Chapter 7

A policeman’s nightstick banged the iron bars and jolted him to consciousness. Drool puddled between his cheek and the metal platform. He had blacked-out. A tidy prison cell. He was alone. Apparently he was the only criminal awaiting release. The initial shock stung but subsided, and he implored Comstock to relate everything about the careless night.

Comstock described the scene and said it was a routine drunk driving arrest. He then tossed him a ham and cheese sandwich through the space in the cell door. Noble devoured the sandwich like a half-starving wolf, but immediately threw it up in the corner toilet bowl. He had never felt so ill before. He swam in nausea. He curled up in a ball on the heavy platform. Ironically he didn’t want to leave, as though the precinct was a safe-house. Nothing but time to recover and return to his same, gentle, contemplative self. But his bowels turned and ground. He then sat motionless on the same toilet bowl for what seemed like hours, hoping that the sickness of the booze would evacuate from his otherwise healthy system.

The notion that amazing accomplishments were born from stints in prison, even greater ones sitting on toilet bowls, didn’t ring true. He never before acknowledged what an animal he had become. Comstock and another police officer sat at paper-covered desks beyond the bars, typing reports. He discovered a silly but striking similarity between his setting and their’s. Whether the bars were near or distant, prison still existed for every individual. Sure, there are degrees of imprisonment, but a prison is still a prison whether in jail or in Waspachick or within the borders of a nation. Whether the bars are of iron or gold, they are still bars. No matter where one traveled, one was always stuck with oneself. The encasement of flesh and blood incarcerated him more than any jail cell could, the same incarceration which coerces the moon to spin around the earth or the flag to cover a casket. He didn’t, however, accept the extreme view that an escape was impossible. As we know already, his escape took the forms of fierce, verisimiltudinous daydreams. After all, the moon glowed, and the flag furled, but all within acceptable limitations of their purpose. And Noble’s one purpose was to play the guitar, or so he thought. He would have given anything to have the guitar in his jail cell, but its absence degraded him to the animal or the man unable to fulfill his chosen purpose.

Purpose lends meaning to existence, he thought. It separates the man from the insect. Even more important was the choice to determine that purpose and to accept the consequences of that choice. But in a prison cell with a terrible hangover, consequences were costly. But the greater purpose is derived from the imagination, not from necessity and circumstance. Necessity and circumstance flirt with coercion, while the untrammeled imagination develops the seed of greater purpose.

Damned is the man who has an imagination. His trials begin the day he follows it. Damned more is the man who has an imagination like Noble’s. It interferes with every aspect of his being. Necessity and circumstance wither away. The moon no longer pulls tides. The flag no longer hides a dead soldier. The moon becomes a pockmarked face, the flag a rat’s tail. The imagination complicates things which are simple. It deceives and betrays, and yet one may never attain freedom without it. Essential to purpose and consequentially costly, the imagination targets the man who is most alone. Companionship keeps it frozen. Loneliness sets it afire. How awful it is that the same instrument of escape, the same medium which distinguishes the man from insect, drives one into a prison, not of flesh and blood, but of mind? Without limits the imagination can destroy, and within limits it serves a transparent purpose as a slave to necessity and circumstance; the difference between an outlandish visage of the moon and the methods devised to land on its surface. The mortal becomes a God in his mind, and any element encroaching upon his divinity is murdered. The imagination, then, must be limited by the force of conscience, that firm belt-buckle which spanks the imagination down to size.

Noble was getting lost in thought. His buttocks grew numb while contemplating these inanities, this pseudo-psycho muck into which he was sinking. He concluded that the benefit of others must be the goal of any wild imagination. He would play the guitar for others, not for himself. He would bring happiness and serenity to his audience. And if he had the guitar in his cell, he would dazzle Comstock. It was all according to plan, all preordained by the sky above the precinct. Besides, great musicians always landed in prison at some point.

“You’re free to go,” said Comstock some hours later.

“That’s it?” said Noble in a daze.

“What were you expecting?”

“Something more. What I did was terrible.”

“Terrible as it was, East Waspachick doesn’t have a law amputating your steering hands,” he smiled, “not yet anyway.”

Noble actually expected a beating, but for now he faced probation, which didn’t matter, and a hefty fine, which mattered more than life itself.

“The judge will decide all that,” said Comstock.

“What if I can’t pay the fine?”

“The judge will decide that too.”

Noble left the precinct in the mid-afternoon, still suffering from the hang-over. He recalled a montage of last night’s events, but nothing so seamless as to recreate the entire night. At least it didn’t snow on him while walking towards Waspachick, the sky another dull, lugubrious blanket over everything living. The cars passed slowly. He headed towards Shylock’s apartment on the other side of the railroad tracks. He would have eaten to allay the nausea, but he hadn’t a dime. He arrived at Shylock’s by evening.

“Oh shit, Noble,” said Shylock rubbing his eyes at the door.

He was half-naked in a pair of plaid boxer shorts.

“Come in before I catch pneumonia.”

Shylock had been asleep on the sofa, the only part of his apartment saved from the crumpled clothes strewn all about. Noble wished he had his old room back, but his fate to live with this hairy, pouchy drunk was somehow sealed, and he accepted it. He was angry with him for dragging him out in the first place, but why make matters worse. Shylock returned to the sofa, and Noble found a spot on the floor. He could think only of the new guitar in Shylock’s trunk.

“Did you get your car back?”

“Not yet.”

“Let’s get it then.”

“Not now.”

“Not now? Why not?”

“Because I can’t even fucking move.”

“You were supposed to pick me up at the police station.”

“I know.”

“I’m in a shit-load of trouble,” as Noble waved the summons in the air.

“I know.”

“The court date is in thirty days. I’m wondering if I should get a lawyer.”

“With what money?”

“You’ve got a point. I guess I’ll represent myself.”

“Well, you know the saying: ‘A man who represents himself has a fool for his client.’”

“Thanks for the encouragement.”

“Noble, I know you don’t want to hear this,” said the fatigued Shylock, “but I’m shelling out lots of dough for the car. There’s towing costs and a big fat ticket, plus a whole mess of other costs. It’s a nightmare. The government really shoves it to you when they impound your car...”

“What are you telling me, Shy?”

“I can’t afford to get my car back...”

“Don’t you dare...”

“Noble, these are realities, okay, the real rough and tumble world of money and prison and cars towed away by an unforgiving police nation. And I have a better handle on it than you do. You’ll have to trust me.”

“No way. Absolutely not.”

“I haven’t even said anything yet,” said Shylock.

“Don’t fuck around,” said Noble bitterly.

“Yes, we have to return the guitar. I’m sorry.”

“You can’t!”

“How am I gonna get my car back? I don’t have money, man.”

“You have the money, I know you do. Ask your parents for the money if you have to.”

“My parents won’t give me a dime.”

“Yes they will.”

“I mean, who do you think I am man? You think money just falls from the sky?”

“You’re the one who wanted to go out, remember? You’re the one who wanted me to drive home, and like an idiot, I listened to you. We never should have driven in the first place.”

“What’s passed is past, alright? Let’s focus on the present. I’ve got a car in the pound which I need for my livelihood, and I have no money to pay for it. Ergo, we have to return the guitar and get my car. It’s either your guitar or my car.”

“Leave your car in the pound then.”

“Each day I leave it there, they tack on a storage charge.”

“Shylock, we had a deal.”

“Circumstances have radically altered.”

“We’re turning into barbarians,” fought Noble. “This whole world. A world where money counts for more than art. It’s all going down hill, and soon we’ll be killing each other over competing interests for glue in Thailand, and the only tune you’ll ever hear is the sound of clinking coins, not the violin, not the flute, or the trumpet, and not the sound of my fucking guitar, because you, Shylock, you!, turned my guitar in for money. It’s blood money...”

“Thai people make glue?”

“Blood money! You’re choosing blood money over art. You are contributing to the decline of the Western world, and soon we won’t be walking down these fields with flying orchids...”

“Flying orchids?”

“Quiet! Yes, flying orchids, and instead we’ll be back to square one, some modernist nightmare, a Mondrianic nightmare, where everything’s geometrical and electronic and automated and inhuman, and the music we hear will be violently digital, and short, so very short, damn shorty-short lyrics controlled by one giant monopolizing conglomerate administering blood tests, lie detector tests, breathalyzers, entrance exams, all of the Western World taken over by realists like you who choose blood money over artistic expression, and then we’ll blame some dictator in the desert for all our problems, or even worse, we’ll blame ourselves and usher in the Second Civil War, not because of our government, not because of a spike in some demographer’s chart, no, because you, Shylock, put money before art. It’ll be so bad that anyone with the faintest vision will be put in prison, and you’ll be the one slamming the door...”

“Calm down, okay?”

“I will not calm down.”

“I get the point, okay?”

“Then you’ll save art? You’ll save the music so the little kids can play in the green grass?”

“Damn you, Noble McCloud. You always fuck with things.”

“Tell me you’ll spare my guitar. It’s the only thing I’ve got.”

It was his finest performance. Thoughts which gathered piecemeal in his mind somehow synthesized into one gigantic turd upon the bewildered Shylock who was too fatigued for debate. A gust of pride swept through him, the pride which comes with winning an argument over a childhood friend who had always dominated.

“I’ll be dipping into my savings,” said Shylock after a long period.

“You’ll spare the guitar?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll spare the rotten thing. I don’t want to be known for the demise of the Western world and kids with flying orchids in their hair.”

Noble couldn’t contain his exceptional happiness. He jumped upon Shylock and hugged him with joy.

“Get off me, you idiot!”

Yet he hugged him tighter, and Shylock had to accept. Their friendship had somehow survived the guillotine of adulthood, and whenever a frienship passes this high hurdle, both members mysteriously touch the divine. Friendships in maturity usually begin with a series of trades, tit-for-tat, and slowly a relationship develops which never transcends mutual suspicions. Never does one acquaintance fully trust the other. There is always some barrier, as though both acquaintances have mastered the art of self-interest, and if one friend feels cheated, the relationship is severed and the two go their separate ways. As one grows older, the ability to trust dissolves. This may seem like common knowledge, but it’s used here only to highlight the special relationship the two knew they possessed, a friendship the world couldn’t break. At least not yet.

They retrieved the car from the pound the next day. They waited on a long line, and after Shylock had withdrawn the money from a cash machine in town, he handed over the crisp stack of bills to the clerk behind the thick plexi-glass.

“It’s like throwing money in the garbage,” remarked Shylock.

Afterwards, Shylock drove to work, while Noble remained at the apartment where he eyed the box containing the new guitar. It stood in the corner. He was afraid of opening it, as though the item represented an obligatory madness. He had yearned for this moment. He had spent many days and nights dreaming of the guitar in his hands, but suddenly he found a madness without even opening the box. Thus was his introduction to the creative process.

He paced the room. He wrenched his hands. He ate the ice cream in the freezer. He did everything but open the guitar. His desire to play was strong while his will to learn from scratch what others had already known remained weak and deformed.

He sat on the sofa for a few hours wondering how to approach the instrument. He even tried talking to the box: “You and me, see, we have a special connection,” and other such palaver. But for some reason he couldn’t open the box. He would have rather thrown it from the balcony. He tried listening to music. He utilized Shylock’s stereo, which was a much better system than his own. He played his CD’s loudly despite the thin walls. The box wouldn’t open by itself. Perhaps this was all just one big mistake. Once again he must have been betrayed. No, it can’t be a mistake. What about the signs, the sychronous events which led him to this one moment with his most prized and frustrating possession? Yes, it was his calling to play the guitar for the rest of his days, a life sanctioned by the Lord, and he couldn’t bring himself to open the damned box. Such a simple action left him spent and fatigued, as though he were fighting the instrument like a gladiator fighting a lion. And his impatience led him to the kitchen.

He knew where Shylock kept the whiskey bottles: underneath the sink towards the back. He poured himself a full glass, and the initial gulp burned a hole through his stomach, Nevertheless, it did blunt the edge of his frustration. Soon enough he was drunk and confronted on all sides by insecurities. Who was he kidding? Twenty-seven years old without a job, a girlfriend, money, a place to live? By all accounts he was a miserable failure. He was treading the road less traveled without a decent pair of shoes. Add to this his drunk driving arrest and a court date thirty days away. And then this guitar which he supposed would answer all of his problems. Everyone succeeded but Noble McCloud. Everything he looked upon turned to stone. He was drowning, and soon he would fulfill the legacy of the Waspachick town bum who looked marooned and starved from any connection with the productive, working world. If there were any man alive who would replace this weathered, disheveled, salty bum of the town, it had to be Noble, the perfect candidate. And he would wander up and down the strip in search of dimes in pay-phone receptacles. He would push a shopping cart loaded with cans, recyclable plastics, and a guitar never opened. He would delve into trashcans in search of half-eaten sandwiches. It was all so lucidly lurid and probable. Perhaps while fumbling with the half-eaten sandwhich he would run into Alexandra Van Deusen pushing a stroller.

“Hi,” says Noble, only to be ignored. He follows her along the strip wanting a single word with her.

“I don’t know if you remember me from the Laundromat,” he says.

“If you don’t stop following me around, I’ll call the police,” she replies.

He doesn’t know if she’s playing hard to get. Perhaps he should persist and develop a conversation, the same conversation he had imagined having thousands of times.

“I collect cans now,” he says, “and I have a nice collection of interesting cans. I mean the can has really evolved since the days of our youth. Take the can of diet cola. At first the can was manufactured as part of a set, the six pack, but over the few years after its inception...”

“I said I’ll call the cops if you don’t cool it,” she yells.

And from out of the Italian trattoria come two men in slick suits.

“Is there a problem?” asks one of them.

Noble and Alexandra look at each other.

“No problem,” says Alexandra, a tacit observance of her own powers to have Noble beaten if she so desired.

And Noble ambles down the strip, and Alexandra continues bouncing from shop to shop, two people born from the same place, and yet two individuals who could never hold a decent conversation. This was the nightmare. All of these Waspachick women stuck in their mansions and old colonial homes never to associate with the man who collected cans.

He must open the box, just rip it open and force the strings to sing of his pain. In his sour inebriation he untucked the cardboard edges and pulled out the guitar by its neck. The gloss of the laminated body reflected his haggard face. He held the guitar delicately like a new pair of sneakers, not wishing to scuff it. He brought it to the sofa and carefully tested every chord. He drank more of the whiskey and experimented with the instrument for several hours. He plugged it into the amplifier and tested the tremolo bar and the variable pick-up switch. He flirted with the tone settings. He pressed his fingers to one of the frets and strummed softly. He didn’t sing along with the chord. Doggerel would have resulted, and singing was never his intention anyway. Only the guitar occupied his narrow sights.

No longer would he collect cans and bother women. His self-pity exited with his strumming, and the tremolo bar and the pick-up switch added a versatility to his monotonous strums. But the beginner can only go so far in his first attempts at manufacturing melodies. If he were to succeed, he must master the fundamentals. A thin beginner’s manual came with the guitar kit. He thumbed through it and was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of material. He drank more of the warm whiskey.

The sounds he produced were repetitive. He was moving in circles. He had pushed his cold beginnings to the limit and knew he had to study the manual and release the guitar’s spectacular capabilities. But he was too drunk. After beholding the mountain, he passed out on the sofa while judging its height.

After returning from the coffee shop, Shylock woke him. Noble slept with the guitar in his lap, the whiskey bottle half-drained beside him. Shylock brought home Chinese food, and they ate heartily. The days before the trial were filled with Noble’s cautious and curious study. He wanted to learn everything by the book, and while Shylock worked during the day, Noble learned the guitar with the aid of whiskey and an assortment of other spirits. He learned step-by-step how to tune the guitar, to read standard notation and guitar tablature, including note values. He practiced string exercises with time signatures, from the thickest string to the thinnest. Then came the combination of two or more notes, or chord exercises, three string chords, rests, anacrusis, the tempos of andante, moderato, and allegro, bass chords, the dynamics of piano, forte, mezzo-forte, and fortissimo. From natural notes he tackled whole steps, half-steps, sharps, and flats. Then he maneuvered through ascending and descending scales, enharmonics, arpeggio chords, and transpositions, and soon enough he played a basic melody by Bach, a bluesy tune he had heard countless times before, and major scales. He repeated these exercises until he heard them in his sleep.

His learning did not arrive magically. Sure, he prayed for some unique, dexterous ability, but his fundamental skills didn’t come overnight. Learning took a severe emotional toll on him. He sat within the four walls of Shylock’s living room, alone with his instrument. On some days he grew so tired that the scales blurred on the page. He had been drinking heavily to blunt the frustration of learning, and his intoxication led him towards awkward improvisations akin to lunacy. Nevertheless he began each day with a shot of whiskey (which Shylock replenished every few days) and then a repetition of the entire manual several times over, each chord exact and each major scale played with an ingrained precision. And all the while Shylock grew alarmed at his roommate’s failing mental and physical capacities.

Noble made it a point of ending his practice sessions when Shylock arrived with dinner. At night he would perform for him. Shylock was not as impressed as he was alarmed. Noble hadn’t showered or shaved. He grew thin and sickly. Shylock determined that he was eating only one meal per day and substituting whiskey for other meals. Shylock appreciated his dedication, but on one windy night, he intervened.

He walked in with dinner, and Noble was finishing the familiar bluesy melody, a new bottle of whiskey opened and drained a quarter of the way.

“Hey, Noble,” said Shylock.

“Hi,” said Noble, clearly preoccupied.

“Practicing, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“When did you get up?”

“After you left,” as he looked at the manual and strummed.

“Listen, Noble, can we talk for a bit?”

“Lemme finish this scale.”

“No, Noble, I mean now.”

“Just wait a few minutes.”

“No,” as Shylock clutched the neck.

“Hey man, let go!”

“Noble, we have to talk. Put away the guitar.”

“I’m almost done, now lay off!”

Shylock pulled the guitar from him.

“Whaddya think you’re doing?”

“What am I doing? What am I doing? What the hell are you doing? I come home every night to find you drunk, malnourished, and ill, man. You’ve been drinking so much booze you can’t even play straight. You’re going too far, man, and I’m getting worried.”

“There’s no reason for worry.”

“Oh no? Noble, you’re going through a bottle of whiskey every two days, man. You’re sippin’ the shit like water. What’s gotten into you? You’ve learned the basics, now it’s time to rest a little while. Can’t you see what you’re doing to yourself?”

“I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“I don’t think you do. You’re pushing it too far. You’re not improving, man, you’re burning out.”

“Ah bullshit. I’ve mastered these chords,” as he lunged for the reverberating guitar.

“Relax, Noble. Relax, okay? Calm down. You’re exhausted and spent.”

“Give me the guitar, Shy. Don’t fuck with me. Not tonight.”

“I’m worried, man. You’re sick. You need a doctor.”

“I don’t need anything but that guitar.”

“What’s the rush, huh?”

“First of all,” yelled Noble, “I have to learn this instrument in a short time. I need to be good enough to make money from it, okay, and until that day comes, I will work my fingers to the bone, you hear me? To the bone. I’m learning the fundamentals, alright, and I must perfect them. You’re the one who wanted me out soon. Can’t you see that I’m working for you too? I’m playing until I can play the night clubs.”

“Not this way,” said Shylock, “I never intended this. You’re hooked on the booze.”

“The booze is nothing, man, it’s nothing. It only relaxes me.”

“Then do it without the liquor, okay? That much you’ll have to compromise,” as he grabbed the whiskey bottle with his other hand. “I want you to see a doctor tomorrow. It’s my day off.”

“Forget it. I need the practice time.”

“Fine. If you don’t see the doctor with me, I’m kicking you out. Let me put it plainly.”

“Listen, I don’t need a doctor. I’ll stop drinking, if it’ll make you happy. I won’t drink.”

“I’m worried, Noble. Really worried.”

“There’s no reason for it. I’ve been working hard. Maybe I need a break. My court hearing’s coming up soon. I’ll use it as a break.”

Shylock returned the whiskey bottle to its spot under the sink, and they ate dinner in silence. Noble was thoroughly irritated without the whiskey bottle by his side. He strategized. He had to adjust his practice schedule in order to include the whiskey. He could neither play nor function without it. What began as a fleeting experiment with practicing under the influence turned into an obsession. He was running from that image of collecting cans along the Waspachick streets. He knew the guitar was his only ticket, and at the same time he craved the drink. His plan called for a readjustment of practice schedule. He would end his sessions a half-an-hour before Shylock came home. But then how would he replenish the whiskey? Shylock wouldn’t bring home the precious goods anymore, and Noble hadn’t the money. He could take the money from him in his sleep, but Shylock would kick him out. Well, first things first, he reasoned. He would lay off the booze until Shylock fell asleep a few hours after dinner. Noble needed sleep as well, and the booze usually put him to sleep quickly. Yes, he would drink a glass after Shylock fell asleep. He would wake up long after Shylock went to work, drink what was left of the last bottle, and practice the fifth string exercises some more. When the whiskey ran dry, he would get used to the scotch, then the Jaggermeister, until all of his stock were drained. Then he would steal the money from Shylock’s wallet in the middle of the night to buy the same brand of whiskey. Shylock would be visibly upset, but by the time he figured things out, the court date would arrive. This was the target date: the trial, the day when he looked for gigs at night clubs around Waspachick, a magical date which meant an end to stealing from Shylock and drinking whiskey.

So far his plan worked. Over the next few nights he succeeded in drinking all of Shylock’s liquor. Shylock hardly noticed. He too would come home drunk from long nights at the East Wapachick bar. Whether he drove back was unclear. Shylock stopped worrying about Noble’s irregular sleeping hours, his diligent guitar playing, and the vomiting in the early morning. Noble routinely stole money from Shylock’s wallet on the nights he went out. Shylock assumed he spent it at the bar. It was all working perfectly. Noble could play while drinking, and that’s all he cared about. In Noble’s mind, the guitar playing steadily improved. He worked on improvisation with the aid of the tremolo bar and the pick-up switch. Chords gelled into broken licks and the occasional sustained note which hung like a whining buffalo. Noble’s speed and dexterity increased. In his mind, he had mastered the fundamentals, and he needed to prove to Shylock that he was ready for the night club circuit.

Just days after the intervention, he hardly spoke with Shylock. Noble feigned sleeping when he wandered in from work. He deliberately arranged his schedule to avoid him. He kept the whiskey bottles in a special place- the guitar box.

The night before Noble’s trial, they ran into each other. He hadn’t seen Shylock in over a week, and their reunion was a festive occasion, but sadly so. By this time they had both become drunkards, Noble in particular. Without his dose of booze he could neither practice nor sleep. Shylock faired better, although he was hubristically returning from the East Waspachick bar by car. He learned little from Noble’s predicament.

“Noble, Noble McCloud,” sang Shylock happily as he shut the door.

“Where have you been all my life?” asked Noble.

“Working, drinking, working again. You haven’t been drinking too much, have you?”

Noble resented his parental tone. He sat with the guitar in his lap.

“Good,” said Shylock. “Anyway I have a surprise for you. Tonight we celebrate. You’re trial’s tomorrow, and we’ll order some pizza.”

Noble had taken all of Shylock’s kindness for granted. He longed for Shylock to present him with a bottle, a big send-off before the trial. Instead a large pizza was ordered. Noble ate a few bites, not more. Shylock munched across from him. Without alcohol the festive occasion turned boring and frustrating. It was now Noble’s job to push Shylock into getting more liquor.

In their small-talk he dropped hints, but Shylock didn’t pick up on them, and all the while he grew more irritated with his benefactor. His irritability intensified by the last slice, and he knew the night was over when Shylock yawned and made a motion for his bedroom. He wasn’t too sure whether he had come home tipsy or not, for he did retire on the early side. But his priority remained as clear as the empty bottles in the guitar box: to obtain more liquor at any price, so that he could get through the long night.

He waited for Shylock to fall asleep. The apartment was small enough to hear the low rumble of Shylock’s snores. It took a few hours, however, and in that time Noble perambulated the living room, pulling at his blonde locks, long and oily. He had little patience, and checked on Shylock every few minutes. The guitar leaned on the wall next to the sofa, and he could have smashed it to bits, if not for the snoring. He tip-toed into Shylock’s room and felt the night table for his wallet. No luck. He checked the top drawer of his bureau. Still no luck. In the weak light from the living room, he spotted the wallet in the back of Shylock’s trousers. He could have easily picked it, but there was one problem: Shylock slept with his pants on. Regardless of this small glitch he was prepared to do anything for his art. Normally he would have given up, but he must continue practicing. Carefully he pulled the wallet from his back pocket. When the wallet was safely in his hands, Shylock rolled over and faced him. His snoring halted briefly. Noble thought himself caught. But the low rumble resumed as before.