Sour Notes, page 6
I was incredulous. “You wrote it?”
When the boy only nodded, I tried to explain my interest. “I’m a musician. Written a few songs myself.”
“I know who you are. You’re Mad Maverick McDougal.”
My mouth dropped open in shock at being recognized.
11
Growing up, I’d dreamed of escaping Millerton to go be a rock star. Playing in front of screaming fans in sold-out arenas. Traveling in chauffeured limousines. Staying in high-end hotels. Signing autographs by the dozens. Walking down the street being hounded by paparazzi. And, yeah, women throwing themselves at me.
None of it had come true. Truthfully, I was a big unknown.
I had been a part of so many bands since leaving Millerton that I couldn’t name them all. We booked whatever gigs we could find, mostly bars, festivals, and fraternity houses. We rode to shows in vans overflowing with our equipment and served as our own roadies. The best we could afford were cheap rooms in fleabag motels, and we had to share even those. I had spent more than a few nights sleeping in a car in the parking lot of some nightclub.
Those jobs lasted a few days or weeks, then I was on to the next group. When I couldn’t hook up with a band, I played in restaurants or on street corners for tips. To supplement that, I bussed tables, washed dishes, and mopped floors. Whatever it took. Rarely did anyone recognize me or ask for my autograph.
A few years back, I’d had a brief taste of fame. A friend who played bass got me a gig playing lead guitar for Exploding Oatmeal. Stupid name, but I had heard worse.
The lead singer was a young guy with an okay voice, which we could make passable with electronics. The songs he wrote were bubblegum crap. The same guitar chords played over and over. A bass line that never changed. An unimaginative drum rhythm.
He made up for his lack of talent with his looks. His ever-present smile revealed a row of glistening white teeth, perfectly aligned thanks to his divorced parents who catered to his every whim in some weird competition to prove who loved him more.
His always-open shirt exposed a smooth chest. A gym membership guaranteed a lean muscularity. Tight skinny jeans highlighted his bulge. We weren’t supposed to discuss the fact that it was amplified with a strategically placed sock.
Somehow, he mixed that sex appeal with an awe-shucks demeanor that made him seem approachable and sweet. The girls—most were too young to drive themselves to our shows—went crazy for him. Their parents fell for his clean-cut image. On stage, he appeared to be the nicest guy they’d ever met. Just a sweet, innocent kid so blessed to have this opportunity.
Behind the scenes, though, he was a total jerk. He fired me—and everyone else in the band—at least once a week, usually in a kicking, screaming temper tantrum that rivaled a tired toddler’s. He claimed none of us had any talent and were holding him back. We should be grateful he tolerated us.
But then things would blow over, and we moved on to the next gig. The truth was that any of us were better than him. Together, we kept the music going as he pranced around the stage to the shrieks of his adoring fans.
As much as we all hated him, the work was steady and the money solid. I’d been part of more talented bands who played more original songs, but this was the first that brought a real promise of financial stability. I was tired of being behind on rent and eating ramen noodles, so I put up with it.
We’d become a YouTube and TikTok darling. At least, he had. We were decidedly in the background as he danced around, shaking his skinny ass with his shirt open to his navel. We were just props for him to use, but props with a paycheck.
We toured some small stages but sold them out thanks to those screaming girls and their indulgent parents. Crying teens begged for tickets on video.
Suddenly, we were hot. A manager came on board with grandiose plans to make us superstars. We scored some real time in a real recording studio and cut a debut album. Its release met critical condemnation but respectable sales. A concert tour was planned for big stages and even some arenas. International dates were scheduled. We were rocketing to stardom. Nothing could stop us.
Except a damned virus.
Covid hit, and lockdowns shut down performances. Our tour was postponed then canceled. The big budgets dried up, and our money stopped flowing. We went our separate ways, holed up in our apartments—him in his mother’s big house—and waited for rehearsals to restart.
While we twiddled our thumbs, the screaming girls grew a year older. Their interests moved on. Our video views dwindled. Album sales tanked. In a fit of rage, the lead singer fired us all. He hired new musicians and kept the band’s name.
I found out in a video, of course. He appeared shirtless one evening on a viral post. One glance told me he’d spent his lockdown working out in the home gym his mother had set up for him in her basement. The camera was strategically positioned to show his unmade bed behind, a not-so-subtle hint to those girls to come flocking back to him.
It worked. He hit it big.
Exploding Oatmeal sold out arenas and cut a second album to even more critical scorn but huge commercial success. No one cared that the musicians behind the lead singer had changed. He’d kept the same boring chords, bass lines, and percussion rhythms.
Their stupid songs played everywhere. I couldn’t escape them. In the ultimate irony, I was playing guitar in a restaurant one night and taking requests. Someone asked for an Exploding Oatmeal song. They didn’t recognize my connection. They didn’t recognize me. I had no fame. No fortune.
So how did this kid know who I was? He didn’t strike me as an Exploding Oatmeal fan. He was certainly too young to get into the bars my other bands had played. His answer didn’t clarify my confusion. “You’re from Millerton.”
“Do you know everyone who grew up here?”
“No, but I know everyone from here who made a living playing guitar. That’s basically you.”
Good point, though I wasn’t sure scraping by the way I had qualified as a living.
“I have posters in my room of awesome guitar players.” The kid counted off the names on his fingers. “Carlos Santana. B.B. King. Eric Clapton. Jimi Hendrix. Steve Vai. Mark Tremonti. Jonny Lang. James McVey. John Mayer.”
I interrupted him. “You have a poster of me?”
“Didn’t know there was one of you.” He snickered, set the guitar down on the grass beside him, and leaned back against the tree. “I’ve seen some of your stuff on YouTube, though. Exploding Oatmeal is pretty good.”
“But—”
“I know. Artistic differences. Went in a different direction. All the usual crap they say when they fire someone.”
“Yeah, well—”
“The band they put together for the second album is pretty good.”
“That hurts.”
“It shouldn’t. How many people know the name of the guitarist of One Direction?”
“Dan Richards,” I answered.
He nodded his approval, but I knew what he meant. Most people thought of one of the world’s most famous musical acts as five guys. They didn’t even think about the musicians in the shadows of the stage. “Is that what you want to be? A rock-and-roll guitarist?”
“Sometimes. Maybe not rock. Caleb Smith of Balsam Range is awesome. And he doesn’t just play. He makes guitars.” He pursed his lips in thought. “Or maybe I write music.”
“That song you were just playing. It was amazing.”
His face reddened. “Thanks. It’s not ready yet for people to hear it.”
I looked around the clearing, remembering my own days of hanging out here alone with my thoughts. “That’s why you come here? To write?”
“Yeah. When I can get my parents to bring me.” He looked up. “I got my license back in March but don’t have a car. I borrow Mom’s when I can, but…”
I nodded, remembering how hard I’d saved my busking money to buy my own car.
His face scrunched into a question. “Why call yourself Mad Maverick? Because of that bar fight in Alabama? You really take a gun away from some guy?”
His change in direction threw me off guard. The story had been told and retold so many times that it had taken on legendary status. Like most legends, there was a kernel of truth to it but not much more than that. I would not tell what really happened to some kid who would post it on social media, though. “It was a long time ago.”
“Why not just call yourself Freddie?”
I shrugged. “Mad Maverick is a better stage name than Freddie.”
“Freddie Mercury would disagree.”
The kid knew how to get under my skin. Or maybe he just didn’t have much of a filter. Couldn’t say I had one when I was his age either. At sixteen, I was a master at being abrasive. What he said next, though, made me forget any annoyance.
“I like your solo stuff better.”
Puzzled, I answered, “I’ve never recorded anything solo.”
He smiled and picked up his guitar. His long fingers wrapped around the neck and expertly pinned the strings to the frets as he strummed. His voice was soulful, melding beautifully with the chords as he played a song I hadn’t done for years. He played it slower than I did and sang higher notes than I’d ever attempted. The song, one of my favorites, was beautiful in his performance, better than I had ever done it. When he was finished, I asked where he’d heard it.
“Saw it on YouTube. Somebody recorded you playing it in a restaurant.”
I didn’t know that and made a mental note to look it up. Since it was performed in a public place, though, he hadn’t heard the full song, the one I played only to myself. “My favorite part is a riff I added after the second stanza, but I couldn’t play it in restaurants. Managers want the songs all to be quiet and not disturb the diners in the main dining room. Or, if you’re playing in the bar, really loud to encourage booze sales. Nothing in between and nothing to draw too much attention away from what they’re pushing.”
He held out his guitar. “Show me.”
I hesitated. What I had said wasn’t entirely true. Some restaurant managers wanted the music as background noise, but others would have been fine with me playing the songs however I wanted. The truth was that some music was for public consumption. Other music was meant to be private. I had never shared the riff.
But this kid’s face was so open and eager to listen. His eyes glistened with interest. And I was still buzzing from hearing him playing one of my songs so well.
Taking his offered guitar, I sat down on the grass and ran through the song again. When I came to the riff, I closed my eyes and let the notes flow from my mind through my arms and out of my tingling fingers. When I finished, he asked me to play it again. He joined me, singing in harmony as if we’d practiced for days.
When I finished the second time, he took back the guitar and leaned against the tree. He played the notes I had just performed, slowly and carefully but almost perfectly. At one point, he paused with his fingers hovering over the strings and asked me to explain a part he had missed. When I answered, he smiled, nodded, then played it back to me, hitting all the notes.
Satisfied, he went back to the beginning of the song and began to play. We sang it in a duet, him taking the higher notes as I dropped down in harmony. When we hit the added section, I watched as his fingers flew over the strings. He played back what I’d done, adding his own touches to what I’d shown him. He was better at sixteen than I had been at his age.
Honestly, he was a better guitar player at sixteen than I’d ever been. Not only fast but also soulful. He didn’t just play the music. He lived it. It flowed through him.
When we finished, he rested the instrument in his lap and looked directly at me. “You’re home for your dad, right?”
I nodded.
“Do you have a guitar here?”
I thought of the one I had picked up at Xander’s store. “Actually, yes.”
“Bring it tomorrow. I’ll get my mom’s car and meet you here. If you want. Would be fun.”
Before I could agree, a voice from the woods behind me interrupted us. “Harrison?”
The boy glanced at the clock on his phone and rolled his eyes. He let out a sigh of exasperation and called out, “Down here, Dad.”
“Figured as much. You’re supposed to be up at the fields, watching your brother’s baseball game. Didn’t we tell you not to run off?” I turned just in time to see Russ Caldwell step into the clearing. He froze midstride, his eyes locked on me and his mouth hung open in shock.
12
Several seconds ticked by as Russ stood at the entrance to the clearing. His eyes bounced from me to Harrison and back as his mouth opened and closed while he was apparently debating what he wanted to say. When he finally spoke, he kept his tone calm, though I could hear the tension in his voice. “Been a long time, Freddie.”
As I struggled to think of a response, he turned his attention to the teenager beside me. “What are you two talking about?”
Harrison stood and brushed the grass off his jeans. He held up the guitar with a grip around its neck and answered, “Music.”
Russ’s eyes darted toward me. “Just music?”
“Yes, Dad, that’s all.” Harrison emphasized the dad in that way teens had of expressing sarcasm while being able to maintain plausible deniability. I knew it well because of how frequently I had used it.
Before I could join in the awkward conversation, Sarah Franklin—though I guessed it was Sarah Caldwell now—appeared on the path behind Russ. She held hands with a boy and girl, both about ten years old. The boy wore a Little League baseball uniform, and the girl was in a soccer jersey. Sarah pulled up short beside Russ and eyed me sternly. She looked no happier to see me than did Russ. Her voice was icy when she spoke. “Hello, Freddie.”
I stammered a hello back.
“These are our children, Brandon and Brenda. I see you’ve already met Harrison.”
When I’d first stumbled upon Harrison, I hadn’t thought about the familiarity of his looks. Now that I was seeing him and Sarah together, I could see the resemblance. The eyes. The shape of the nose. His jaw was sharper, and he was taller, but the connection was obvious. “He’s very talented. I’m sure he gets that from you.”
I had meant it as a compliment, but I didn’t think of how Russ might hear it as a dig until Sarah glanced at her husband. He hadn’t reacted at all. Softly, she agreed, “I suppose.”
Harrison said, “He’s going to bring his guitar tomorrow. We’re going to play together.” He hesitated. “If I can borrow the car.”
Sarah and Russ exchanged a glance before she answered, “You could do that at the house.”
“Please,” he begged. “It’s more private here.”
I knew what he meant. I’d never enjoyed practicing within earshot of Dean for fear he would tease me about something. It was probably the same with his younger siblings.
Besides, no way would I feel comfortable in Russ’s presence. Playing guitar or not. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to meet Harrison again anywhere now that I knew whose kid he was.
Sarah saved me from answering. She let go of her kids’ hands and gently touched Russ’s arm. He nodded slightly to her and addressed Harrison. “Get your guitar, and let’s go. We’ll talk when we get home.”
Harrison shot me a look and nodded. He scooped up his notebook and marched up the trail with his brother and sister in tow.
When they disappeared around the bend, Russ hesitated before speaking. “I’m sorry about Skeeter. He’s a good man.”
Playing music had given me an escape from my emotions, but the reminder of my father brought it back. My eyes teared up, and I looked away.
He put his arm around Sarah and turned toward the path, but she motioned for him to go on. He hesitated, glanced over at me, then nodded.
Once he disappeared into the woods, Sarah took a few steps toward me. “Libby told us you were coming. You seen your dad yet?”
I nodded. “Just a bit ago. Came here to clear my head.”
“You always did like this spot.”
A butterfly drifted lazily across the meadow and settled on a blooming wildflower. The air smelled fresher and cleaner than I remembered. Only if I strained could I hear the sounds of voices from the ballfields in the main park. “Must be a musician thing. Harrison seems to have found it too.”
“I showed him a couple years ago. He was so shy about the guitar in front of others, but down here, he could let loose. Ever since he got his driver’s license this spring, this has been his favorite place to come.” She smiled for the first time since coming down the path. I’d forgotten how much that smile used to light up my days.
“He shouldn’t be shy as talented as he is.”
“You of all people should know how hard it is as a teen. I used to have to beg you to play in front of friends.”
We stood awkwardly, not remembering how to talk to each other.
“I didn’t know he was your kid when I said we’d play guitar together. I can make up an excuse not to if that’s easier.”
She hesitated.
I held my breath, half-afraid she would accept my offer and half-worried she would refuse it.
Finally, she said, “I think it might be good for him. For both of you.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Not too many people at his talent level around here. I know you know what that’s like.”
The bitterness in her words stung. I’d said that same thing so many times in high school without ever thinking of how she and Xander might take those thoughts. The implication that I’d included them in that assessment was clear. I couldn’t even deny the truth in it. And I hadn’t given them the simple courtesy of a goodbye, much less an explanation. “I’m sorry I left the way I did. I should have handled it better.”
“Yeah, you should have.”
I didn’t have a response to that. She turned away from me and looked up the trail where her family had disappeared. As much to herself as to me, she said, “I need to catch up with Russ.”
