Have A Little Faith In Me (8 page)

“I don’t wanna.  I don’t wanna and I’m not gonna.”

Shocked silence.  The first silence of the day. 

His dad reached over and smacked him upside the head.  “What the fuck you mean you don’t wanna!”

“It’ll mess up my hands.  For guitar.”

He snorted.  “Shit, you ain’t never gonna be a real guitar player.”

Dex should have been used to it by now, the relentless negativity.  But it still hurt.  “But you gave me a guitar!”

“Yeah, I gave you an
electric
guitar.  So you could pick up girls.  Not so you could pussy out on football.  And play that fucking acoustic like a fucking Commie folk singer.”

“Language!” Carla shouted.  “Dex, football could be your ticket to the big time.  You could be a star!”

“Or I could get smashed up and be good for nothing, like Johnny Duke.”  Johnny was a neighbor kid who’d been a huge prospect.  He’d had a scholarship to Ole Miss in the bag, and then kabam, broke his leg in two places, and now he’s working at a convenience store.

Mike waved the thigh at him. “You suck on that guitar, I hear you practicing.  And what’s that shit you’re playin’, how come you don’t play some Randy Travis?  You better get your priorities straight.”

Dex fumes.  “Speaking of priorities, I gotta do homework.” 

“You ain’t that bright, either,” Dad grumbled after him.  “Schoolwork ain’t gonna get you anywhere.  Carla, get me another beer!”

“You ain’t gettin’ another DUI on my watch, mister.”

Dex took his guitar out to the free-standing garage, going through the back door to avoid letting his dad see it and get a chance to make another dumbass comment. 

Because Dex was sixteen years old, emotional hurt got expressed back out again as anger.  The detached garage had become his space by default.  There was a jumble of tools haphazardly stuck on the wall, and a punching bag.  Mike had bought the bag off Craigslist one day when he thought he was a badass.  But he punched the bag about as often as he used the tools.  Not since the day he’d tried a flying kick and landed on his ass, to the hysterical laughter of his family.

Dex put on the boxing gloves.  Even in his rage he made sure to protect his fingers.  He got in a fighting stance, then began pounding the bag.

He hated his father with the raging disgust only a teenager can feel for a parent.  His dad was a deadbeat, plain and simple.  Right about now he’d be in the kitchen, the freezer door open, a gallon of ice cream in one hand and a soup spoon in the other, as if he was just going to have a bite.  And he’d fucking
stand there,
Dex thought as he landed a series of jabs and crosses,
shove shove shoveling that ice cream down his gullet.

Then, he knew, his dad would go to work, and do just what he’d done at every job he’d ever had – goof off as much as possible, slack off and string out the easiest task as long as he could, devoting more energy to thinking of ways to get out of working than it would have taken him to do his job. 

“Goin’ back to a real job when the plant opens again,” he’d say to his drinking buddies as they sprawled in the new patio furniture scattered across the front lawn.  They’d nod and raise their beers, as if any of them would ever go back to the plant, where they’d actually had to work, if they could help it.

Tonight he’d go to work at the casino, and he and his buddies would cover for each other as they took naps in the one corner of the casinos that someone had thoughtlessly forgotten to cover with a camera.  Then he’d come home, drink some more, pass out, snore like the devil from his COPD, wake up in time to throw up from his GERD, and then wash the bile back down with his first beer of the day.

When he’d pounded the bag to his satisfaction, Dex took off the gloves and took his acoustic guitar out of its case, gently.  He loved this Martin guitar.  Johnny Cash played a Martin, and that was all he needed to know. 

He’d bought it for a couple hundred bucks off one of his dad’s friends who’d been short of cash and, of course, hadn’t played it in years.  Most of Dex’s paychecks went to music-related purchases, where other boys his age spent theirs on a car.  Dex was content to walk forever if that was the price he had to pay.

He got his fingers flexed, sounded out some chords, then thought about what he wanted to play.  He wasn’t a book learner, couldn’t march through the Mel Bay books, down the accepted path of orderly progression where you learned all the chords before you played the songs you really wanted to play.  He wanted to play NOW, not later.  He’d learned the opening to Nirvana’s “Come as You Are” before he ever touched “Red River” or “Amazing Grace.” 

Mike played the electric guitar sometimes, when he and his friends were drunk and decided they’d “jam” in the front yard.  He’d bang on it and mess up the chords and laugh.  Then he’d take a break for another beer and announce that “Someday I’m a gonna get our old band back together.”

Dex thought about that now, and some lyrics popped into his head. 

“I’m a gonna go back to work real soon, I’m a gonna fix that busted roof, I’m a gonna get that truck off the blocks, just as soon as I finish this beer.” 

He laughed.  “I’m a gonna” was pretty much the mantra around here, he thought.

He knew what he wanted to play tonight.  He hadn’t learned to read music, so he played from “tabs.”  Tablature replaced complex musical notation with dots that showed you where to put your fingers.  And best of all, you could download them for free on the Internet. 

He put the paper on the music stand.  His mind cleared, his anger dissipated, as he started playing the song, pleased at the way the transcription converted the piano opening to guitar.

He didn’t trust his voice yet, didn’t have the confidence to do more than whisper the words along with the song.  “Have a little faith in me,” he sighed as he played the John Hiatt song.  “Have a little faith in me…”

At lunchtime, Dex often sat alone in the cafeteria, reading.  Just as he’d learned to conceal
Guitar World
in a textbook when he was in class, now he concealed a novel inside
Guitar World
in the cafeteria.  He was tired of kids coming up to him and asking, “What class you readin’ that for?” 

He could feel someone standing behind him, looking over his shoulder.  He turned his head, ready to glare away any smart remarks, his height and mass coming in handy at times like this. 

The guy behind him was slim, short, his dark hair flopping over one eye.  The visible eye was bright and alert behind a pair of cheap black metal-frame glasses, the kind you got on Medicaid – not hopelessly lame, but not fancy, either.  Somehow, though, they worked on this guy. 

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Dex said back.

“That the Da Vinci Code?”

“Yeah.  You can read from that far away?”

“Nah.  But I saw the red dust jacket over the back of your magazine.  My mom’s reading it, too.  It’s all bullshit.  He ripped it off from another book.” 

Dex shrugged.  “It’s just a novel.”

“Reading is gay, you know,” he said with a smirk.

Dex laughed.  “Everyone says so.”

“That’s how you catch it, you see.”

“Right.  You go gay from reading.”

He sat down next to Dex, offered his hand.  “I’m Alex, Alex Carroll.”

“Dex Dexter,” he said, flinching.  He was painfully aware that his mother had been a huge “Dynasty” fan and had named him after her favorite character.  It made him feel like white trash when people heard his name, their eyes glinting with mockery.  But Alex seemed oblivious to the reference.

“Dex and Alex,” Alex mused.  “See, we already sound like gay lovers.”

“Only if you read books, too.”

Alex bowed his head.  “Guilty as charged, Your Honor.”

“So how come I don’t know you?  You just transfer or something?  You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”  Alex’s accent was pure American Broadcast.

“Yeah, I’m from Michigan,” Alex said.  “But you know, two people in the same school can still be in different worlds.  I’m sure you’re on the football team, and I’m a music nerd, so that…”

Dex perked up.  “Music?  You play?”

“Yeah.  Violin, some piano.  Gay gay gay.”

Dex laughed.  “Guitar here.  Not on the football team.”

Alex raised an eyebrow, and slathered on a pitch-perfect Mississippi accent.  “You ain’t on the football team?  Big ole boy like you?  What the fuck is wrong with you, son?”

“Yeah, that about covers it.  It’s not that I don’t wanna get hit,” he said with a shrug.  “I’d live with a broken bone or two.”  He wagged his fingers.  “But I wouldn’t risk these.”

Alex nodded.  “Yeah, when I get the shit beat out of me, I’m the same way.  Just keep away from my hands, man.”

Dex’s nostrils flared.  “Who’s beating the shit out of you?”

Alex shrugged his slim shoulders.  “Who knows?  Fucking rednecks who see me walking home carrying a violin case.”

Dex felt a familiar anger, that urge to hit someone, but also an unfamiliar sensation – the urge to protect Alex. 

“So we should jam,” Alex said.  “You any good on guitar?”

“Am I any good?”  Dex gave Alex a shit-eating grin.  “Son, you’re gonna get schooled.”

Dex’s grin stayed on his face all through his shift at work.  “What you so happy ‘bout?” Cleve pried.  “You get laid or something?”

“Yeah, Cleve, that’s the only thing would ever make a man smile around here, ain’t it?”

Cleve looked at him, wondering if that was sarcasm, but he wasn’t bright enough to be sure. 

He ran home, his book bag bouncing against his back.  Mom and Dad were both at work, and Carrie had been left “in charge” of Lisa Sue and Kaleb.  All three of them were glued to “American Idol” when he got home, and he was more than glad to leave them that way. 

“Don’t start no trouble while I’m gone.”

“Where you goin’?” Carrie asked, her eyes not leaving the TV.

“Out.  And don’t give them no sugar tonight.”

He grabbed his guitar and ran out, then realized he’d forgotten his picks, and his tuner.  His excitement was making him crazy, but Alex was the first person he’d met who was serious about music.

Alex lived in an old, shabby Victorian house.  On the outside, anyway – the inside was another story.  The furniture was worn but funky, with a red velvet “fainting couch” in the living room, a pair of green easy chairs, and holy crap, so many bookcases.  There was no TV in sight.

The walls were covered with posters from concerts – every kind of concert.  Rock concerts, classic old Nashville posters that Dex recognized as Hatch Show Prints, a poster from the Salzburg Mozart Festival…

“Wow,” Dex said. 

Alex nodded.  “My mom and dad are music teachers.  We’ve been to a lot of shows, obviously.”

“Damn…” 

“Come on down to the basement, that’s where the studio is.”

“Studio?  No shit.  Wow.”

Alex laughed.  “You sound like you’re in hog heaven.  Just wait till we get downstairs.”

Dex really was in heaven then.  Now he saw why so little money had been spent on the thrift store furniture – it had all been invested down here.  There was a dazzling array of equipment whose uses Dex could only guess at, and the basement had been neatly divided into two rooms.  A window looked from the mixing room into the studio itself, where he could see drums, a keyboard, and…

“Oh shit.  Is that a…” There was a guitar on a stand, under a spotlight, clearly the jewel in the crown.

Alex put a hand on Dex’s shoulder.  “Yes, sir.  A Gibson J-45.  Gifted to my dad by Donovan.  John Lennon used that guitar to write some of the songs on the White Album.”

“No.  Fucking.  Way.”

Alex took it off the stand where it had pride of place in the studio.  “Here.  Try it out.”

“Oh, no, no way.”

Alex pressed it against Dex’s midsection.  “It’s meant to be played.  You won’t break it.  Unless you do a Pete Townsend or something and smash it.”

Dex put his hands on the instrument.  His skin prickled with the excitement that comes from physical contact with a piece of history. 
John Lennon put his hands on this, right where I’m putting mine, right now…
  He could hardly believe it.

“What kind of pick you like?”  Alex said, fishing around in a bowl full.

“Thin.  Thinnest you got.”

Dex hesitated.  What could he play, not to embarrass himself, what could he play that wouldn’t…dishonor the instrument?  The biggest thrill of touching history is knowing that you’re a part of it now.  That someday someone might say, John Lennon and Dex Dexter both played that guitar.

He didn’t know why he picked the song he did, but it just…felt right.  He launched into “Norwegian Wood,” whispering the lyrics as he always did, still not trusting his voice.

Alex picked up a violin and joined in.  Dex could see it, suddenly, how perfect the song was for that instrument – maybe for any instrument.  His fingers hesitated, as he tried to get in the same groove as Alex.

Alex lifted the bow.  “Don’t overthink it.  You’re leading the dance.”

Dex nodded, started over from the beginning.  He fell into the music, his nerves settling as he focused on playing.  Alex matched him note for note, playing softly, letting Dex concentrate on his own performance. 

Dex finished the song, and looked up at Alex.  His new friend’s eyes were glowing with exuberance, and Dex smiled, knowing his own face looked the same way.

“Fuckin’ A,” Dex said.  “That was the greatest moment of my life.”

Alex nodded.  “Why’d you pick that song?  Just curious, I just wouldn’t expect, I mean no offense but…”

Dex laughed.  “Yeah, I know.  Not exactly shit-kickin’ music, right?  I don’t know.”  He frowned.  “I just felt…it just…”  He shook his head.  “It was like I heard someone playing it, in my head.  Far away.  But not far.”  He laughed.  “Some fucking bullshit anyway.  Hey, I bet you can’t play ‘Devil Went Down to Georgia’ on that thing.”

“Oh yeah?  Listen and learn.”

Day after day, they huddled like conspirators in Alex’s bedroom, listening to music.  Alex’s parents often had private students downstairs in the afternoons, to supplement their meager incomes from teaching music in the school system.

“Your parents are cool,” Dex said wistfully one day.  It was true.  Alex’s dad, Alex Sr. was a whip-thin man with keen blue eyes behind rimless glasses, but his smile belied the otherwise stern look on his face.  Alex’s mom was always smiling, because, shockingly, she always had something to be happy about.  She was happy it was fall, she was happy Alex had a new friend, she was happy they liked her pumpkin pie.

Alex smiled.  “It’s adolescent blasphemy to say it, but yeah.  They are cool.”

“I’m jealous.  My parents are…ah, shit.  It’s a jungle at my house.”

“Here,” Alex said, pulling an Altoids tin out of his desk.  “You need to get stoned.”

Dex blinked.  “But your mom and dad are downstairs…”

“It’s Friday.  My homework is done.  Time to relax.  You think they won’t be lighting up later, too?”

Dex laughed.  “I’ve never smoked pot before.”

“And you call yourself a musician.”  He pulled out Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon.  “It’s so trite, but really, there’s a reason this is the stoner’s favorite album.”

Dex could see the appeal of weed immediately.  The clock was slowed down, so that you had all the time you needed to get inside the song, to walk around the notes,
see them
as if you were inside a 3D mobile, the shiny components stirring in the breeze from your motions.  Alex’s parents hadn’t grudged the price on his stereo system, either, so the notes rang clear and cool.

He and Alex sat on the floor, their backs against the side of the bed, and Dex just let his mind wander.  Alex had posters of people Dex had never heard of, jazz musicians and classical violinists and shit like that.

“Your house is like…on a different planet.”

Alex nodded.  “In Biloxi?  Yeah.  This is totally a portal to another universe.”  Alex sighed.  “I can’t wait to go to college.  Get the fuck out of here.  I mean, I’ll miss
you
.  But that’s it.”

Dex felt his stomach drop.  Shit.  He’d totally forgotten that they were seniors in high school.  That this wouldn’t last.  Alex would go away, and he would stay.  Forever, probably.

Dex frowned.  “The only guys I know who get out of here go in the military.  And now that’s a one way ticket to fucking Iraq, or Afghanistan.”

“You’re smart.  You get good grades.  Don’t you?”

“Well, yeah.  If I’m interested in the class.  If it’s like science, biology…I get really sick when I have to dissect something.”

Alex giggled.  “Omigod I can see it.  A big old horse like you, fainting at the sight of a worm’s insides.”

Dex fake punched his friend’s shoulder.  “Fuck you.  I can cut up a worm.  Just not a frog.  And you know, you can’t really…you can’t answer a lot of questions in class.”

“You can’t?  I do all the time.”

“Yeah, but you’re a nerd.  No offense.  People expect you to know the answers.  If I do it, it’s gay.  Guys will rag on me.  Studying is even gayer than reading.”

“I almost got an F this semester.”

“What!”

“In Sex Ed.  You know how you’re supposed to write a paragraph on ‘why I’m saving myself for marriage’?  Well, I did.”

“And?”

“Uhh…let’s just say it didn’t go over well.  That class is so much religious bullshit it’s not even funny.”

“You don’t believe in God?”

“Hell, no.  So to speak.  You?”

“Well, yeah.  Of course.” Dex was befuddled by Alex’s atheism.  “I mean, how could we have music without God, don’t you feel like you’re, you know, touching God when you play?”

“No.  I feel like I’m touching humanity.  But come on, you know that abstinence education is bullshit, right?”

“Oh hell yeah.  Kids around here are gettin’ knocked up left and right.”

“And that’s all about control, you know?”  Alex’s arms flailed now, waving the joint around as he got into it.  “What they want, see, they don’t want to stop you having sex.  They just want to see you
punished
for having sex.  I mean, they
need
you to have sex without condoms, so you get STDs or get some girl pregnant.  So they can make you repent.  It’s…the whole system is all about sinning.  You can have the sin, as long as you’re punished.  The system
needs
you to sin, so that it can continually re-exert control over you through the punishment, so they can point to you and say to the others, ‘let that be a lesson!’  But…if you get laid, and use a condom, and nothing bad happens, then there’s no punishment!  You had fun, disobeying them, and nothing bad happened!  What could be worse!”