Johnny Eleven and Les Paul Heaven Read online

  Johnny Eleven and Les Paul Heaven

  By

  C. Belding

  Copyright © 2014 by Chet Belding

  “Dude, maybe guitar’s not yer thing?” his friend suggested, if not somewhat nicely.

  “I know I’m not that good, but just wait, wait till I get my Les Paul. Then everything will be different.”

  “Johnny, I don’t know any other way to say this…but…you suck!”

  “I’m gettin’ better!” Johnny insisted.

  “Johnny, I hate to say this, but you suck real bad!”

  “Just wait till I get my Les Paul. I been savin’ fer awhile.”

  “Les Paul’s are really expensive Johnny. Maybe you should buy a knockoff or a copy. That way…”

  “No!” Johnny said firmly.

  “Fine, so which one you gonna get?”

  “I’ll show you a picture in the catalog. They got the exact same guitar hangin’ in the window in town. And that’s the one I’m gonna get.”

  “Alright, alright! Show me the picture already.”

  Johnny pulled out the catalog and showed him the picture.

  “Dude, that’s gold! Ya know how much gold is goin’ for these days?”

  “It’s a gold top dummy – as in paint!” Johnny said in an incredulous voice.

  “Oh. So let me see that picture again.”

  “There it is…my baby. I’m goin’ down there in a little bit to put my hundred dollars down. I’m gonna do it on layaway.”

  “Gonna take ya awhile Johnny.”

  “I know, but it’ll be worth it.”

  “What if it don’t work out? I mean that’s a lot of money to sink into a guitar – especially if you suck. Well, I guess you can always sell it on eBay or something if things don’t work out.”

  “Thanks fer the moral support.”

  “I’m just sayin’ Johnny!”

  “You wait! One day I’ll be famous and you’ll be eatin’ yer words!”

  “Okay okay! Johnny the rock star. So whatcha gonna name yerself when you make it big? You gotta have a cool name, cause most those guys don’t use their real names.”

  Johnny thought about it. And as he did, he thought he'd keep his first name – the Johnny name. After all, lots of famous players had been named Johnny. Why there was Johnny B Good, John Lee Hooker, Johnny Winter, Johnny Ramone, John Lennon, John Doe etc. etc. And let’s not forget about Johnny Clapton, Johnny Page and Johnny Hendrix. Lot's of John’s and Johnny's. And then as he thought about it, it came to him. It was so simple, but he really liked it – liked it a lot. "I got it!" he said in an excited voice.

  “Yeah? – Like what?” his friend asked.

  “Johnny Eleven! It's awesome!” he proclaimed.

  “Johnny Eleven huh? Well, I give ya that Johnny, it is kinda cool.”

  “Thanks! I knew you'd like it.”

  “So, if ya make it big, ya gonna have a place for me in yer organization? Ya gotta have an organization Johnny.”

  “I'll find a place for ya. You can look after my guitar.”

  “Does it pay good?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, how about a name for yer guitar? All those big rock stars got names for their one special guitar. Like BB has Lucille, Billy’s got Pearl Gates, Eric's got Blacky and Eddie's got Frankenstein…I think? So what-cha gonna name your Gold Top Les Paul Johnny?”

  “Not sure yet. Let me think about it.”

  How about Goldie?”

  Johnny looked at him. “Is that the best ya got?”

  “It's just a suggestion Johnny.”

  “Too obvious and not quite right.”

  So his friend thought about it. “I got it! How about Eleven? Yer Johnny and yer guitar’s Eleven.”

  “Ya know, that's not a bad idea,” Johnny said as he scratched his head. “I think I like it.”

  “Told ya so! Now, if ya can just learn to play the damn thing.”

  “Oh I will! You just watch me!" Johnny said in confident tone of voice.

  “So should we go?”

  “Yeah, let me just collect my hundred bucks. I got it stuffed in my pillow for safekeeping.”

  Moments later they climbed onto their bikes and headed off for town. Johnny had his hundred bucks tucked deep down inside his jeans. He didn't have a wallet but he was saving for one.

  They arrived in front of the guitar-studded window of their local musical instrument emporium – better known as Jake's Slam and Jam. "There she is," Johnny said, while he pointed to the prominent gold top Les Paul in the window. And to him it appeared as if it was glowing – as if it was shrouded by a magnificent musical halo.

  “Damn, that is one nice guitar!” his friend agreed.

  “Damn right! And she's gonna be mine – all mine. Gonna play her ‘til the day I die.”

  “Don't say “Die” Johnny – its bad luck.”

  “Nah, don't believe that.”

  “I'm tellin' ya Johnny. Its bad luck!”

  “Fine! I'll play it until the day I'm too old to play or if I'm wearin' a freakin’ diaper again.”

  His friend shook his head in agreement.

  “Let's go in,” Johnny proposed, before he lifted his loosely-tied, hi-top sneaker and pulled down his road-weary kickstand.

  His friend did the same and they both walked in through the glass door that was filled with stickers of all kinds – such as Fender, Gibson, Ernie's Balls, etc. etc.

  An older kid (maybe nineteen) recognized Johnny and walked over to him. “I see you’re back Johnny,” he said, if not a little sarcastically.

  Johnny looked him straight in the eye and told him that he wanted to put a hundred dollar deposit down on the Les Paul in the Window. The prized Gold Top.

  “Sorry Johnny, but someone else beat ya to it.”

  “What-cha mean?” Johnny immediately countered with a healthy doss of distress in his voice.

  “Someone else plunked down some cash. Says they'll have the rest in two weeks.”

  Johnny just looked at him and the life seemed to drain from his face. “Can't be!” he said in a dejected tone of voice.

  “Fraid so Johnny. We got some other ones though that are just as nice. Why don't ya play one of those – see if ya like one?”

  “You don't understand. That's the one! There is no other. Its gotta be that one!” he insisted.

  “Well, the boss says if the guy don't come back in two weeks, it’s back up for sale.”

  “Tell ya what. I'm gonna leave ya my hundred bucks incase. And if he don't have it, I will – the full amount – in two weeks!” he promised with a strong air of conviction in his voice.

  The young salesman shook his head. Let me just go talk to Jake – see what he says.” He then disappeared into the back of the store to talk to Jake.

  “Johnny, where you gonna get that kinda money that fast?” his friend asked.

  “Don't know. But I'll figure it out – you'll see!”

  The young salesman returned. “Jake says its okay – long as you got the balance. He said a couple other people been lookin' at it.”

  Johnny shook his head in a confident demeanor. “I'll have it!” he said firmly, and handed the salesmen his hard-earned hundred bucks.

  “I'll do the paperwork,” the salesman said before he turned around and walked for the counter.

  Five minutes later Johnny walked out of the store with a receipt in his hand. He wasn't happy, but at least he had a chance – some glimmer of hope that the guitar of all guitars would be his.

  “Where you gonna get all that cash Johnny?” his friend repeated.

  Johnny shook his head and said he'd figure it out. They both got on their bicycles and pedaled a
way.

  Johnny arrived home and wasn’t in the greatest mood, but he was still determined to acquire the guitar of his dreams – the gold top Les Paul. He let out a sigh, leaned his bike against the side of the garage while contemplating his significant dilemma – how to raise the rest of the cash? He knew he couldn't ask his mom – that was out of the question, so he considered several jobs he could do, but they wouldn't pay enough – at least not in two weeks. He was at a loss, but still thinking. Kicking at some dirt, the light bulb went off in his head – his uncle – his crazy Uncle, Jack. He hadn't seen him in awhile, and he wasn't sure why – committed maybe? His uncle was his mother’s brother, and she wasn't very fond of him. But to Johnny, his uncle had always seemed a harmless sort. Plus he was really into music. “I'm gonna call him!” Johnny promised himself, before he walked around the back of the house and went in through the back door.

  “Where you been Johnny?” his mother asked, as he entered the kitchen.

  “Music shop,” he replied.

  “You need new strings?” she asked, while she went about the business of making dinner – meatloaf, mashed potatoes and canned corn.

  “Nah, I was just looking at something,” he replied.

  She however was too preoccupied with her cooking and failed to ask him what he had been looking at. So Johnny walked out into the hallway and ran up the stairs to his always accommodating bedroom.

  Inside, he closed the door and went right for his bed. He flopped on it and stared up at the ceiling for awhile. He knew if he called his Uncle Jack it would cause friction in the family, but he was planning on doing it anyway. So he got up and collected the phone. The only problem was that he didn't have his uncle's phone number. For that he'd have to sneak downstairs and find his mother's personal phonebook. She usually kept it in one of the kitchen cabinets – the one just to the right of the antique, white stove.

  When he arrived downstairs, she was at the sink washing what appeared to be a large pot. She seemed oblivious to his presence so he took the opportunity and cinched over to the cabinet by the stove. With one eye on her and one eye on the cabinet, he opened it and there it was – in plain sight. So with great due diligence, he slid it out without a sound and quickly exited the kitchen. He then ran back up the stairs and into his bedroom – quickly closing the door behind him. “Yes!” he celebrated with a little round of air guitar.

  He wasted little time, and quickly went to the phone on his desk. Opening his mother’s personal phone book, he turned the pages marked by their alphabetical designation until he came to the page where his uncle's name should’ve been. With a lisp of anticipation, he opened it expecting to see his uncle’s name and number – but it wasn’t there – no sign of it. He cursed, and then went feverishly through the rest of the book but he still couldn’t find it. And yet again he cursed his misfortune. “Where the hell is it!” he seethed in a moment of teenage angst. He knew the only option he had left was to ask his mom – and hardly an option – at least to his way of thinking. So he slammed the address book shut and threw it on the floor out of pure frustration. And that's when a few pieces of paper fell out – they had obviously been hidden in the folds of the address book somewhere. He looked at them for a second with a touch of curiosity and then bent down and picked them up. The first piece of paper he unfolded was a name and number he didn't recognize. So he moved on. The next was a florist’s number, which he quickly discarded, and then went on to the next one. Ready for more disappointment, he opened it, and low and behold, there it was – his uncle's number and even better, his address. “Wow!" he said in reaction. And right then he decided that instead of calling; he was gonna pay him a visit.

  His uncle lived on the other side of town near the industrial section, which had seen better days, and not a bad ride by bicycle – much longer on foot. Tomorrow was Saturday, and since he was out of school until Monday, perfect for making the trip. He would tell his mom that he was going to see a friend as a rouse and then head over there.

  Saturday morning arrived and the sun was shinning. Good for bicycle riding. So he climbed out of bed and walked past a host of Guitar God posters, all of them Les Paul players. There was Jimmy Page, Billy Gibbons, Tom Sholtz, Ace Frehley, Slash and several others. They were the Guitar Gods for which he worshiped.

  Feeling inspired, he picked up his cheap (emphasis on cheap) guitar and plunked out a few sour notes. “Plunked” being the operative word. But of course he was looking to up the ante on his guitar playing – to take it to a whole new level. For one day in the future, Johnny was hoping that perhaps some kid, somewhere, would have Johnny’s poster on the wall of a bedroom. But of course, that was a far away dream.

  He put his sorry excuse for a guitar down against the wall next to his oak dresser and went for his stereo. He was looking for a little inspiration to work up the courage to ask his uncle for the cash. He was planning on paying him back though.

  After a few rousing songs of raucous air guitar, he went for the hall bath, which he shared with his older sister. She was still sleeping so he was lucky to get in there, because she was known to hold court in there for hours on end, primping and combing and doing whatever girls did in bathrooms, because he didn't know, and quite frankly, he didn’t wanna know.

  All cleaned and polished, he walked out of the bathroom dressed and ready for the important day ahead. He was anxious, very anxious to see if his uncle would fork over the much-needed cash.

  The pervious night he had dreamt of the prized guitar. He wanted it so bad that he could taste it. So he grabbed his jacket off the coat stand in the corner (also oak) and went for the door. On the stairs he could smell breakfast cooking. His mother always made a big breakfast on Saturday mornings. He could smell bacon and sausage and probably waffles or pancakes or maybe even French toast. But as good as it smelled, he was planning on bypassing breakfast for the important trip ahead.

  “I made breakfast Johnny,” she said, as he entered the kitchen. But of course she made breakfast every morning, so her statement was definitely redundant.

  “I'm goin' out ma,” he said, while he slipped into his baseball jacket, which was on the verge of being too small, because his arms were growing or the jacket was shrinking – his bet was on his arms, and probably a safe bet.

  “Aren't you gonna eat?” she asked from behind her usual floral apron. It had a few healthy stains, which had been there for ages, and that seemed oblivious to any powerful stain fighter on the market. He figured she had tried everything since she hated stains – with a passion.

  “You gotta have somethin' to eat Johnny!” she implored in a somewhat disappointed tone.

  “I'll have some bacon and some toast. I'm sorta in a hurry mom. I'm meetin' some friends for a bike ride,” he said. He knew it wasn't a complete lie since there was a strong air of truth to his statement – the bike ride anyway.

  “Okay I guess,” she said.

  So Johnny grabbed a few slices of bacon and stuffed them in his mouth. He also grabbed a couple sausage links and some moderately brown, buttered toast – the way he liked it.

  “So where are you...?” she started to ask, but he was out the kitchen door before she could even finish her sentence. Vanished like a ghost.

  Outside, he mounted his bike with a single purpose – to raise the necessary cash. With sausage and toast riding shotgun, he pedaled away into the beautiful, early morning sunlight, and perfect for an autumn Saturday morning.

  He hit the street and picked up the pace of his pedaling. He was anxious and it showed in his rapidly pumping legs, while images of the prized Les Paul danced in his head. He was seeing gold – gold top that was.

  With a piece of half eaten toast dangling from his mouth, he turned left off of Maple and went for glory. There was a nice breeze and he was enjoying the crisp, fall weather. Nearly choking on his toast, he picked up his pace as he turned down Flower Avenue and took it down as far as it would go.

  A time later he pedaled into the
industrial part of town. There was an old Rheingold Beer factory that had closed its doors a couple of decades before – its twin smokestacks silenced for beer-less eternity, and not without its share of towering rust. In fact some of the locals believed the old brewery was haunted, and that was the reason it had closed its doors. Although in all honesty it was probably Budweiser that had closed Rheingold’s doors.

  With a quick glance up at the rusting relic and its ever-present shadow, he pedaled by with purpose until he reached his uncle's street – Loco Way. So he made a right and pedaled down the street. Some of the houses and yards were nicely kept while others were unruly – including his uncle's.

  Only four doors down from his uncle's, his heart began to race. It was do or die time. And he was hoping for do.

  Nearing his uncle's house, he sung wide and leaned into his turn which took him perfectly into the center of his uncle’s driveway. The driveway was miraculously in better shape than the yard (go figure?) – Or perhaps his uncle just preferred pavement over grass? And from the unkempt looks of the house and yard, it would lead any reasonable person to conclude that his uncle didn't have money – maybe even destitute. But as they say, looks can be deceiving.

  Johnny knew his uncle was an early riser, so he wasn't worried about him being up and about. Just maybe his state of mind?

  He dropped his kickstand down and looked up the driveway, which ran all the way to the back of the house and ultimately to a detached one car garage. And in front of the garage was an old beat-up ’62 Ford Galaxy. It was a do-it-yourself project that had never gotten past the notion of, do-it-yourself.

  With some butterflies circling his stomach, Johnny left his bike and walked for the front of the house. There was a slate walkway that was cracked and bleeding grass, not to mention a few hardy weeds, which looked as if they had hopes of making it into winter (fading hopes). Johnny arrived at the three crumbling steps that led up to a covered front porch, when he heard the screen door opening. It was squeaky and gave any person approaching fare warning. Music was coming from inside the house that he recognized as Zeppelin’s, Achilles Last Stand.