1
Jeff could tell by the look in her eyes she was not with him. The reality of their two worlds were on two levels running simultaneously together with galaxies between them. What did he look like to her? Could she even see him? He turned away from her hoping she would go back to her room and come down. She was tripping on something, though he didn't know what. Mickey was always on something.

He went to his room and rearranged it for lessons. He put two folding chairs and a music stand in the middle of the floor. Out of his closet he pulled out his old friend, a Fender Telecaster electric guitar. It was the color of wood and had a black pick plate. The accumulation of dust around the bridge and pickups told him that it needed a cleaning. He pulled out two small ten-watt practice amps and put them on either side of the folding chairs, one for him and one for the student.

He tuned up his guitar and quickly ran through a series of finger exercises and the chord changes to a tune called "Chaser." He turned his tape recorder on and recorded the changes. He soloed over them twice and shut off the tape machine. He paused and listened to the recording he had made. It wasn't bad, but contained nothing terribly inspiring. Jeff looked at his left hand as the tape finished playing. When it was done he ran his fingers up and down the maple neck following the rules of the key of Bb. The lighter, silver strings on top were smooth, and his fingerpads glided over the sweet, singing highs smoothly. The lower bronze strings were thicker and the wounds grated against his pads. They were responsible for the calluses. He wanted the instrument to talk to him. But the strings were dying if not dead already. It was time for a cleaning and a string change.

Jeff put the guitar on his bed. His bed was hidden behind a curtain so that students would think they were in a studio instead of a bedroom. He looked at his notebook to see how many students were coming: two half hour students and one one-hour student. He was going to make fifty dollars tonight, tax-free. Right now, he was going to make himself dinner.

2
He slapped together a ham sandwich, adding the right amount of mustard, and grabbed a beer out of the fridge. Should he bother calling her? It had been a half hour since he'd gotten home. She might have come down off her high, but he didn't know. Maybe she was hungry, or sleeping, or still high. He didn't know. Every time, every day, it was different. Mickey's moods and reactions were determined by her body chemistry and the chemistry of whatever she was taking. Jeff's use of drugs ended with aspirin and Drixoral. Mickey was into the counterless kind of drugs Jeff didn't have time to learn about.

"Mickey," he called out. "Do you want something to eat?"
No response.

He sat down and began eating. His first student was a fourteen-year-old kid who was determined to be a guitar god. The only problem was that the kid only practiced about an hour a day and he practiced the wrong stuff. His knowledge of the guitar ended with finger exercises and some licks he had learned off of records because he refused to apply his brain. He didn't need scales, he said; he would play from his heart. Jeff decided that tonight would be scale night for the kid. No matter how much heart you think you have you still got to know your scales, Jeff thought. He mused at the thought that if he had a hay penny, forget dimes, for every kid who walked into his studio who wanted to be a guitar god, his sister would have been dead a long time ago.

Mickey came down the stairs quickly, her feet padding as soft as a baby elephant. Her hair was a mess, her face was drawn, and two sacks of flesh had formed beneath her oval shaped eyes. She was smiling at him. She was dressed in his faded jeans and one of his white T-shirts.

"Yes," she said. "But only if you make it."

Jeff looked up from the table at her. She wasn't wearing a bra, but at least she hadn't come down nude this time. She didn't like clothes. Now she had taken to wearing his to annoy him.

"Put on your own clothes."
"I'll make it myself."
"Okay."

He went back to eating and she busied herself with a salad. Her new thing was salad with a creamy Parmesan dressing she had found. She cleaned and cut lettuce, cucumbers, and raw onions, making a bowl large enough for the whole week. In her current state she was probably going to eat half of it and save the rest for tomorrow after another trip.

"So how are you?" Mickey asked with a smirk as she sat down and dug in.
Jeff shrugged in silent defiance at starting up a conversation.
"How's the shop, have you sold any guitars or amps lately? I noticed you got a new shirt."
"No," Jeff said flatly to the question she hadn't asked.
"What do you mean, 'No'?"
"Half of what I make goes to Pop and the other half I keep. I'm sorry I started giving you anything."
"What the fuck, Jeff!" she slapped her open palm on the table.
"Don't give me that," he said pointing a finger at her. "I know where--"

"No, you shut up," she slapped the table again. "If you don't give me twenty bucks by the end of this week I'm going to make it so that you have no students and you can live off what you make at that goddamn music store."

Without a thought he slapped her across the face, a loud pop bursting forth as his anger left him and regret set in. Her anger exploded and she overturned the table, the beer bouncing on the floor next to salad bowl now split in half. The paper plate his sandwich had been on floated gracelessly to the floor and the sandwich became entwined with the salad and soaked by the beer suds.

She leaped from her chair onto him and they both came crashing down to the floor. She clawed at his face and spat on him. He tried to control her at first, but then resorted to slapping her. He didn't want to punch her flat out, but he had to do something; she was wilder and tougher than he was.

The front door slammed with a resounding thud that alerted both of their nervous systems and alarms of fear in their brain. They stopped fighting and jumped to their feet with their backs to the wall.

"Do I have to put up with this shit every time I come home?" A gravelly voice complained.

Their father, Matt, walked into the kitchen. A sheath full of sheet music was under his arm.

"I was going to put this music on my kitchen table to look over, but now I see I have to rebuild my kitchen table."
"It's just a slight crack in the leg, Pop, I'll fix it."
"Shut up, Jeff."

Mickey straightened up and her eyes narrowed with rage.

"Why don't you go back to the joint? Then you won't have to put up with this shit."

The back of his hand flew out mercilessly, striking the left side of her face, knocking her to her knees. He turned to Jeff, his stoic expression unchanged; he turned back to his teary eyed daughter. She straightened herself up, but she didn't dare wipe her eyes or touch her half red half white face.

The doorbell rang just as Matt was going to say something. It was Jeff's first student. No one in the kitchen moved for a moment and then Matt nodded his head. Jeff went to the door and Mickey raced up to her room. She would be out of sight for the next two hours. Their father would fix the table, eat, and practice while Jeff taught.

3
Scale night went well; apparently the kid had read something about Stone Gossard pushing the importance of fingerboard knowledge and he'd practiced the scales. His other students, one an acoustic folk player, the other a beginning level jazz player, were also coming along. The acoustic folk player was involved in chord theory, while the jazz kid was in the middle of the head of "Four" by Miles Davis.

Jeff had put in three hours of practice after the lessons were over and decided that it was quitting time. He put his stuff away, grabbed a beer and made his way out onto the porch to enjoy the summer air. It was eleven thirty; that was when his day ended.

The other houses were dark or had only one room lit, but his place was completely lit up. His father was playing piano, as he had been since the argument had been cut short. Jeff looked up at his sister's window, sighed and returned to his beer.

Today had been a good day; not only were his students doing well, but he had managed to sell a black Les Paul and a Boss effects unit. He had made a nice commission, and next week a customer was coming to pickup a complete Midi package he and computer ace Seth had put together at the store. It was a pretty good month. This was also the first day in a long time the pianist hadn't cleaned out the fridge of alcohol before ten.

He went back into the house and threw three Super Pretzels into the microwave. He did this whenever he had made a big sale. Seth did it too and it had become a private tradition that ensured good luck. It would take five minutes.

"Why don't you get your ax and we'll play," his father called from the piano.

"I'm done."

"A musician is never done."

"This one is."

"I said a musician."

The microwave beeped and Jeff grabbed the pretzels and put them on a paper plate. He walked out to the bench on the porch and sat down. He watched the lights in Mickey's room go dark and heard her come bounding down the stairs. The front door opened and he had some company. She sat next to him and grabbed one of the pretzels while opening her own beer.

"We have some left tonight," she said, raising the bottle to her lips.

"I noticed," he finished his pretzel and grabbed his beer.

"The pretzels are good."

Jeff picked up the remaining pretzel and tore it into to two halves, an even split for him and Mickey.

"Why do I always have to wait until this ritual to find out?" Mickey asked.

"It's more fun. Besides we already went through this before."

"No we didn't. Some weeks you're really cool and other times you pull this shit." Mickey said and bit into her half-pretzel.

"Maybe I'm getting a conscience."

"We'll see," she said.

Jeff finished his beer and went in to get another. He was generally at ease with what he was doing. It was his family that was always fucked up. The great pianist was playing softer and slower and less sheet music was in front of him. He was winding down.

Jeff went back out, grabbed his half a pretzel and sat down. Mickey was staring off into space, mindlessly chewing on her pretzel. She reawakened when he sat down and let out a sigh of frustration.

"What if I were to carry out my threat?" Mickey said.

"I'd have no money and you'd have even less. How's your eye?"

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not. I'm taking a break from it."

"The old people are going to make comments on it," she said in a quiet mournful tone.

She worked three nights a week as a nurse's aid.

"It's going to be a real nice shiner tomorrow."

"Won't be the first time." That softness in her voice licked his ear.

"Do you like that job?"

"It pays more than the mall job and the hours are fewer, but I--"

"Sponge baths and bed pans--"

"Aren't very fun. I wish people would take care of their own fucking parents."

"Like we take care of dad."

"I'm going to shoot dad."

Jeff hesitated for a moment. He went on injecting a sobering tone into his speech.

"Okay."

"I think I'm going to quit soon and take my mall job back. The money's not as good, but--"

"You weren't blasting off into outer space as much before. Did you know that?" Jeff asked catching her in mid-sentence.

"No. That's probably why I have no money."

The phone rang and the piano stopped.

"It's Joe, Jeff," his father called out to him.

Jeff went in and picked up the phone.

"Mr. Kessel?"

"How you doing kid?"

"Okay."

"Your father sounds good."

"Yeah."

"You coming in for a lesson this week?"

"Yeah, Saturday morning."

"Ten o' clock?"

"That's fine."

"Okay, let me make sure I have that down. Yes I do. Remind your father that we're playing down at Jay Salia's club in the city and to call me for rehearsals."

"Okay."

"Bye, kid."

Jeff marked both things down on the calendar.

"I didn't know you were playing out so soon." Jeff said.

"I am." His father stopped playing and closed the piano.

Mickey came in and disposed of the plates and beer bottles, leaving Jeff's half full one on the newly fixed kitchen table. Matt got up from the piano and went to the fridge to get a beer.

"I'm going to bed," Mickey announced.

She went to hug her father, but he grunted and shrugged her off. She immediately spun around and pranced over in Jeff's direction. She hugged him and gave him a kiss and retreated to her room; the door locked with a loud click.

The two men went out to the porch, shutting off everything but the kitchen and outside lights. The night air now had a slight breeze to it and the porch played host to an active community of lightning bugs. Jeff watched them, remembering how he and Mickey used to catch them as children. That was when dad, though broken hearted, was still very prominent.

"What's her sorry ass up to?"

"The usual."

"Like her new job?"

"No, but it pays better." Jeff said and took a sip of beer. "She's using more now, I don't think it's good for her."

"No shit."

"She smokes grass and eats mushrooms mostly. I think she drops acid occasionally, but I don't know."

"My son the innocent musician."

"Well she doesn't have any needles or anything."

"Still giving her money?"

"Have to."

"Why? I thought I told you not to after I went inside."

"I tried, but I--"

"What?"

"I found her with that Darren guy here."

"What Darren?"

"The one who gives her the dope."

"What happened?"

"The store closed early and I walked in on them. He jumped out the window. She told me it was the first time, that she needed a fix real bad."

"She's taking more than what you say or know then."

"Maybe." Jeff remembered the day and the soft musical moans of his sister accompanied by the forced animal-like grunts that had led him to her room. He winced and sipped his beer.

"Why tell me now?"

"I'm just sick of carrying it around, Pop. I noticed you didn't finish off your daily case of beer."

"So."

"So?" Jeff pushed.

"I got a gig and I want to play well. I was also hoping you'd come in and play with me if I left you the beer."

"No chance."

"Didn't think so. You're a talented bastard, do you know that?"

"Don't call me a bastard."

"How were the lessons?"

"Pretty good. I made fifty bucks. Do you need anything?"

His father finished his beer.

"I might get my old studio back." Matt let that hopeful news sink in. "I'm going to get another beer, want one?"

"Sure."

Jeff didn't let the news excite him too much. It wouldn't really affect him, except that he might keep more money in his pocket. The recording/teaching studio would be good if he could start teaching there and record during the off hours. His father liked to book the place round the clock, but he could almost definitely get a room to teach in during the day and evening. That would be good; he'd finally be able to take the curtain out of his room.

Matt returned with the beers. He sat down and handed Jeff his beer.

"Sixteenth anniversary soon," Matt said.

"Yup."

"You coming to the cemetery with me?"

"Yeah. I never forget that day, you know that," Jeff said. "How are you going to get the studio back?"

"I never lost it. I just have to work out a partnership arrangement with Joe."

"How hard will that be?"

"Hopefully not too hard. We've been friends a long time."

"He's a better friend than you think. He kept a good eye on us while you were away."

"Yeah, suppose so."

"Are you getting Mickey anything for her birthday? It is her sweet sixteenth."

"Does she deserve anything?"

"She deserves an even break."

Jeff finished the rest of his beer and stood up.

"I'm going to bed," Jeff said.

His father extended his hand.

"Think about it," Jeff said and left.

4
"How are you kid?"

Joe Kessel sat by his living room table, pen in hand, his guitar in its stand right next to him. He didn't look like the sharp cat everyone was in awe of; he sat there slouched over in faded old jeans and a white T-shirt.

"Pretty good, Joe," Jeff said.

"How's your father?"

"He's good. I hear you guy's are playing soon."

"The fourth, next week. You should play."

"What?"

"Yeah, it's about time you played some jazz out. The rock stuff is good, but it's always good to broaden your experience a bit. You agree?"

Jeff shrugged. His eyes wandered around the relic filled room. Joe began to mumble to himself as he got up and led Jeff to the upstairs studio. Jeff liked this room; he had modeled his bedroom after it.

"You should play on that tune...let me see...that Mingus tune, 'Goodbye Pork Pie Hat.'"

"With my dad?"

"You should lighten up on your Pop. He's working through a lot of things."

"He was inside for a few months," Jeff said.

"That's right. That's a tough weight to bear. Want a cup of coffee?"

"Sure."

Joe went downstairs and made two cups of coffee as Jeff got his Tele out. Jeff plugged in and tuned up. He waited for Joe.

"How about the studio?" Jeff asked when Joe came back with the coffee.

"We'll work that out."

"Great."

"Let's get started."

The lesson ran an hour and a half and once again changed Jeff's entire perception of the instrument.

"I want you to think about it. It won't hurt to play one tune, Jeff. Just work on 'Goodbye Pork Pie Hat' and you'll be fine." Joe said as he walked Jeff to the door. Joe wasn't asking.

5
The small circular chocolate cake, which was slightly larger than two cupcakes put together, sported the sixteen candles Jeff had arranged in a continuous spiral. Mickey quickly made her wish and blew out all the candles. She went to pluck them out, but a few relit and she was blowing again. Then she was complaining and plucking the lit ones out and dumping them in a glass of water.

"What did you wish for?" Jeff asked.

"Hand me the knife, Jeff."

He did and with an almost sadistic joy she chopped the cake into two halves, one for her and one for her brother. This was her sixteenth birthday. This was every birthday party she'd ever had: alone with her brother, a cake and a wish.

They started eating the cake.

"What did you wish for?"

She swallowed and paused.

"I wished that my brother would keep leaving those twenty dollar bills under my door at night."

"Oh. Really?"

"No, but I can't tell you the truth then it wouldn't come true."

"You had a good year though, I mean you're almost through with school, got a job, and you look pretty good."

"Yeah lost one lousy job and got another one. And I'm going to get an equivalency diploma. What the hell am I going to do with that?"

He shrugged and thought about the gig tonight.

"What are you thinking about, Jeff?" She asked and stared at him intently.

"Nothing."

"You've been preoccupied all week. What is it?"

Jeff had another bite of his cupcake.

"Should I sit in on 'Goodbye Pork Pie Hat' tonight?"

"With dad?"

"Yeah. Joe asked me too--"

"I thought you told me you'd never play with him."

"Well, Joe sort of told me to come down--"

"Do what you want," she said flatly.

"I just wanted to know what you thought."

She shrugged. They finished the cake.

As he left her room he was pelted by the rich sound of his father's piano playing. Tonight the group was playing old standards, bebop, and some straight ahead stuff, a pretty wide range by some very diverse and mature musicians. Jeff wasn't one of them, but he had his own thing he was developing. The piano stopped a few minutes after Jeff made his way down to the kitchen.

"Do you want to go to the cemetery, now?" Matt asked, grabbing his shoes.

Jeff shrugged and in less than thirty minutes he was in front of his mother's grave sight.

The two men were silent, their heads tilted toward the ground, fixed on the once-white tombstone. It would be cleaned before their next visit, but it would have been nice had it been clean for the anniversary of her death.

"Hello Laura," his father said solemnly as he got down on his knees before the gravestone.

His father laid out a large floral arrangement, one that got grander with each passing year. Jeff figured he was silently communicating his life and confessions to her. That's what Jeff was doing. Jeff told her about his life and Mickey. He wondered what she thought of Mickey. He wondered what she thought of him.

6
"How's Mickey?" His father asked as they drove away from the cemetery.

"Good, I suppose," Jeff said. "You ask me that about every other day. Why don't you ask her yourself?"

His father looked at him momentarily and then focused back on the road.

"I just asked."

"Well, she's your daughter, it's not like she doesn't want to--"

"Just drop it."

"You always tell me--"

"And you always listen."

They drove on.

When they reached the house his father dropped him off and went on ahead to the club. Jeff went inside the house. He flicked on the TV and flipped through ten channels before losing interest.

He went upstairs and knocked on Mickey's door. No answer. He figured that she was sleeping and would wake up shortly looking for something to eat. He went to his room and played the head of "Goodbye Pork Pie Hat." He then flicked on his tape machine with the tune's changes taped into it and began soloing. He had heard Mingus solo over it on bass, but the Jeff Beck version was closer to what he was doing. He soloed over the changes a few times, shut off the tape machine, and played the head once more.

He took the guitar off and admired it for a bit. He had cleaned and restrung it. The neck played much smoother now after it had soaked up the wood oil. It looked good and professional now. But would it sound professional in his hands?

He called for Mickey; she should have been up. The music and time should have produced a hungry and irritable Mickey, but it hadn't.

He went to her door. It was there on its feeble hinges, pale and white. He knocked and called for her. No answer. He grabbed the knob. It was unlocked. He turned it.

He pushed the door open slowly, whispering her name in case she was asleep. She was lying on her bed a peaceful expression adorned her face; a syringe rested next to her.

"The music makes so much sense now."

"What?"

He walked over to her bed and picked up the used syringe.

"Mickey, what the hell is happening to you? Where did you get this shit?"

"Jeff, Jeff, Jeff."

"Darren?"

She burst out in a distorted lethargic laughter that deafened him.

"No, not Darren," she sighed. "I haven't seen him in ages."

"Where? And how and--"

"You want to know where?"

"Yeah."

"From Matt."

He shook his head.

"That's right, I got it from our father. What the hell do you think he was doing in jail? And now he's clean and sober and all that shit. I learned how to do it with him. I used to do it with him all the time, Jeff."

"Jesus Christ."

Jeff pictured his sister shooting up in the kitchen with his father. Jeff saw him showing her how to make a tourniquet with a belt, holding it in her teeth so she could inject herself after the lesson. How he must have painfully injected that first needle into exposed adolescent arm.

"And the sonuvabitch can't even look at me because he hates me so much."

Jeff backed out of the room. He grabbed his guitar and headed to the train station.

7
The group was halfway into their second set when Jeff arrived. The bouncer had let him in after he had showed him his Telecaster and invoked the names of Joe Kessel and his father. Joe's face brightened as soon as he saw Jeff.

Jeff was hungry and he ordered a salad and a coke. Joe frowned at this; you weren't supposed to eat when someone was performing. Jeff could see him mouth emphatically: "I hope you enjoy it." His father didn't know he was there. He was seated at the piano facing another direction, his world entirely made up of the music.

They were going through the Miles Davis tune "Tune Up" at a breakneck pace. Everything seemed to be there and it sounded good, but it lacked the magic. The club was standing room only; half the audience was into the music and half into the alcohol. Jeff finished eating and heard them return to the head.

"And now we'd like to--" Joe paused and looked at the rest of the group. "Well, I'm going to take a break."

Matt and the other musicians, Bobby Tapella and Nicky Pelegrino, a bassist and drummer, turned and looked at Joe. It was a surprise, Jeff thought, Joe didn't tell them.

"I'd like to introduce a young man who doesn't usually play our type of music, but he's come a long way to give it a try. Get up here Jeff. He's a very dear friend of mine and the son of our pianist here, Matt Travers. They're going to play a tune for you called 'Goodbye Pork Pie Hat.'"

Jeff grabbed his guitar and cord and went to the stage. He attempted to shake off the jitters while plugging into the unfriendly amp. He had played through this amp before, an old Fender. He played some chords to make sure his guitar was in tune and then played a few runs to familiarize himself with the amp. But this did nothing for his confidence. He sucked in a lungful of smoky air and exhaled.

His father's face lit up with confusion and he turned back to the piano. Nicky counted off and the music started; it was time to produce.

The first few notes of the head were choked, but then he settled down. He'd played this piece a hundred times; it was like a bicycle ride. He planned to take two choruses for a solo and then pass it on to Bobby and his father. But this didn't happen.

He found himself soloing in a third chorus, struggling not to repeat himself and struggling not to fall flat on his face. He played a few notes of the melody, improvised in the truest sense of the word, bought four beats worth of time with a long rest and then started up again. It was an F blues, but people would latch onto his lack of ability to play deftly over changes if he stuck to that, so he tried to stretch out whenever possible. He closed his eyes and played a few bends and recognized a chord and played the related arpeggio of the chord in the same key. He faltered on the turnaround and lost the time. He rested and regained his footing.

He went into the fifth chorus; he could feel heart beating as hard as Nicky's bass drum. He could feel the crowd hang on his every note, feeling that they should root for him, but not knowing if he was going to win the battle. The most thirsty alcoholic among them did not even dream of taking a sip of his drink. The club was silent except for the encapsulating sound of the guitar.

The fifth chorus went well, but again he faltered on the turnaround. By the sixth chorus he knew that Bobby wasn't going to be soloing and he doubted his father would. Jeff's lines began to weave more smoothly in and out of the changes. His body swayed with the rhythm of the music and he let himself go. It wasn't steel and wood coming through the Fender--it was flesh and blood. It was his rage at his sister and himself. It was his disappointment in his father and in himself. Laura was coming through the amp and she was speaking.

The dreaded turnaround was coming up for the sixth time. He ripped off a classic blues lick that screamed of anguish--one of the truest cries for help one can hear on the planet--and readied himself for the turnaround. Then, just as he was getting there and his fingers were starting to fidget by themselves, the piano rang out to answer the cry.

He made the turnaround and a silent sigh of relief rushed through the witnesses. They were back to the head and the Pork Pie Hat was saying goodbye. The guitar and piano sang the melody as a duet together. Jeff and Matt locked eyes. This was all they had together. It was time to save the other and keep her alive.

Music Man is the opening "Warm-up Act" to the novel Standards & Peculiarities
Drew Giorgi can be reached at drew@nyhangover.com