From Heart in the Jungle: The Beginning a novel by Fred J. Lauver
Inquiries: info@lauvermanagement.net
Frank wrapped the fingers of his
left hand around the neck of his white guitar. A few months earlier, the band
had played a small club in South Philadelphia. During the afternoon sandwiched
in between two nights Frank was there, he was exploring the holy land of music on
Market Street where hundreds of teens had once stood in line at the old TV
station waiting to worship the latest pop stars. Frank fantasized that Dick
Clark would come out the side doors and invite The Rockets to be the next big
thing on American Bandstand. Of
course, by then, that would never happen. Hands in pocket, Frank walked past a
pawn shop and stopped to admire a sleek, white electric guitar displayed in the
shop window. Frank stepped into the store to get a closer look.
“There’s magic in that guitar,”
the owner of the South Philadelphia pawnshop said after Frank picked up the
instrument and played a few runs. The ease at which his fingers landed on the
frets and produced a clean string vibration impressed Frank.
An African American man stood
behind the teenager admiring the sleek Gibson Guitar. He was thin, about two
inches shorter than Frank, and the graying fringes on his short cropped hair
revealed his age to be in his fifties or sixties.
“Oh? Magic, huh? Frank replied.
“Oh yeah, man,” the man said. “It
was owned by a real badass cat. He was meaner on that guitar than B.B.
King…best damned player I ever heard.”
“If he was that good, why would
he pawn his guitar?” Frank furrowed his brow skeptically.
“This cat, he done be a broken
man. He needed the cash, man. He got the devil in his veins…you know that dust
in his nose, heroin in his blood. He was doing real good for a while, He made a
record and he was gonna go see Dick Clark. Maybe gets himself on Bandstand.
Then he be cool, but then Bandstand, Dick Clark, and everybody up and move to
Los Angeles. Four years ago he sees Bandstand show on TV in L.A. Very next day, them Beatles be on Ed Sullivan in New
York. Soul music die in Philadelphia, maybe dead everywhere. Next week, Johnny
come in here and pawns this fine Gibson”
“Soul music will never die,”
Frank said with conviction. “The Beatles music has a lot of soul in it because
they listened to music from Detroit and from Philadelphia.”
“Oh, I can see you know your music. Philly was
good to musicians—especially black soul musicians –until the music died here.
Are you a musician?”
“I am,” Frank brightened. “I have
a rock band. We’re here for a couple of days.”
Well, too bad you can’t go on
Dick Clark’s show no more here, but I’ll tell you what. This guitar is just
sittin’ here gatherin’ dust, it’s not ready for no jazz bone yard. I’ll make
you a real nice deal on it. Maybe it will bring you luck.”
“That other guitarist didn’t have
such good luck. Maybe this Johnny’ll be back,” Frank said, “maybe he can have a
comeback.”
“No, ain’t gonna happen. One day
somebody told me he was dead, overdose, you know. Damn shame.”
“There you go then. I hope the
guitar is not cursed,” Frank said superstitious of the guitar.
“Oh no, man. It’s cool. Nothing
happened to Johnny until he pawned his guitar. This guitar was his heart and
soul. Music was his reason for living. He just gave up. That dope make him do
the wrong thing,” the shop owner said.
“Good point. Well I’m sure it’s
too expensive,” Frank said ready to walk away.
“Maybe it would be if the last
owner was famous. He weren’t no Chuck Berry or B.B. King. Johnny died before
that happened. I want to see this guitar in the hands of a player again. I got
a good feeling about you. I’ll let you have it for fifty dollars. I’ll even
throw in the guitar case. All that worth way more than fifty.”
“Wow, that’s a deal too good to
be true. That would still leave me enough money for gas and a good meal to get
home. I’ll take it.”
From that day, Frank always took
his white guitar on stage and treated it with reverence. The group’s lead
guitarist, Jack, was a bit envious of Frank’s prize and suggested Frank name
his guitar. While they had heard about B.B. King naming his guitar “Lucille,”
Frank was first tempted to name his guitar “Sarah,” but reconsidered and put
his own name on it.
“Never heard of a ‘Frank’ brand
guitar,” Jack quipped.
Frank
enjoyed Jack’s humor and respected his ability as a guitarist. Frank considered
gifting the guitar to Jack, but loved it so much and believed in its magic. For
a while, his guitar would be the weapon of a choice for a would be knight
hoping to capture the heart of fair maiden. On stage, all his shyness
disappeared. He became a different person compared to the one his peers knew in
high school. Four boys became four men able to move a crowd to perform tribal
dances. It was a taste of life that with each bite made Frank hungrier still.
Frank was ready to break out of the prison that he had created for himself.
