Chapter 31

“Guitar?”

“Yup, we had a group ... I played bass.”

Imagine my shock ... my daddy played bass. I had no idea.

So... “When?”

“Before I met your mother.”

“What...”

“Band in college ... we were pretty good ... got an offer to open for Frank Zappa’s Mothers of Invention for their concert at the Union. It didn’t gel though,” that was said with a sad voice.

“What happened?” I am not stupid ... I may not have the common sense god gave little green apples ... but I know disappointment when I hear it.

“Harp and rhythm player got in a snit over a riff. Rhythm player thought it sucked ... band thought it fit ... fisticuffs right there in the lounge ... we got booted by the cops ... lost our practice spot. Muddy made a single ... almost made the charts. Typical garage band shit. The rhythm player switched back to lead ... made it medium big ... Heavy Robin ... actually ... Harvey Robinski ... played some class auditoriums and arenas ... Detroit, mostly.”

Daddy was reminiscing ... lost in a world of ‘what if’s’.

He carried on for a half an hour.

“What did you do with your bass?” I interrupted a particulary boring monologue about Tolkien’s Hobbit.

“Umh ... they’re in storage.”

“They? Like more than one?”

He started on his fingers... “ Pawnshop 1961 Fender Precision. Goodwill 1962 Fender Jazz. Broken Rickenbacker four string ... fixed it. Musicman ‘Finger’ bass, old man bought it for his kid Tossed it in the trash. A G&L Four, actually bought it. Harmony Batwing hollow body, trash find. Danelectro long horn long neck lipstick four, pawnshop... 10 bucks. A Kay standup, traded a pickup rear-end for it ... oh ... almost forgot ... Ampeg acrylic stand up. Home made Bassjo ... bought a BIG bass drum and built it. Carvin four, I think it was stolen from a church. Broken Mosrite long neck. Bunch ah Japanese basses. Ampeg B-18 N amp ... I have several ... best bass amp ever made. Oh ... a bass klimba ... Mexican Guitarrón. Sousaphone, Tuba, an orchestra bass viol ... some other stuff. A storage shed full.”

“What is an orchestra bass?”

“You have Google.”

The sheer size of it flabbergasted me. By the time I recovered from my shock, Dr. Waters and offspring were screaming at the gates. I popped on my 125 dirt bike and motored to the gate ... I unlocked, opened, admitted, closed and locked up.

The male seventeen year old Waters offspring said...”You locked us in.”

“Yup ... Security.”

I led the way.

“Bud.”

“Selene.”

“Thanks for the clippers.”

“I think I’m going to be sorry.”

“Probably.”

“Find something?”

“Yup ... you can read about it in the Smithsonian.”

“Yup ... already sorry ... Heck...” he said

“And shuckydarn,” I said.

“I finished the thousand hour overhaul ... want it back?”

“Yes.”

“Got money?”

“When it’s in my hangar.”

I idled off down the slope. The Waters clan followed.

I parked my motorcycle in the hangar. I have a drip pan I park over.

I directed them to dirt parking.

Doc Waters said, “What is that?” He was looking at the canvas acreage.

“Hangar for my AD-2Q.”

“What is ... what you said...?”

“Korean War ... Vietnam conflict bomber. Google it. Douglas Skyraider. Look at the list of survivors.”

Doc Waters didn’t ... but the 17 year old boy did.