Chapter 18 #2
“I used to play a little, but not for years,” Cliff said.
Seven long years, not since his arrest. It was one of the few things he loved from his previous adult life.
The rest he could shove in a blast furnace and never look back.
But he missed his guitar. His mother had taught him how to play when he was young, and he had a natural talent for it.
She would sit in the sunroom in their house and teach him how to play classical jazz, Spanish guitar songs, and pop hits of the seventies.
She once said after marveling at the ease and joy with which he played, “Your heart is in this, Cliff. You will always have it.” His heart beat a little faster as he eyed the guitar Paul had been playing.
Paul seemed to sense this and without hesitation handed it over. “Give her a try.”
“Really?”
“Buddy Guy wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“This is Buddy Guy’s guitar?” Whoa. He held it like a knight who had been offered a sword by his king.
“Yes, sir. I set it up for him for years whenever he did his West Coast tour. He gifted it to me back in ’96 as a thank-you.”
“So, I’m playing Buddy Guy’s guitar,” Cliff said, in awe.
“Well, not yet you ain’t. C’mon. Let ’er rip.”
Cliff sat down on the leather sofa and held the guitar, caressed the neck, played a couple of strings, and heard the deep hollow of the bass notes, the clarity of the high notes.
He plugged into the amp. He felt a little giddy, holding this mythic guitar, unsure if his fingers would remember how to play.
He reached for a guitar pick from a little tray on the coffee table in front of him.
He cleared his throat, looked up at the patient, encouraging face of Paul, and laid into the strings.
It felt like coming back home to a woman you were still in love with, who opened her front door and her heart at the same time.
The rest of the room fell away, his anxieties loosened as he curled himself over the warm instrument, feeling his way through the rhythm more than remembering.
He played a little Steely Dan, then floated into an old Frampton tune, and ended up on a jazz classic “Darn That Dream,” when Paul picked up another guitar and joined him.
Paul and Cliff created the sound of that beautifully sad, lilting refrain.
This was the first time he felt truly free since he walked out of prison.
They played one jazz classic after another, Cliff leaning into it, feeling the exhilaration of reclaiming his soul; a fresh start, his possibility of redemption becoming more real by the minute.
The music seemed to open him up to the possibilities.
To the fragile belief that he could be better than his past. That he could overcome it.
Paul would start and Cliff would recognize the song and join, and vice versa. They were having a conversation, getting to know each other without saying a word. Finally, Cliff stopped and took a deep breath. He smiled broadly at Paul. “I needed that more than you know.”
“That’s the thing about music, right? Best drug in the world.
When it hits you, you feel no pain.” Paul rested his guitar on a side stand and got up.
“You either get lost in it for a while, or you find whatever it is you’ve been looking for.
It’s magic that way.” Paul sauntered over toward the back of the parlor where there was a small bar.
He grabbed two glasses and held them up.
“Drink?”
“Just a water if you have one.”
Paul shrugged and poured himself a brown liquid that Cliff knew was whiskey. He brought it over with a bottle of water for Cliff.
“So, tell me about yourself. Where you from?” Paul asked as he sipped.
Cliff’s shoulders tightened. He was unaccustomed to the straightforwardness of Paul’s questioning until he realized this was probably how normal people conversed, without suspicion or agenda.
Given the instant camaraderie that playing music together had created, Cliff also felt strangely obliged to tell the truth.
Not the whole truth, of course, that would be crazy, but as much as he could muster.
“I’m new in town. My name’s Cliff Weston.”
“And what brings you to our humble beach town?”
“I’m starting a security business here, for homes and small businesses. Needed a fresh start.”
“You’ll be in high demand here. Paranoia runs deep among the affluent.”
“Speaking of security.” Cliff gestured to the walls. “These guitars, some are priceless, no?”
“Indeed they are.” Paul sat back and gazed at him.
“I could help you with a security system.”
“I might take you up on that.” Paul nodded as if he approved. “So, a fresh start, huh? You running from something or to something?” Paul asked.
This put Cliff on edge, but as soon as he looked over at Paul, who was wearing an easygoing smile, he forced himself to lean into his freedom, to calm down and answer. “I guess you could say I’m running from an old way of life.”
Paul nodded and took this in. “I’ve brushed up against my share of wayward souls, hell, I even was one as a younger man.”
Not one to trust so easily, Cliff simply said, “Hence the fresh start.”
“My favorite stories.”
“How’s that?” Cliff asked.
“New beginnings are my favorite stories. Usually rife with freshly learned lessons from mistakes that were made, decisions that were catastrophic, loves that were lost.”
“I’ve made my share of mistakes, and bad decisions, and … loves lost, too,” Cliff said, trying to hide the regret in his voice.
Paul took a pause and a sip, then put the glass down.
“I have this theory that mistakes are just your subconscious working toward a different solution. All the decisions you’ve ever made up to this point, even the disastrous ones, are what got you exactly where you are right now.
” Paul picked up and began to strum at the guitar again.
“And where you are right now ain’t too shabby, my friend.
” Paul gestured toward the picture window, where Cliff could see waves crashing on the sandy beach.
Cliff’s mind quieted in that moment. He took in the sounds of Paul strumming, his bare feet keeping a beat on the Persian rug.
The golden sunshine streaming through the window lighting up the dust motes in the parlor.
Here he was, a free man. Here in the presence of Paul, some sort of Buddha of the Beach.
He could feel himself relaxing for the first time since he’d gotten out. “I think you might be right.”
“Of course I’m right,” Paul said as he strummed “Hallelujah” by Leonard Cohen.
Paul didn’t look up, he just kept playing until he got to the chorus of the song and said, “It’s about being true.
You’ll never get what you want with a lie.
That’s now how love or the universe works, man. To thine own self be true.”
Cliff suddenly felt like he’d said too much although the contrary was true.
He’d shared vague details, nothing concrete, but somehow Paul sensed the turbulence and uncertainty that lay just under the surface.
His quest to build the life he wanted on this last chance was already marred by a roll in the hay with the unstable waitress from OB’s.
He swore that he would not fuck up further, that he would get back to the good and decent version of himself that his mother raised him to be, but somehow, he felt he was on precarious footing, as if he was trying to cross the narrowest of rickety bridges with a thousand-yard drop-off that led straight back to prison. “Can I ask you a question?”
“I’m here to answer all your questions.” Paul looked Cliff in the eye.
Odd reply, but somehow Cliff thought it was completely true.
“Where can a guy get a good steak around here? I’m celebrating.”
Paul smiled. “I got just the place.”
Cliff saw the sign for the Arthur J., and his mouth began to water.
As he opened the door, he was greeted by a stunning young hostess wearing a skintight black dress and sparkly gold earrings. She graced him with an enormous smile. “Welcome to the Arthur J., table for one?”
Cliff looked over at the small oak bar. The only other soul over there was a woman sitting by herself, sipping a martini. The faint scent of honeysuckle wafted over in his direction. He knew that scent. His eyes grew bright and all at once, he knew who it was.
“I’ll just take a seat at the bar,” he said to the hostess as he brushed by her.
It was time for a proper celebration.
Even if it included risking parole with one perfect martini.