“Oh,” I say, and I can only imagine why. The last time I saw my father, he was rifling through my childhood house looking for money to pay off gambling debts. Years later, my mother explained that she got a restraining order filed the next day. Apparently the people he owed money to threatened to hurt me and her. She says it was to protect us from him. I believed her, but I’ve always had this need to find out why he never came back. Why he never tried to make things right.
“Yeah, he’s a weird dude. I don’t know why you’d want to see him,” the guy in front of the microphone says, and his voice echoes throughout the street. “Damn, I forgot to turn off the mic.” He smirks and steps on a pedal in front of him.
“You guys have a pretty cool setup,” I observe. Rob and I have only tinkered with our instruments and have nothing close to what these dudes have. There are at least six amplifiers, and their instruments are high end. I look around the neighborhood and see that it’s pretty run down. These guys don’t seem like they can afford some of the instruments that they’re holding in their hands. The bass player is playing a Rickenbacker that I know for a fact is over twelve hundred dollars. The guitarist, and I presume the lead singer, is playing a Fender American Telecaster—a majorly expensive model. The drums are a seven-piece Gretsch kit that reminds me of the setup of Taylor Hawkins from the Foo Fighters.
Who are these guys?
“I’m Tristan,” the bassist says. “This is my house.”
I nod toward Tristan as I ogle the extra guitars lined up in front of the lead singer.
“Do you play?” the drummer asks.
“A little,” I say, and I walk toward one of the Fender Stratocasters.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Garrett.”
“You already met Tristan. I’m Dax, and this is our fearless leader, Alex.”
I pull my left hand out of my pocket and wave. “Nice to meet you.”
“We’re Epic Fail,” Tristan says.
“Cool name,” I say and realize my hand is on the neck of the Strat.
“Play with us,” Alex says as he steps on one of the pedals in front of him and strums his American Telecaster. The sound fills the garage and Dax slaps his sticks together. They burst into a familiar song and within seconds I’m caught up in the perfect rhythm they have.
Before I know it, the Strat is around my neck and I’m taking over lead from the singer. He switches to rhythm guitar almost immediately, and the transition is seamless.
After playing a half-dozen cover songs together, I place the guitar back on its stand. I’m in a bit of a daze, and their whispers are caught on the still open microphones.
“He’s amazing,” Tristan says, and both Dax and Alex nod their heads in agreement.
I suddenly feel out of place as I look toward my father’s vacant home. “I need to leave,” I say and back out of the garage, pivoting on my feet.
“Wait!” Alex’s voice booms through the amplifiers.
Chuckles reverberate behind me and I turn around.
“Come back next Saturday. We’ll be rehearsing for a local gig and it would be cool if you came.” Alex has his hand over the mic and is talking in a normal volume.
“Really?” I ask. My mother will never let me come out here. This is going to be impossible to explain.
“Yeah, dude. Your hands were like magic!” Tristan says. “The way you and Alex played off each other was like, really amazing.”
I stuff my hands back into my hoodie and almost trip walking backwards.
“Thanks, but, um…I don’t live around here.”
“Who cares!” Dax says. “You need to get back here next week.”
I nod and try to figure out what lie I’m going to tell my mother.
Hanging with these dudes was the most comfortable I’ve been in a long time. Playing music with them felt so natural. Melodic.
I look over at my father’s house again.
“How do you know that dude?” Alex asks.
“I had the wrong address. I don’t know him at all,” I lie and crumble the paper that’s in my pocket with my father’s name and address, tossing it into the trashcan at the curb.
Alex raises his eyebrow but seems to accept my fib.