Nathan
BY THE TIME I ride the ten miles back to Franklin on my bike, it’s almost eleven-thirty. Heading down the street where our house sits at the end of a cul-de-sac, notable names in the country music industry on either side of us, I can’t help but notice the difference between here and the place where Ann-Elizabeth lives.
I think of the rows of grimy trailers and feel a stab of guilt for the life I have. I try to remember if I have ever felt guilty about it before, but can’t think of a time when I did. I don’t know that I’ve ever had cause to make a comparison. Of course, I’ve driven through neighborhoods nothing like my own, but I never really had a reason to wonder who lived there and how different their life must be from mine.
But tonight, I did.
Maybe I should have before now. I wonder though how we come to question things that aren’t part of our own experience. I guess we only do that when it actually does become our experience.
I put my bike in the garage and enter the house through the door leading to the kitchen. I down a glass of cold milk from the fridge and head into the living room. My dad is still up, strumming a couple of enviable licks on his guitar when I walk in.
“Hey,” I say.
He looks up with a distracted smile, as if he’s just noticed I’m here. I recognize the look on his face. It’s the one he gets when he knows he’s on to something that’s going to turn into a good song.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I say.
“You’re not, son. Come on in.” He puts the guitar down on the sofa next to him. “You’re out late.”
“Just visiting a friend.”
“Ah. Girl or boy?”
I shrug. “Just a friend, Dad.”
“Okay.”
“That sounded good,” I say, sitting down on the chair across from him. “That lick you were playing.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Not sure where it came from, but I kinda like it.”
“Who’s it for?”
“My publisher booked a session with Holden Ashford for Friday. I’d like to go in with some good ideas.”
“Doesn’t he write his own stuff?”
“A lot of the time, but apparently, he’s been a little busy being a dad, and they’re looking for something fresh.”
“Cool.” I pick up my own guitar from the spot where I’d left it earlier and sound out the chords he’d just played. I hesitate for a moment and strum the additional notes I hear in my head.
Dad raises an eyebrow and follows along. From there, he adds a little more, and we go like that for a while until we’ve got the basis of something good. I sit back and look at him with a small smile.
“Pretty soon, I’m going to have to start putting your name on things.”
“Nah,” I say, playing through it again. “It’s your original inspiration.”
“You have the ear, son.”
“Thanks. Pretty clear where I got it though.”
“Any new thoughts on what you want to do after high school? This last year goes fast.”
I shrug, aware that I don’t have the courage to voice what I really want. “Belmont, maybe.”
He stops strumming and studies me for a moment. “Am I correct in assuming you’d rather skip the college part and get on to the real world part?”
“Pretty much.”
He’s quiet for a moment, picking at his guitar. “I’ve told you my story before, so it’s not like you don’t know it. But maybe it’s worth me saying again. My dream was to write country music for a living. As it turned out, I was able to do that. But I definitely didn’t take the easiest road here. I spent a lot of nights sleeping in the back seat of my old Honda Civic. Both of us know you aren’t going to need to do that, but if I have a regret, it’s that I know I could have benefited from some formal education. Talent is a main ingredient. You have that, son. There’s something to be said though for taking the time to learn from the masters.”
“I’ve learned from you.”
“And I’m proud of that. I’m just saying there’s nothing wrong with going to school and working on your dream at the same time. It’s a fact that one is almost certain to help the other.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
“Fair enough.”
“Hey, Dad.”
“Yeah?” He looks up at me, his expression expectant.
“There’s this girl I went out to see tonight. I actually asked her to Homecoming.”
“What’d she say?”
“She doesn’t really have the money for a dress.”
“Oh.”
“I told her she could wear one of Hannah’s. She’s got plenty.”
He sits back on the sofa, sets his guitar down on the floor. “I can appreciate the logic of that, son, but what did she say?”
“She probably sees it as a hand out.”
“Yeah.”
“So what would have been the right thing to say?”
“That’s a tough one.”
“I’d like to take her.”
“Does she want to go?”
“I think so. Except for the dress thing.”
“Maybe you ought to just tell her you don’t really care what she wears. You’d just like to take her to the dance. And if she wants to go, she’ll either take you up on the offer or not. But then it’ll be her decision without having to feel like you’re offering her charity.”
I think about what he’s just said, and then, “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know you didn’t. But put yourself in her place.”
“Is that really possible?”
“Probably not. But most of us don’t like feeling like we need a handout.”
“So should I just forget it?”
“She might change her mind.”
“I guess I’m not very good at not getting what I want.”
“Maybe this will give you some practice.”
“Excellent.”
He smiles at this, standing. “Past my bedtime. ‘Night, son.”
“‘Night, Dad.”
I sit there for a while after he goes upstairs, wondering why I’m wanting something I’m probably not going to have. Is it just the challenge of it and the fact that I’m not used to hearing no?
If it is, then that pretty much makes me a jerk.
The truth is I think it’s actually way more than that.