods, Nick would sneak in some time with the guitars he left behind. He handled them like precious heirlooms. He didn’t understand them- there was too many knobs and dials he was afraid to turn. Sometimes the notes didn’t sound quite right when he plucked the strings, but he didn’t know how to fix it. He’d play anyways, his fingers spidering up the fret board, letting the sound wash over him.
When Nick started drumming lessons, Glenn had taken him to a music center. The entrance room had walls lined with electric guitars. They were there for a pair of cymbals (the old ones on the drum set Glenn had been borrowing had cracked), but Dad had spent almost half an hour wandering through the rows of guitars, pointing out the different brands and shapes- he knew everything by name. While they walked, a few adults were seated on nearby stools, playing around on various guitars. Glenn hummed along to the songs he recognized and complemented a few for their music choices. Then a child, not much older than Nick, climbed onto one of the stools and plugged the end of a chord into the guitar nestled in his lap. The amp buzzed with electricity upon connection, and all the vibrations created as the kid tried to wrap his hand around the neck hummed in the speaker. Glenn stopped to look, curious at who the newest performer in the store was. When he noticed the frustration in the kid’s face as he throttled the fret board trying desperately to get his small hands to stretch across the strings, Glenn approached him and knelt beside him.
“It helps if you’re holding it like this,” he lightly pushed the neck of the guitar upwards so it was no longer angled horizontal. The kid looked surprised at Glenn’s spontaneous interaction, but followed the guide, adjusting his shoulders so he wasn’t shrugging over. He tried to reach across the neck again to configure his fingers into a G chord, but his expression was pained and frustrated. “You can use your third finger for the lower string instead of your pinky, if that helps.” Glenn plucked a guitar off the wall and modeled it with his fingers, “Like this.” He strummed lightly, and the strings rang a metallic chord out.
The kid muscled around for a second before finally managing the position. He ran his thumb across the strings to play the chord, but the bass string buzzed unpleasantly.
“Try not putting so much pressure on your thumb,” Glenn reached out for the kid’s hand, lightly holding his wrist as he helped adjust the angle of his hand so his thumb wasn’t wrapping around the back of the neck. The kid strummed again, this time the chord rang out clear. His face split into a grin, and Glenn nodded proudly. “You got it!”
“Thanks, mister,” the kid waved as Glenn lead Nick off to the drum section.
Nick thought a lot about that day. He didn’t know the kid’s name and barely remembered his face. His dad’s expression of encouraging hope was forever clear in his mind.
While Nick bent over his father’s Fender, he imagined his voice. “Don’t choke the neck,” he could hear him saying, “keep your grip loose, and don’t try to push the strings down too hard.” Except he never did say those things to him. But he could pretend. He could pretend he wrote all those songs on the radio, he could pretend that there wasn’t a country between them, and he could pretend that Glenn’s hand was guiding his down the fret board. Nick tried to recall the song Dad would play when he was crying on the kitchen floor, learning the notes by ear. First an E, then maybe an A…
Rise and shine,
My little star.
Don’t give up.
You’ve gotten this far.
A little bit longer,
And I’ll be home.
A little bit longer,
There's no need to roam.
Because I love you,
so please don’t cry.
We’ll be together,
And we’ll never say goodbye.