The Guitar Player Ch 01

This story is fairly long, so I decided to break it into six segments.

One reader Skubabill has edited a few of my pieces, but I always felt guilty imposing on him, especially when I had a fairly long story. So, I've edited this story by myself. Any and all mistakes are mine, and I fully expect to be called out for them.

I've read the comments about my stories with a mixture of satisfaction and confusion. In the same body of comments, I have found where the husband went too easy on his wife, or he went too far. I've gotten comments that the husband is a wimp or he's too arrogant. I read the comments and try to learn from them. However, let me just say that I write stories that I would enjoy reading on this site. If others enjoy them, then that's great. If some don't like them, well, you can't please everyone. Still, I'm going to try.

I still couldn't believe that Robbie had left me without even saying a word. I was so angry and devastated that he left without a single word to me after twenty-four years of marriage. How could he do that to me? Still, everyone was telling me that I had to put him aside and get on with my life. I know that they're right, but it is still so very hard for me do.

In an effort to try to move on, I had decided to reorganize the basement. It had been Robbie's sanctuary when he just wanted to be by himself and play his guitar. I thought all his stuff was gone, but then I found this one box in a corner next to a bookshelf. Aside from some high school stuff, there were about a dozen notebooks. Apparently, he kept a series of journals over the years. Then I noticed a three-ring binder where Robbie seemed to have put all the disjointed bits of the various journals into one place.

The sight of Robbie's journal brought another burst of sadness, anger, and more tears for him abandoning me. Finally, when I got control of myself, I wiped the tears off my cheeks and took the binder upstairs to the living room. After settling myself on the couch, with my heart still totally broken, I started to read.

Robbie Wilder's Journal

I learned to play the guitar when I was four years old. My granddaddy, Seth Wilder, taught me and bought me my first guitar when I was six. From that time on, it seemed like I had a guitar in my hands just about all the time.

My granddaddy also taught me to love country music. In fact, he taught me to appreciate every other form of music. Well, that's not exactly true. He was hard put to teach any appreciation for rap. And I have to admit that I still haven't found a rap song that stirs my soul. To me, it just seems kind of rough and crude. But I guess that's why they say, "Different strokes for different folks."

On the other hand, there is something about country music that really strikes a chord with me. Now, I'm not saying that I like all country music, but I find way more that I like than I don't. I especially like many of the stars from the fifties through the seventies. Singers like George Jones, Dolly Parton, Willie Nelson, Loretta Lynn, Kenny Rogers, and especially Patsy Cline. I love just about everything those artists did.

When I turned twelve, my parents, Jason and Hanna, let my granddaddy take me on weekend tours of churches within a fifty-mile radius. Granddad was part of a trio that played and sang gospel songs to a dozen or more churches once a month on a rotating basis. The group would perform at two or three churches over a weekend. They were popular, and the attendance at those churches always picked up when they knew granddad and his group would be there.

I remember my dad's last words to me before we hit the road that first time. He knew how nervous I was.

"Robbie, just let the music flow from your soul, and you'll do fine."

And every day since then, whenever I play and sing, I've tried to let people feel how much the music means to me. I can play guitar with the best of them, but I believe my voice is only mediocre. My granddaddy never agreed with my assessment, but then he always thought everything I did was great. Still, I can project power into my songs that most singers can't. And over the years, I've developed an ability to instantly connect with an audience.

Still, on this first trip, I was beyond nervous when we reached the first church. I say church, but in reality, it was just an oversized chapel. It could seat maybe forty people. However, I could see perhaps another two hundred folding chairs set up under the trees around the front and side of the church. I also noticed the speakers hung from the two sides of the church and from a couple of trees. My stomach felt like Jell-O as I followed my granddad up to the altar.

My granddaddy played acoustic guitar with Bert Zimmer playing bass guitar and Willie Stanton playing the banjo or the fiddle. I usually played acoustic guitar, but I could also play the bass guitar or the banjo. I wasn't quite as good as Bert or Willie, but I was damn close. And within two years, I would surpass them.

The church was really pretty with pews that had hand carvings on each end. Also, there were stain-glassed windows all around with their vibrant colors. The altar was made from mahogany with an elaborate cross carved into the center with angels at each corner. The huge crucifix that hung behind the altar had been hand carved. The expression that had been carved into Christ's face made you almost feel his pain.

The Pastor began the service, but I noticed that it was an abbreviated one. We did two hymns to augment his service with me manning the banjo. After we got into the first song, I kind of relaxed. All I had to do was to play my instrument. However, after the church service was completed, we began the real performance. And I knew that I had to sing a duet with my granddad,

Just a Closer Walk with Thee

.

As we got closer to that number, I started to get really nervous again. But my granddaddy was so smooth with the church members that I believed they would have clapped if I screeched like a chicken hawk. Anyway, the numbers leading up to my duet went well, and the church members were quite appreciative. When I got up to sing the duet, I was still very nervous, but a smile from my granddaddy calmed me right down. When we finished, the congregation cheered us. That was the first time, outside of my family, that anyone had applauded my music. It was a thrill like I had never felt before. I was hooked.

The Pastor was extremely pleased. He said that this was the largest attendance his church had ever had. The donations made that day would help pull them out of the red. The only money my granddaddy's group would ever take was a few dollars for gas and food if the church women hadn't prepared something. Before we left, the Pastor wanted to get a date when my granddad and his group would be back. It was decided that we'd return in two months. My granddad liked to give every church that wanted his group an equal chance.

The next church was an hour away, and it was one of those mega-churches. You know the ones that have thousands of members. They actually had their own band that performed most Sundays, but today, the band members were just going to be spectators.

The church seemed more like an auditorium set up for a rock concert. The entire hall was set up to maximize the acoustics. Even the crucifix, made of metal, was angled to minimize any interference to the sounds coming from the altar. The windows, while stain-glassed, looked more like modern art.

As nervous as I had been at the first performance, I was terrified at this one. There would be several thousand in attendance, including the standing room only people. The other church had been small and intimate, while this church was just so huge and intimidating. The sound system was amazing. It would put many recording studios to shame.

What made this performance even more intimidating was that I had to do a solo of

Amazing Grace

. I was sure I was going to mess up big time. This worry had set my stomach to churning. And it didn't help that when we stopped for lunch, I had crammed down a double cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake. It wasn't sitting well on my stomach now. I was having terrible gas pains, but I didn't know what to do. Still, I knew, regardless, I had to go on.

With grit and determination, I clamped down hard on my asshole and tried to soldier through. I was given a small stool to sit on, with a mike set right before me. The group had just begun its first song when I couldn't hold the gas in any longer. I let out this earsplitting fart. And because of where the mike was positioned, it amplified my gastric blast.

The group stopped playing and looked over at me. A hush fell over the church while my face turned sixteen different shades of red. I did the only thing I could think to do. I leaned close to the microphone and said, "The devil made me do it."

A roar erupted from the congregation, and I could see my granddaddy and his buddies cracking up. When things began to settle down, my granddad looked over at me and said, "Don't you have something else you should say?"

With a grin, I leaned into the mic again. "With God's grace and forgiveness, I won't do it again."

Another roar erupted from the congregation. My granddad just chuckled and began to play again. I was never nervous in front of a crowd after that.

Before I knew it, it was time for my solo. Even with what I thought was an average voice, I intended to power into this song. So, I put every ounce of energy I could into my rendition of

Amazing Grace

. As the last notes were fading away, the congregation was on its feet, cheering. The rest of the concert was a huge success.

On the way home, there was considerable teasing about my gastric misadventure. But after dropping off Bert and Willie, my granddad turned serious.

"Robbie, you had a great day today," he said with pride. "However, I hope you won't let it go to your head. I pray you never get the bug to become a famous singer. I've seen thousands of people chase that dream. And many of them are way better than you, but almost all of them wind up being bitterly disappointed. Millions of people every year chase that same dream, and only a handful ever realize success. Just love the music for its own beauty, and you won't ever be disappointed."

Between my daddy and my granddaddy, the basis of my philosophy toward music and performing had taken root. I loved to play even if there was no one around, but I felt doubly blessed if there was someone to share my music with.

I continued to perform with my granddad for three more years. However, the group then began to fall apart. First, Bert had a stroke and couldn't play anymore, and then Willie passed away from a sudden heart attack. Finally, it was just my granddad and me. But after few more months, it ended. My granddad's heart wasn't in it anymore. Besides, I was in high school and had discovered girls.

Actually, I had discovered girls much earlier than this. But I have never understood the workings of the female mind, and I don't think any guy ever will. Perhaps it was just my poor choices, but every time I tried to form a relationship with a girl or a woman, I'd get screwed in the end.

When I was in the third grade, I took a liking to Rebecca Simons. She was a tiny blonde-headed girl that I thought was the prettiest thing ever. We became friendly, and then she said if I gave her my special rock, she would be my girlfriend. In reality, it was just a crystal that my mother had bought me. Still, when the sun shone through it at a certain angle, it would display a rainbow of colors.

However, three days later, Rebecca gave my rock to Jimmy Wheeler to be her boyfriend. When I challenged Rebecca about my special rock, she just laughed at me. I never did get it back.

In the seventh grade, Annie Adams convinced me that she would show me hers if I showed her mine. Being naturally curious, I readily agreed. Unfortunately, we got caught. All hell broke loose, especially when Annie claimed that it was all my idea. And back then, as it is today, they believed the girl. I got the thrashing of my life, but I took consolation in the fact that I had seen Annie's. Still, I didn't understand why Annie had turned on me. When I asked her about it, she just smirked.

As the years progressed, I was suspicious of girls, so I only had a dozen or so dates well into my junior year. I wasn't a bad-looking guy, but I was no hunk. Then I met Sally Bertrand. She was only a sophomore but really cute. I had three dates with her before I asked her to the Junior Prom. She was thrilled, and so was I. I ordered a tux and bought the tickets. Two days before the prom, Sally told me her parents were making her go with Craig Wilkes. I knew this was bullshit. Craig was the captain of the basketball team and a junior who should have been a senior. There was no doubt in my mind, she was trading up.

I was crushed, but there was no way that I would let Sally know it. This was because of some advice my granddaddy had given me. Just before my grandfather decided to stop performing, he asked me if I had a girlfriend. When I told him no, he chuckled and said it was just as well. Then he explained that when I did decide to date girls, there was a good chance that one or more of them would break my heart. And if that happened, he told me to never let the woman know that it bothered me and never beg them to come back. And most importantly, he told me that if someone broke my heart, only time and distance or another woman would mend it.

So, when Sally gave me the news, I told her it was no big deal; I'd just ask someone else. I knew from her expression; She was insulted by my reaction. That alone gave me a small measure of satisfaction. I promptly went and asked one of Sally's friends if they'd like to go to the prom with me. In fact, I asked her best friend, Carol Adamson, who wasn't as pretty as Sally but still cute. She was thrilled. Really, it was a no-brainer for her. A sophomore girl being asked to the prom by an upperclassman was an instant status boost.

The prom turned out to be pretty much a bore. I danced a lot with Carol, but she was really annoying. Just about every sentence out of her mouth ended with, "You know." However, the evening was not a total loss. Craig managed to get drunk on whiskey that someone smuggled into the dance. I learned later that he threw up all over Sally while they were making out. Karma can certainly be a bitch.

I went to community college for a year, but it wasn't for me. Even though I was a music major, I didn't think my professors really understood music. They were big on theory, but they had no soul. So, I dropped out and got a job in a music store where I met and married Suzie Carlucci. She was a hot-blooded Italian girl from a large family. She chased me until I fell hopelessly in love with her. Over the next six months we dated, and I was thrilled when she agreed to marry me. Even though her mother and father hated me, her brothers thought I was cool. They frequently came to the clubs where I performed.

I loved working at the music store, but it certainly wasn't a high-paying job. Even combining my regular pay with what I made from teaching people to play different instruments, I only brought in about thirty thousand dollars a year. However, I averaged roughly a hundred dollars a week playing at various bars and cafes. Altogether, I was earning a little over thirty-five thousand a year. That was more than a lot of people made in Tifton, Georgia.

Suzie and I were married for three years, and I thought everything was great. I loved her to death, I thought she loved me, and the sex was really good. But one day, I came home, and Suzie was sitting in the living room of our rented house with a suitcase next to her.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"I'm sorry, Robbie, but I'm leaving you," she said as she looked at herself in a compact mirror.

My granddad's advice immediately kicked in. "Not that anyone gives a damn, but any particular reason?"

"Once we're divorced, I'm marrying George Menard," Suzie said as she stared at me with disdain. "You have no ambition, and I want so much more than you can ever give me."

"Are you talking about the fat fuck who owns the car dealerships?" I said with a nasty smile. "You've been fucking that? I hear he has a tiny dick."

Suzie laughed at me. "His is larger than yours."

That laugh, followed by the smirk on her face, caused me to snap. Thankfully, I didn't go "postal" on my wife. However, I did grab Suzie by the hair and jerk her to her feet. She started screaming as I grabbed the back of her jeans and lifted her up. I carried her to the front door, kicked it open, and threw her onto the front lawn. Then I threw her suitcase out beside her. Next, I called her parents and told them where they could pick up the trash.

When Suzie's father answered the phone, I snarled into it, "Albert, your slut daughter has been fucking George Menard. I just threw her out onto the front lawn. Pick her up before the garbagemen take her. Of yeah, Menard got her pregnant." Of course, I made that part up.

At the time, I didn't know anything about Suzie being pregnant. I just threw that in because I knew the Carlucci's were big Catholics, and something like that wouldn't sit well. As it turned out, Suzie was, in fact, pregnant. Still, the Carlucci family took her back, but they never warmed up to George. It didn't matter. My heart was shattered, and worse, I could do nothing about it. Having people wrong you and have to sit there and take it is the worst feeling in the world.

Oh, I got a little bit of revenge because my next call was to Mrs. Menard to tell her what her husband and my wife were up to. Apparently, Suzie had jumped the gun a little. Good old George was trying to hide a bunch of money before serving his wife with divorce papers. Now forewarned, Mrs. Menard, Carol, descended on Mr. Menard with a hoard of lawyers. She didn't take him to the cleaners, but she got her pound of flesh out of him. I learned about that from my lawyer in the course of my divorce. However, that little nugget of information didn't really soothe my feelings at all. I was devastated by Suzie's betrayal, and my soul was crushed. Still, I didn't want anyone to know how much I was hurting, so I had to carry on.

Okay, I admit that I did get drunk that night, but I went to my parents and sobered up the next day. I told them what Suzie had done minus the pregnancy part, which I still didn't know about at that time. Instead, I made it sound like Suzie, and I had become more like roommates. I don't know if they believed me, but they were very supportive. Suzie had stabbed me in the back, and calling Mrs. Menard and Suzie's parents was the only revenge I would get.

What made it pure torture for me was seeing Suzie riding around in her new BMW convertible, sometimes with George and sometimes by herself. And Suze decided that she would have her payback for me throwing her on the front lawn. She would drag George to some of my performances and heckle me. I tried to ignore them at first, but finally, I'd had enough and went after them verbally one night. I suppose I crossed the line when I asked Suzie if she knew who the father of her unborn child was, and whether he was white or black. That did get them to leave, but Suzie still won in the end because I got fired. The bar's owner also refused to pay me for the night. Every day it seemed to get worse. Still, I refused to let anyone know how much I was hurting.

The Monday after I literally threw Suzie out, I went back to work at the music store. Around noon, three of Suzie's brothers showed up, and I figured I was going to get the beatdown of my life. When I saw them coming through the front door, I slipped some brass knuckles onto my right hand. They were probably going to kick the hell out of me, but I was going to mess up one or two of them. But they didn't do anything.