CHAPTER 2 - GUITAR MAN

            It was June and I was 16, an age when the summertime and the possibilities still seemed endless. Emily, my best and probably only friend at the time, was in Corpus Christi, spending the summer with her father and stepmother, and I'd been left to my own devices. As an only child, I was used to being on my own and amusing myself, so I wasn't much bothered by my friend's absence.

            Never particularly gregarious by nature, I had become even less so during the intervening two years since my uncle - the only person in my life to whom I had ever been really close - was killed in Vietnam. I didn't make friends easily in my youth. I still don't, if the truth were told. Having grown up mostly in the company of adults, I never had much in common with children my own age and tended to be bored by their mindless prattle. Emily was about the only one of my contemporaries whose company I could tolerate on an extended basis, and even her presence wore thin at times.

            On the summer evening in question, I'd decided to walk to the corner store for a cold drink. That was a more innocent time, of course, when children could still roam the streets alone and unsupervised in relative safety. It was way back before convenience stores started selling gasoline and gas stations started selling milk. It was a time when the local 7-Eleven really was only open from 7:00 to 11:00, and those extended hours were still a pretty big deal.

            I don't think any Coke before or since has tasted as good as the one I had on that particular evening. It was chilled almost to slush in one of those tall, greenish-glass bottles that had to be returned for a 5¢ deposit. It was so sweet, and so cold that it burned going down my throat. I took another blissful swig and sat down on the wrought iron bench next to the vending machine to enjoy my drink in solitude as I leaned back and closed my eyes, swinging my legs back and forth, scuffing my sandaled feet against the weathered boards of the covered wooden porch.

            That moment, frozen in time, probably epitomizes what I miss most since I grew up and became a responsible adult. I miss being able to sit and do nothing, miss those seemingly inexhaustible and guilt-free hunks of unhurried time. There was nowhere to be, nothing to accomplish, and no one's expectations to fulfill. These days I never close my eyes without being haunted by the specters of the thousand and one details that fritter away the life of the average responsible adult. There are interminable meetings, conference calls, and appointments. Acquaintances and co-workers clamor for my attention along with the ever-growing, guilt-inducing list of things I really must accomplish if I can ever find the time. It seems that the only opportunity I have to stop and smell the roses anymore is when I go to a funeral.

            On that long-ago evening, I was just content to listen to the crickets and enjoy the coolness of the evening after the heat of the day I must have been dozing slightly when I became aware of the sound of a guitar coming from somewhere behind the store. Music was - and continues to be - one of my passions, so I got up and went to investigate.

            My footsteps made crunching sounds as I slogged through the deep gravel covering the Handy Mart's parking lot. Rounding the corner of the store, I crept between the green dumpster and the cinderblock wall, still following the sound. That's when I saw Michael Donovan for the first time. Looking much the same as he did in the photograph, he was sitting on the steps of a high porch that ran the length of his white frame house and faced the back of the store. It was one of those cookie-cutter homes with wooden siding and blue trim, looking much like every other house in this pre-WWII vintage subdivision, remarkable only in its sheer unremarkability.

            Wearing faded blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt that fit very well, he was handsome in a rugged, chiseled-in-stone kind of way. Sitting there, cradling the guitar, alone with his music, his face had a solemn serenity that I found appealing. Not precisely matinee-idol-pretty - but definitely not ugly by any stretch of the imagination - he had a profile more worthy of Leonardo da Vinci's sketchbook than a pin-up layout in some movie magazine. In fact, he rather vaguely resembled Leonardo's Vitruvian Man, a personification of da Vinci's Golden Mean.

             As I cautiously approached the house, he looked up from beneath eyelashes so long that they cast shadows on his high cheekbones. Our eyes met. He had iridescent blue eyes, the kind of eyes that could sparkle with laughter or stare straight through a person, and in that brief instant, I knew that I was looking into the eyes of a friend.

            I won't presume to guess what he might have thought or felt when he saw me for the first time, but looking at him, I felt a definite attraction that was more spiritual than physical. There was just something about him that I couldn't explain, but I wanted to explore further. Eyes really are windows to the soul, and this man's eyes were devoid of malice or guile. He had an honest, open face, and even though we were still strangers, I felt a definite connection unlike anything I've felt since.

            He smiled at me, a transcendent smile revealing a dimple in his left cheek, and I couldn't help smiling back. Though, for some strange reason, my heart had begun pounding and I felt suddenly lightheaded and breathless. Okay, I'll admit that the attraction wasn't entirely spiritual. He nodded to acknowledge my presence but continued with his song, directing his performance to me now, playing for an audience of one as I stood there listening, completely enchanted.

            The song that he was singing was a poem by Robert Burns, Ae Fond Kiss. I first remembered hearing it on one of my uncle's record albums, a collection of Scottish ballads by various artists dating back to folk music's great heyday some ten years prior. I think this particular track might have been sung by Jean Redpath or someone of that ilk.

            Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee! He had an elegiac baritone, and he was managing a passable imitation of a Scottish brogue to suit the patrimony of his song. As I listened to his interpretation of Robbie Burn's lyrics, I was impressed by the emotion with which he sang. It seemed that he wasn't just singing a song. It felt more as though he was telling the story of a personal experience. The ability to so engage one's listeners is a special gift, and it was plain that this man was an especially gifted performer. As I listened to him pouring his heart into the song, I almost imagined that I was hearing the voice of the poet.

            Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met - nor never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. As he began the next verse, the sound of his voice moved me nearly to tears, and I couldn't help staring at his elegant profile. He, on the other hand, seemed momentarily unaware of me. His gaze was fixed on something far away. In that instant, I knew that the emotion with which he sang was real. I had no idea if he was singing about an actual lost love, but I believed that he was definitely singing about some personal loss, and I felt a little as though I was intruding on a private moment.

            Any embarrassment I might have been feeling was quickly swallowed up by my fascination with his musicianship. Watching him play was very nearly as engaging as listening to the sounds he created as his long, slender fingers caressed the strings, effortlessly coaxing music from his instrument. It was like watching a magician's performance and trying to discover how he does the trick. The music seemed to flow straight from his fingers into the guitar and out again to me. I listened as he played a progression of notes from the end of one stanza to the beginning of the next, and it gave me chills. I felt as though his fingers were traveling up my spine instead of the neck of his guitar, and I shivered with unabashed delight.

            His guitar was a Martin, and a very good one at that. I'd spent enough time listening to my uncle, who'd talked about guitars the way other young men his age had talked about cars, to pick up some knowledge about the instrument. He'd praised the virtues of this type of guitar in particular and I knew that it was well regarded and sought after by acoustic musicians, the same way a Fender Stratocaster or a Gibson Les Paul was considered de rigueur for the aspiring rock star.

            As the echo of his finale faded away into the evening, he looked up at me from beneath feathery lashes and awaited my reaction.

            I was suitably awed, my voice barely a whisper, "Wow, that was beautiful."

            He rewarded me with a dazzling smile that illuminated his handsome face and those unbelievably blue eyes. "Why, thank you, ma'am," he said, inclining his head in a courtly little bow. His speaking voice was a deep, soft drawl like warm honey: thick, smooth, and oh so very sweet.

            If I had been wearing socks, they would've been thoroughly charmed off. "Maggie," I offered. I was still holding the wet soft drink bottle, so I transferred it to my left hand. Drying my damp palm unceremoniously on the seat of my denim shorts, I extended it to him for a handshake.

            He took my hand with as much gallantry as a courtier, making me feel for a moment like a duchess instead of a ragamuffin teenager. "Pleased to meet ya, Maggie. I'm Mike." His grip was firm, but gentle, a refreshing change from a certain old man at church who had a habit of squeezing my hand until my rings cut my fingers.

            "Hi, Mike," I said as I released his hand.

            "Have a seat." He nodded toward the place beside him on the step where he was sitting as he began what my uncle had called noodling, which in this case was simply playing random runs and chord progressions. Like most musicians I've known since, Michael was incapable of holding an instrument without playing it.

            "Nice guitar," I observed with sincere appreciation as I eyed the distinctive abalone inlay on the fingerboard, in the purfling, and around the sound hole and tried to get a glimpse of the label inside. "Is it a D-45?" I settled myself on the step and propped my elbows on my knees.

            "Sure is," he said, regarding me from the corner of his eye with equal measures of curiosity and surprise. "Found it in a pawn shop," he said as he leaned toward me. My heart skipped a beat as I caught the clean scent of Ivory Soap on his skin. Michael, oblivious to the effect he was having on me, confided in a conspiratorial whisper, "That old guy didn't have a clue what he'd got a hold of."

            "I'll bet." I was genuinely impressed, and with good reason. The D-45 is not the most expensive guitar made by the C. F. Martin Company in Nazareth, Pennsylvania, but it is by no means an inexpensive instrument. That particular model currently retails for well in excess of $8,000. Of course they didn't cost quite that much in the 70's, but they still carried a $1,200-plus price tag that put the instrument effectively out of the reach of a casual player.

            "An' just how do you know a D-45 from a hole in the ground? You play?"

            I shook my head, "Only the record player," I quipped, and that elicited yet another grin from my new friend. I was discovering quickly that I really liked seeing him smile. "My Uncle Joey had a Martin, though. It wasn't nearly as fancy as that one, but he told me about ‘em. An', he always said he wanted a D-45." I cast a longing look at the instrument. "Please don't stop," I urged. "It sounds wonderful."

            "Always happy to oblige a lady. How 'bout this one then," he asked as he began another tune. It was an old standard, The House of the Rising Sun, which was probably one of the first songs that every guitarist learned to play before Led Zeppelin had come along, and Stairway to Heaven replaced it in rock and roll's musical canon. I listened to the familiar arpeggio chords as Michael began to sing in a strong, clear voice: "There is a house in New Orleans, they call the Rising Sun. It's been the ruin of many a poor boy. And, God, I know I'm one."

            The song had a particularly poignant association for me, and I closed my eyes for a moment, savoring memories both sad and sweet. After a verse or two, I began to harmonize, "Oh, mother, tell your children not to do what I have done." I sang tentatively at first, casting a questioning glance in his direction. Some performers don't enjoy being helped, but Michael was apparently not one of those because he grinned happily and nodded his enthusiastic encouragement. I sang out with more confidence. "Spend their lives in sin and misery in the House of the Rising Sun." The sound of our voices blending was pure joy. It was as though we'd been singing together all our lives. It reminded me of my childhood and singing with Joey.

            "That was real pretty." His raised eyebrows indicated his pleasant surprise.

            "Thanks." I said, as I looked away nervously, then back at his handsome face. I was feeling inexplicably shy.

            "Where'd you learn to sing like that?"

            "Church mostly, I guess," I answered with a nonchalant shrug, "an' singin' with my uncle. He played that song a lot." I couldn't control the slight quaver in my voice as I thought of happier times with Joey and felt his loss all over again.

            Michael noticed because the look he gave me was kindly questioning. "Doesn't he play anymore?" It was a gently leading question, as though he already suspected the answer.

            I shook my head, and looked away again. "Nope." I took a deep and ragged breath before letting it out in a weary sigh. "He died in Vietnam, at Quang Tri. He was in the Marines, a crew chief on a helicopter. They were making an emergency extraction, and he was helping another GI up into the chopper when he got hit." My explanation came out in short telegraphed sentences. Having to say it out loud always filled me with a fresh sense of bereavement coupled with a general anger at the universe at large, and I bit my lower lip to stop its trembling.

            "I'm real sorry," Michael said softly, placing a sympathetic hand on my shoulder and giving a gentle squeeze. "That was a bad scene. I lost some buddies myself."

            "You were in Vietnam?" I looked back at him, curious now and acutely conscious of the warmth of his hand through the fabric of my shirt. I appreciated his spontaneous gesture of comfort, but the actual touch of his hand had taken me by surprise. My parents were not touchy-feely types and except for formal handshakes at church, I couldn't remember the last time I'd had physical contact with another human being.

            He nodded in answer to my question. "Yep, I was in the Army. Two tours In Country." He grew somber at the memory, as though a shadow had passed across his face. Then, he shook his head almost imperceptibly, "But who wants to talk about ancient history? It was ugly and depressing. Bleah!" he exclaimed as he removed his hand from my shoulder and waved it in a dismissive gesture. I felt the absence of his touch as keenly as I'd felt its presence. Michael grinned impishly; his blue eyes sparkling like sunlight through clear water. "Hey! I wanna hear you sing some more," he exclaimed. I smiled in spite of myself, and Michael favored me with a wink as he started to strum another tune.

            Singing was perhaps my chief pleasure, something I'd been doing in church for an audience since I was a small child, and it came as naturally to me as breathing. But singing with Michael transformed an act that was so much a part of my nature as to be almost involuntary into something absolutely intoxicating. Although I couldn't have put it into words at the time, there was something that felt very intimate about singing with Michael, about the way our voices blended, entwining in melody and harmony.

            Conversing with Michael was as easy as singing with him, and I found myself opening up to him on a variety of subjects. In between songs, we traded miscellaneous biographical inanities. I learned that Michael had graduated from Arlington Heights High School just a couple of years before Joey had graduated from Lake Worth, and that he managed the Tennyson Brothers Music Store on Azle Avenue where he gave guitar lessons. I confided equally mundane trivia to him, such as the fact that I was an only child which was one thing we had in common. Also that I was due to start 11th grade at Lake Worth High School in the fall, and that I loved English Lit, but hated algebra.

            We talked and sang together until well after nightfall. Michael seemed to know everything about music and could play any song that I could name, and plenty more that I'd never heard. The sound of his soulful voice and the ringing tones of that incredible guitar transported me beyond the realm of the mundane. I drifted willingly with the ebb and flow of the music. But the hour grew late, and I shivered in the cool night air. Michael seemed as reluctant to put away his guitar, as I was to see the evening end. "This was lots of fun, Maggie Mae," he said finally as he wiped down the strings with a soft cloth to remove the excess oils and dirt before he put the guitar into its case.

            How many times had I watched Joey do that very same thing? More than I could count. He said it made the strings last longer. It was a dear memory, and it made me smile as I got up to leave. "I had a good time, too," I replied. "Maybe I can listen to you play again sometime soon . . . " My voice trailed off hopefully, and I found myself wanting an excuse to linger.

            "You're always welcome," he assured me. His smile was warm and genuine. "Drop by any time."

            And so a friendship flowered.

            When I got home, my parents were watching Johnny Carson on television. The fact that I'd been out alone after dark was not a matter of great concern. In the first place, as I've said before, times were different. There was a lot less trouble for teenagers to get into especially in our modest little neighborhood in northwest Fort Worth. In the second place, I was less apt to get into trouble than a lot of kids my age. I was basically a good kid. Besides, I tended to be a loner, and it's no fun getting into trouble all by one's self. Conspiracies, by definition, require co-conspirators. Mainly though, I think my parents were simply preoccupied. I wouldn't exactly call them neglectful, although that may be as good a word as any. They were just very involved in their own lives. I had long ago accepted the fact that I was not the center of their universe.

            Everyone ought to be the center of someone's universe. I suppose that's the main reason I was first drawn to Michael. He was a grown-up who didn't make me feel like an interruption or an inconvenience. He actually listened to me and seemed genuinely happy to give me his undivided attention. Joey was the last person who had taken that kind of an interest in me. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed the attention until I'd met Michael.

            That night I lay in the darkness of my room and thought about my new acquaintance. Thinking about Michael naturally led to thoughts about Joey. Both Joey and Michael shared a love of music, and from what I could tell, had similar sensibilities when it came to preferences and playing styles. Vietnam was the other thing they had in common. Beyond these superficial similarities, however, I felt an emotional connection to Michael that I hadn't felt with anyone since Joey. There was something about Michael's spirit that reminded me of Joey and everything that had made him so dear to me. Naturally, I turned to Michael as easily as a blossom turning toward the sun.