On Playing for the First Time the Replacements’ “I Will Dare” Without Any Mistakes; Russell, 42, by Tom Williams
“Like a guy downloading porn when his wife’s due back soon”
Fiction by Tom Williams
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I wanted someone else to be there. I wanted applause. If I’m being honest, I wanted it to be 1984 again and inhabit the body of Paul or Bob. I’m always going back and forth between them. Still, it was pretty nice, after finding the tabs at Guitar. com and practicing whenever I had a free five minutes over the last two months. Not one dropped note, not one flubbed bend. No Danielle telling me to plug in my headphones or shut the thing off so I don’t wake up Kenny.
I cued Let it Be to track one, pressed pause. I wiped my hands on my boxers and stood, tightened the strap. My pick between my teeth, I pressed play on the remote. I came in a little behind but caught up, though I stumbled around the second chorus. Even a klutz like me knows “I Will Dare” is a pretty good song to practice switching between rhythm and lead, and only a few minutes earlier, my stiff fingers (ha!) had made the transitions like I started playing at fourteen, instead of thirty-nine.
As soon as I finished the song, I tried again, had the same trouble with the second chorus, stopping to say fuck and stamp my bare heel on the Pergo. I was sweating, too, could smell my armpits as my upper arms slid against my torso. The next time, frankly, I really botched the solo. I reminded myself Peter Buck played that, not Paul or Bob, so I could overlook the missed notes, get back to the verse and feel, for a minute, like I finally had a reason to play somewhere other than my closet of a study, with Kenny and Danielle asleep and my headphones on. Garry, down in Pine Bluff, the best guitar playing friend I have, is always saying you get better when you play with a band. Doesn’t have to be great talent in the room. Just guys willing to try to play a song from first to last.
Let it Be moved on to “Favorite Thing.” I haven’t found the tabs for that online yet. But I made a note to look later that night, while at the same time I was thinking I needed to hang out at Play Guitarkansas! more often, or read the back of the Times or the Free Press, even pay attention to some telephone poles near my bus stop. Somewhere in Central Arkansas there had to be a trio of guys in their forties who liked to play punk songs. Or even hard rock. I’d crank out “Hot Blooded” and “Jailbreak” if I could throw in “Answering Machine” or “We’re Coming Out.” Or kids, I thought. Teenagers. They might laugh at first, but if I showed a desire like theirs, maybe they’d come around.
I looked down at the frets, rubbed my thumb over my fingertips. Tried to convince myself those soft tips callused. I strummed Paul’s opening of “I Will Dare” again, even though by now the CD was playing “We’re Coming Out.” Then, before Bob’s lead, I stopped. The Pergo needed sweeping, here in my room and the rest of the house. It was three-fifteen. Danielle would be buckling Kenny into his car seat, him squirming and saying he was too big for it, not caring that the government said he needed fifteen more pounds. I had twenty minutes. Time enough to get the floors swept, some bananas cut up and granola poured for Kenny’s snack?
I needed to get dressed, too, in something that hadn’t been yanked from the hamper. I unplugged the guitar from my tiny amp, rolled the cord up and put it into my desk, next to my headphones. That would be my excuse, I knew then, what I’d tell Garry the next time he called and said, “There’s got to be somebody who’ll play with you.” Time, I’d say. I never had enough. Even on days off, I was always watching the clock, knowing I had to do something quickly or be somewhere and was running late as it was. And besides, I’d rationalize, I like to play by myself, knowing I had as much chance to find some guys to play with as I did to resurrect Bob from the dead or get Paul to quit acting so damn grumpy.
I pushed all that out of my mind and went to the bedroom. Then, in bare feet, jeans and a sweatshirt that smelled of Tide, I passed my study. Like a guy downloading porn when his wife’s due back soon, I paused. Did I have another two minutes? Maybe one? But I didn’t enter the study. Didn’t look up the tabs for “Favorite Thing” or even strum the stupid little Chinese Strat. I moved on to the kitchen, grabbed a banana, a knife, and a cutting board. Still, I could hear it: my playing. Not Paul’s, not Bob’s. Mine. And for a minute or maybe more that felt like a start.
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Tom Williams is the author of The Mimic’s Own Voice (Main Street Rag Publishing Company). An associate editor of American Book Review, he has published fiction, reviews and essays in such journals as The Collagist, Barrelhouse, Boulevard, Night Train, and Booth. He chairs the English department at Morehead State University.