6136 Falcon Story - draft

They crafted me in a decade of excess, I gleam and swagger, howl with hand crafted arrogance, the craved, the addiction, a prize few but the very, very lucky will ever attain. I’m one of the first, my value immeasurable to those who know real love, real pleasure, the unity only a man in complete harmony with his guitar will ever know. It’s more than anything he would ever feel for something as insignificant as a woman, nothing else provides him with such sustained bliss as I do and he loves me. Everyone loves me, there’s no choice, from the moment I was displayed, all golden edged and sparkling chrome, no wonder all men desired me, drooling at my pearl block fretboard inlays, maple neck and solid spruce archtop. At seventeen inches wide and with a four-inch deep body I was musical perfection and heralded as nothing less than the future. But that was then. No one dreamed I’d be relegated to the realms of history, an anachronism in the universe of looking cool.1

With the years I was bought, pleasured, sold on, handed from one yellow stained fingered muso to another but never really loved until he turned up. He’d passed the window, pausing to study my form with a strangely knowing stare a few times but I remained aloof, what could a scrawny kid possibly have to say to a creation like me? He seemed a relative arrival in the adult world, average height, that ridiculous undercut hair they all sported then, with a scarlet lick creating the illusion that the top of his narrow little head was permanently on fire, the usual array of acne and a scowl. Eventually he grew tired of simply staring and I watched with amused detachment as he finally pushed open the door and stepped inside. He paused a second or so before addressing the proprietor, his head cocked slightly as if inhaling the unsung music about him. The proprietor was a man I’d never really cared for, unlike many of his trade he didn’t play a note, just kept me dusted and polished, as if I were nothing more than a commodity. But the boy knew, he saw me for what I was, he’d fallen in love and for a few intense months I was to become his most precious addiction. 2

‘That Falcon, is she an original?’ the voice was little more than an adolescent mumble, its quality nasal and reedy. 3

‘Yes.’4

‘What year?’5

‘55’6

‘Oh? ’55? That makes her one of the first then?’7

‘Yes. Look, it’s a very expensive piece of kit, don’t waste my time kid. You can look at it but I’m afraid it’s out of your league..’8

‘How much?’ Unfazed by the man’s brusque responses the boy held his ground, his eyes never once leaving my curves, I could feel his odd coloured stare blazing into me.9

‘You won’t be able to afford it.’10

‘She’s not an it,’ he insisted stoutly. ‘Try me.’ 11

The man sighed impatiently, told him the asking price and simply goggled when the boy smiled, triumphantly peeling off a wad of bills and proffering them in his face.12

‘Let me try her. I’ve got my own plec.’13

I’ve never seen such a shift in demeanour, belligerence to sheer obsequiousness in less than two seconds, and I wished I had a mouth so I could laugh out loud.14

And that was it. He was surprisingly strong, in spite of the fragile wrists, fitting me into his hip, fingers flying across my neck, plucking my strings with the caress of a lover, making me moan with the sheer ecstasy of someone who played from his soul. Take me home, take me home, I heard myself begging as he stroked his way through an array of chords. I needed this boy, I needed his talent, I needed his love. Together we’d conquer the world and we did. It was ours, although he still liked to play his strat at times, I was his favourite, I could never be otherwise.15

He was always different, frighteningly intelligent yet beneath the increasing adult distractions, cigarettes, girls, pills, parties, little packets of white powder, the shiny, shiny needles, he remained oddly childlike and he had me. I was his real love, more than any of those giggling drunken girls he brought home, a different one every night. They never stayed, he wouldn’t let them. The damply dissatisfied exchange complete, he’d roll off, grunt and tell them to go, he’d had what he wanted and that was it, goodbye. No matter how many of them shrieked obscenities for the way he’d used them, he’d simply throw their clothes towards the door, light up another cigarette and pick me up as if everything else ceased to exist. Our world held no place for anyone else, no other man or woman could ever know what we shared. It was love, lust, adoration, call it what you like but it was ours.16

Of course it couldn’t continue, no rapturous all devouring passion ever can but we knew more happiness together than I’d imagined possible since my manufacture. The world had changed immeasurably from the day I was first displayed and knew the fervour I engendered in men. Boys like him held the future in their narrow little fingers, gone were the days of sharp suits, DA haircuts, velvet collars and painted grins. He was happy prancing about in little more than baggy shorts, his face rarely condescending to smile, and a cigarette all too frequently clamped between his lips. As he grew to man he put on some muscle, daubed his upper arm with the obligatory tattoo and rid himself of the undercut and bleach. Occasionally he experimented with increasingly outlandish styles, the image demanded it I suppose and he became successful, desired by more than the girls he picked off at the various clubs he still played. I was rarely a part of this, he liked to leave me behind, our moments were ours alone, not to be shared with a slavering sweat driven audience of drug crazed banshees. Not that I was ever simply left to sigh and bemoan my abandonment, I travelled with him wherever he went. As fortune descended he’d even book me my own air seat just so he could sit next to me. I’d feel his hand lock the seat belt about me and pat me almost paternally as we headed for take off. One over officious airline employee tried to tell him once there were no seats available for me on his flight, he was very sorry but there’d been an overbooking and… The creature didn’t get the chance to even finish his apology before he’d started screaming into meltdown. I was too good for any hold, I wasn’t cargo, didn’t the asshole understand that? I was a vintage musical instrument, invaluable, irreplaceable, more precious than any human, they had to find me a seat now. 17

I suppose they’d seen it, heard it all before, he was just another overindulged young man, and if he didn’t calm down they’d have him arrested. They didn’t care if he was the most talented guitar player since Hendrix, not one of my devotees I’m sorry to say, he was just another difficult passenger and being a global commodity they could survive well enough without his patronage thank you very much. But it didn’t matter, whatever he’d swallowed, sniffed or injected before we set out was biting into his soul and he simply ignited. Machine gunned obscenities rattled at anyone who crossed his vision, kicking out at random airport decorations, smashing whatever he could grab, scratching his beautiful fingers until they glowed scarlet. It took four men to subdue him in the end; they had to sit on him to shut him up, cruelly cuffing those delicate hands behind his back and yanking him away under arrest still screeching for me.18

He was lucky, they didn’t find any illegal substances on him, nor thankfully stuffed in my case this time, but of course it spattered the news. The flashing cameras, the microphones thrust aggressively in his face but he had nothing to say to any of them. They let him out in a few hours, money buys the best legal advice and he had plenty of it but his unsmiling, pissed off child features graced the morning editions and breakfast shows and the faithful wallowed in it. Didn’t the uninitiated reporters and aircrew realise how much he loved his guitars? His music? He was famous for eccentricity, a rare talent in a world of manufactured careers, a young man obsessed with weaving notes, fanatically practising chords and riffs until his fingers bled. Some of it was true, some of it simple PR, he did practise compulsively, but his fingers only bled the once, I did that. What they carefully concealed from the devout was his passion for the little packets of powder was beginning to replace the music as his mind tumbled towards its inevitable disintegration and even I became a discarded relic.19

After that they were careful to ensure I always had my place next to him, and we still shared an intimacy no one else could ever know. When the perennial groupie had choked for the final time, he’d show her the door, the chemical enhanced grin replacing the beatific smile I recalled with increasing sadness, pick me up and just hold me, resting his head on my neck until he passed out. He wasn’t always like this, he still had whole days when his brain retained its zest and he played like the angular angel he once was but they were becoming less and less frequent. Even on stage he’d often unplug and just watch the audience as if daring them to say anything, but they never did. As his gaze grew in wildness so did his life until nobody really wanted to speak to him anymore. He’d boarded the self-destruction roller coaster in adolescence and now, approaching his early twenties he was a lost boy with his foot wedged on the accelerator. The world still adored him but he hated them for it. He refused all interviews, grunted at those who still hung about the stadium doors, even the hot stink of meaningless sex began to lose its lure but he still had me. Alone he’d prop me upright, content to simply run his increasingly blistered hands over my frame, the fingers mournfully stroking the neck and fretboard as if he were lamenting what he used to be. Occasionally he’d be sufficiently sober to actually play and I wept out my soul for him. He rarely bothered to dress anymore and I could feel him pressed hard against my back, the sweat seeping into my body, staining my perfection, marking me as his. No girl could ever delight him as I did, we soared and we moaned and the notes I screamed for him were fashioned from heaven until he couldn’t control it. I thought I could still make him happy but he couldn’t hide the desperation in his eyes.20

The beginning of his end, when it came was unexpectedly swift. 21

‘I’m going home. I don’t want to do this anymore.’22

The others were left in stunned silence, twenty thousand ticket holders snarling impatiently waiting for the show to open and he wouldn’t play. They’d always known he could be difficult and argumentative, but this stank of closure. None of them spoke to him off stage anymore, he detested their company and they thought he was an egotistical little shit.23

‘Get your sorry ass out there. There’s people out there who’ve paid good money to see us, not you, us, you arrogant little bastard.’24

Silence. 25

‘Did you hear?’ added the funny faced little man who’d always been able to work round him. ‘Come on, you can’t let them down, not now. It’s too late to cancel.’26

‘Tell them,’ he began, not able to even look anyone in the face.27

‘Tell them what? That you’re fucking mad?’28

‘If you like. I don’t care anymore. I want to go home.’29

It was too much, fists were swung, sneakered feet bit into him until their frantic manager pulled them off the pathetically curled creature they’d once invited to play. So they let him go home and that’s where he stayed until he became just another burn out, killing himself slowly as the world forgot he’d ever existed.30

His days fell into monotony, he stopped eating properly, all he needed was the harsh sting of vodka and his burnt powder. Yet he still gazed at me with increasingly glazed eyes, crooning how he loved me, I’d never let him down. Unlike his friends. Tired of his comatose condition, the stench of addiction heavy on his skin, they quickly gave up trying to tell him to do something and just left him to rot from within. The world swiftly stopped loving my beautiful manchild, no one cared if he’d played with angels, now they labelled him junkie, smackhead, pothead, crackhead, addict, a rambling drunk who smeared his blood against his walls and talked to demons. The delicate fingers preferring to stab wildly for a reluctant vein than caress my neck.31

The money he’d made, and he’d made a lot smouldered its way in the flame of freebasing and filthy dealers, rat like men whose eyes settled on nothing but the grubby notes he handed them. One by one he pawned or sold all his gift had brought him; discs, awards, even his furniture and books flowed into his veins. Eventually all he had for his twentysome years were a handful of treasured cds, a stained sofa and his precious, precious guitars. But of course we wouldn’t last, he was too lost now to care and he couldn’t play. Within months our numbers dwindled until only the faithful strat was left, dust smeared and unloved, our hearts cracking for the boy who’d loved us. And then it was just me, clinging pathetically to the past and what might have been. Naively I overlooked my value, an original 6136, once played by someone like him would still fetch an impressive price in the right place, he’d find more than a handful of fixes from me, but he wouldn’t ever do that do me, would he?32

When I felt his dry fingers begin to stroke my body, uncaring if my dust clung to his weeping skin, I knew this was the end. I didn’t need to see the tears or hear the choking sobs as he fitted me against his hip, the sharp bones straining against his paper skin. But he couldn’t play now; his nails were little more than filthy blood filled stumps and the plec wouldn’t steady itself between the distorted forefinger and thumb. Never before had silence parted us, the temptation of the needle sting engulfing the love we’d shared. He’d become a shade, a shambling rambling ghost, the music in his head pleading for a freedom he couldn’t grant. Eventually he cried himself towards a form of sobriety, laid me tenderly in my case, a lover closing a coffin as his grief seared face tried to say goodbye, but his voice wouldn’t obey.33

Before he handed me to the unseen man, probably another of those who offered him the smallest price for his desperation, he paused.34

‘She’s a 55, an original 6136. She’s made me so happy, so happy, but I need the money. I have to have money. Take her.’ The sobs were beginning to break in his throat as the man handed him a pile of stained bills. I imagined him stuffing them into the filthy worn coat he wrapped about his wasted body before hunching his head into his shoulders and his footsteps shuffled into the distance.35