The Room Where The Light Won’t Find You

In order to tell this story, I have to make up a fake name.

I guess I’ll call him “Luke.” As in, “Skywalker,” or maybe, the Lucas McCain character from “The Rifleman.”

A gunslinger if there ever was one. However, his weapon of choice wasn’t a lightsaber or a Winchester Model 1892. He wielded a ’69 Fender Stratocaster.

And when he did, oh, boy… you’d best fasten your seat belt.

He was astounding, gifted. A prodigy, an artist and a dangerous maverick, all wrapped up in one. He was a natural, and could play any style or song that you could possibly think of, adding his own melodic eleven different herbs and spices to the recipe. The results almost always defied description.

When you were a kid, maybe for some of you it was the head cheerleader or the accomplished athlete.

Perhaps it was the talented drama kid. Or, it was some other archetypical high school popularity contest winner that you wanted to “be just like.”

In my case, it was this guy. I was proud that he’d treated me like a friend since the eighth grade. I really admired him. And I just about lost my mind when one day, near the final days of senior year, he said to me:

“Hey, come over after school. We need a rhythm guitar player.”

I gave it a shot. But it quickly became apparent to all that I was punching way above my weight. After a few weeks, Luke was cold and businesslike when he told me that he and the band would be better served if I would “step down.”

After that day, we never spoke. I felt pretty bad about suddenly being on the “outside” as a teenage wannabe rocker. And also as a now-former member of that weird, long haired rag-tag gang who would meet up every day at the local greasy pizza joint, to talk for hours about girls and guitars.

Within a month of graduation, I learned that Luke had moved away to literal fame and fortune. In no time at all, he became a top, in-demand New York studio player. And although I tried to convince myself otherwise, I knew deep down that he didn’t consider us to be “friends.”

That is, until one day in the early summer of 1985.

I came home to see the red flashing light on the answering machine. I hit the button and heard a voice from 10 years earlier.

“Hey, mt, long time no hear from, what’s going on, man? Hey, I’m in town for a couple of days, and I’ve been thinking about something… let’s get together and talk! OK, man, I’ll try you again later.” He called back again, at nearly one-o-clock in the morning.

“Something an honest-to-God professional musician would do,” I remember thinking.

We ended up meeting the very next evening for coffee. He looked a lot older than I thought he would, even after I’d mentally added the 10 years that were now in our shared rear view mirror.

We talked for a minute and a half about nothing, when he suddenly blurted out, “I want to apologize about that band thing back in senior year. It was all wrong, man.”

Before I could muster up any kind of a reply, he pivoted like a pro. “You know, I heard you’ve been playing, and doing really well. Word gets around, ya know. I heard you’re killing it. Tell me about the shows!

This was… something. This was a guy who had actual player credits on real records. And he wanted to hear about my gigs?

I was all too happy to tell him all about the time last month that I was on stage, and-

He interrupted almost immediately.

“Hey, you know, so, the thing is… I have been having kind of a slow time booking work lately. Just one of those little dry spells, between sessions, right? It’s no big thing. Part of the scene, you know? It happens all of the time in New York.

So I was wondering? You able to spare a couple of bucks? Just so I can help out the fam while I’m at home? I have a ton of gigs coming up in a month. And I can pay you right back.”

I sure hadn’t imagined that this was where we were going.

But… it was true. After a long period of comparatively empty pockets, I was very lucky to have been doing pretty well at the time. And I vividly remembered how bad it felt to consistently be in the overdrawn bank account club.

I had one of those new fancy-pants bank cards, with a pretty fat limit for ATM withdrawals. And this was clearly an emergency. An old friend needed help, and I decided on the spot that any stupid, old high school drama was now water under the bridge.

“Sure, I said. C’mon. There’s a bank machine around the corner. I’ll drive.”

He pocketed the $400 in fresh twenties. We stood for a second in the dark parking lot. And then he asked about the guitar that I “just happened” to have in the back seat.

I had really wanted to hear him play it and handed it over. But he said, “No, no – you play.” I gingerly took it back, and just riffed on the first thing that I could think of. It was the final, terrific outgoing solo from a recent hit song that I had just heard again on the radio, on my way to the coffeeshop.

He listened. He kept his head down, as if what I was doing was worthy of scholarly analysis, or something. I tried hard to make each note count.

He said, “Oh, yeah, this tune… yeah, you definitely have it, right there. That’s it.” And without raising his eyes, he stared at the pavement quietly said, “I appreciate the help. I’ll always remember how you bailed me out whenever I hear this song.”

A week later, while standing in the rain pumping gas, I ran into a local musician, a drummer named Steve. I said excitedly, “Oh, wow – you’ll never guess who I saw last week!

“Yeah? I’ll bet that I can,” he said.

And that’s when I learned that my high school music-guy-crush didn’t come back to town to help out his mother.

She’d died three years earlier. He lived in his car. He hadn’t picked up a guitar in years. “He’s real trouble,” Steve continued. “He’s putting the touch on everyone. He stole money from some of the guys. He’s a full-on junkie. Nobody wants to have anything to do with him. He’s bad news.”

And as he looked right at me, he knew immediately that I too, had been conned. “I don’t know how much you gave him, but I can say for sure that it all went up his nose. If not into his arm.” Then he said,

“Look. I get it. I know the two of you go way back, and I’m sure that you meant well.”

“But I’m telling you: if he calls you again, do yourself a big favor. Hang up the phone.”

---

This is the part where I’m supposed to tell you how great everything was after that moment. How I looked him up, found him, and helped him. How I stood up for an old buddy, and how he turned his life around.

I’m supposed to tell about how we are good friends to this day, and how much fun all of it is, because we still meet up regularly, and play all of the old songs. I’m supposed to tie this up with a nice, happy ending.

But I can’t.

Once I knew the truth, I should have reached out. I should have been the definition of a friend and tried to help. But I was too preoccupied with being hurt, angry, and feeling sorry for myself about being deceived and used.

So I let it drop. I decided right then and there with the gas nozzle in my hand: I was done with him.

And it was only a month after the coffeeshop reunion that I learned the news about who the cops had found in a ditch, under a bridge in the next town over.

That’s when I learned that he was to be forever 28 years old.

Over the years, I’ve thought about all of this quite often.

My usual conclusion is that a better man would have found some way to do something. All of the rationalization and tossing it over in my head is just a way to avoid the simple fact:

I didn’t step up. Could have, but didn’t. And I’m afraid that it’s as simple as that.

And it’s my warped reason why for years, I never listened to the entirety of a particular Number One record that I otherwise love to celebrate.

And in the long run, I realize that my quirky reaction is an unhealthy response. So, I decided all way back during our collective tnocs virtual year of 1980, that I would make a change. I’m going to try and take it back: and listen to Everybody Wants To Rule The World all the way through without hitting ‘shuffle’ or changing the station when the outro solo starts to play.

I’m goin’ for the full fade. I’ll make it though.

And the next time this one finds it’s way on your playlist? If any of you are not too busy, maybe join me in spirit? Because I just might be listening to it, too.

And truth be told, I could use the virtual company.

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