The Guitar Lesson

Paulie Moab Utah was raised in a gated community and was home schooled. He thus grew up about as socialized as Romulus and Remus. He had a third string group of music and dance instructors who like his parents knew nothing and who wouldn’t have had the slightest idea of how to teach anybody anything even if they did. His parents took over his math studies, and afterwards their son enrolled in and graduated from Home School University in the add-on bedroom of the Castle Calamari, where he majored in long division.

From “The Home Schooling of Paulie Moab Utah” by the Princess Ireful

“Let’s take a break,” said Gurgling Haddock, the royal strum master, sword-fighting instructor, and poetry coach. He put his Pete Huttlinger Signature OM1 Collings on its guitar stand. Paulie did the same with his Ranger Doug Limited Edition Gibson L5.

“I’m not convinced you were playing your best on that last number. “Don’t you like the blues?”

“No,” Paulie admitted.

“How come?”

“Playing blues is like taking requests to play ‘Brown-eyed Girl.’”

“Well, I promise not to make you do that!” Haddock answered, smiling.

“I guess I’m just not in the mood.”

“What?” Haddock stared a moment at Paulie, then rose to his feet, feeling the rage building up inside him. Mood? How dare he say that? Has he paid no attention at all to his instruction? He was furious and wanted Paulie to know it, so he mule-kicked the chair behind him for effect unintentionally spilling his gin and tonic in the process. Damn! he thought, then turned to Paulie. “You tub of guts!” he roared. “What does mood have to do with it?”

Paulie could see that his teacher was angry or at least pretending to be. Luckily, he had once had a summer job on a fishing smack in the North Atlantic so he knew how to handle Haddock. He picked up his guitar and strummed a Bb major sixth followed by an Eb sixth and an F ninth.

“I’m in the mood for love,” he sang. “C’mon, Gurgling. C’mon! Sing it with me! On the beat, now! ...simply because you’re near me...”

Haddock joined in, crooning the words softly, his head rocking musically from side to side, “Funny but when you’re near me, I’m in the mood...Hey!” he yelled, catching on.

“Keep singing!” Paulie encouraged. “Very good. Tempo. Lightly. Then strongly. Again.”

Haddock put one hand on his hip and said crossly: “I was trying to say that moods are for sword-fighting or reloading your weapon in a firefight. They are NOT for guitar playing!”

“Funny; I’ve always been told just the reverse.”

“Okay, smart guy,” Gurgling said, the anger mushrooming up in him again. “I promised never to ask you to play ‘Brown-eyed Girl’ and I won’t. Same goes for ‘Gloria.’ In fact, I’ll agree to make any Van Morrison tune off limits, all right?”

“You’ve got a deal.”

“Instead, how would you like to be playing an Esteban guitar for some penny-ante busker while she sings Janis Joplin’s version of ‘Bobbie McGee?’ In the subway! Huh? Girls like that are real easy to find, so I can make it happen for you, mister. Bobbity, bobbity, bobbity and all!”

Gurgling Haddock’s eyes were crazed and Paulie realized the strum master was staring at him the way his pet Great Basin rattlesnake used to stare when it nuzzled up to a feeder mouse.

Haddock’s mouth was twisted in anger, cracked half open, and drooling copiously. He stepped close to Paulie—very close. He was a much taller guitar player than the boy.

Paulie was filled with fright. His knees trembled. A rivulet of saliva ran down his spine.

“I’ll invoke the Kurse of Kristofferson on you,” Haddock said.

Paulie’s jaw dropped along with the expensive L5, which made a worrisome cracking sound when it hit the floor. My God, he thought. He really means it.

Fear coursed through him. He recited mentally the words to the famous Benzedrine Geltabs litany: I dassn’t fear. Fear is the Little Prince that brings total nausea, the Mini Cooper that wreaks crampiness, the Tiny Tim who hobbles about in syrupy 19th century pot boilers.... There were others on the list but he couldn’t remember them all, so he fast-forwarded to the end:

I will fear my face and where my face was, there will be nothing. Only fear will remain...

The litany had never seemed to work for the boy and, of course, the reason was obvious: “Fear my face?” Gurgling Haddock had taught it to him backwards in poetry class—backwards!—and he had done it on purpose. It was just another case of sabotage, standard fare back biting in the Atavist household.

And speaking of such, Gurgling Haddock wasn’t even close to being done with Paulie. He towered over the boy menacingly.

“I’ll make you play ‘Stairway to Heaven.’”

“No, please...”

“I’ll put you in a bluegrass band playing the bass!”

“No, no...not that...”

Haddock was on a roll.

“I’ll make you play heavy metal with a wound third string!”

Anticipatory pain shot through the fingers of the boy’s left hand.

“I’ll sign you up for a yearlong tour playing Creedence Clearwater covers.”

Paulie could hardly move, hardly breathe. He just stood there horrified at the...the words... the terrible, terrible words...

“Buster, I’ll put a cowboy hat on you and book you in the Pecos Saloon Saturday nights to play three-chord country tunes in...” He paused to make the point stick. “...the key of vanilla D!”

Paulie fell to his knees.

“Know what else?”

“What?” the boy sniffled weakly. He knew he couldn’t take much more.

“I’ll tell everyone you were one of the guys singing harmony on the Dead’s recording of ‘Truckin’!”

Paulie toppled forward, collapsed in a heap.

When he regained consciousness, he said nothing. He didn’t dare.

“Get up,” Haddock ordered. “Looks like the guitar lesson’s over. Let’s start the poetry class.”

“Yes, sir,” Paulie said meekly. “Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Did you mean all those things you said?”

“If you’d made one more wisecrack, your swan-song at the saloon would have been “‘Little Brown Egg,’” said Haddock. “Now—the poetry class! Repeat after me, “I see England I see France...”