All right, yes, I played in a few groups. That’s when I found out that rock musicians are, in general, scumbags doing their darndest to hit (a) rock-bottom, (b) the poor house, (c) hell, or (d) all the above. Of course D! You know how when you try to save someone from drowning, and the drownee panics and drags you down with him so that you both go to a watery grave? Yeah, that’s what the music world is like: a whole bunch of waste-cases dragging you down with them so you can all die miserably together.
So there, I had wasted several formative years rubbing elbows with these miscreants and saw how stupid I had been. Having met some “real” guitarists who hadn’t made it big, I knew that as good as I was at guitar, I had little hope of attaining stardom. So I cut my losses and ran. I ran from the music scene like a girl whose poofy 80’s hair caught on fire from one of those ridiculous flaming concoctions that some drunk musician spilled on her in a bar, and I have never looked back wondering what if.
Nevertheless, at the time, I had a legitimate problem -- having lived the stupid life of a musician, I had frittered my high-school years away and wrecked any chance of achieving what could be called “an education.” So before I even graduated, I enlisted in the military. You might never have guessed, but that didn’t sit well with those who swore I was destined to shred my guitar on stage before millions in a world tour and rake in massive quantities of money. In particular, there was one friend named Nate. Nate and I were really great friends … until I enlisted. Wow was he pissed! You’d think that I’d wrecked his new car, burned his house down, and was drinkin’ in some cross-town bar with his girl! He berated me, cussed me out, and basically reamed me out a new one. To this day, I still don’t really understand why he took my enlisting so personally. He then tried to convince me to go with him to college so we could party-hearty. Needless to say, I went to basic-training and he went to college.
Well, this tale isn’t about Nate. Nevertheless, I’ve got to talk about him because I bought a really cool sports car. I know you’re wondering where this is going. This tale is kind of an experience, so just bear with me. Okay, back to the “sports car,” It wasn’t a Porsche, or a Corvette, or even a Mustang, you’ve got to be kidding -– remember I frittered away my chances for a real sports car by trying to be a musician. Anyway, it’s like a poor man’s sports car, but to me it was really cool: a blue and silver Shelby Charger. It was cheap, it was quick, and it had a hatchback that I could stuff massive quantities of stuff as I moved from one location to another. Ah, the military life. I really feel like tossing a grenade when I hear some sissy politician in a $700.00 suit talk about how overpaid military folks are.
So, as I mentioned earlier, I came home on furlough. Yes indeed, I drove my sporty car home to St. Louis and the very next day, I pulled into the Sinclair station to fill’er-up. You’ll never guess who was pumping the gas. Of course! Nate! It seems that he did go to college, and he did party-hearty. He partied himself right out of an education and now he, Nate, the guy who reamed me for enlisting, is pumping my gas. I have to admit that it was deliciously satisfying.
However, my satisfaction was very short lived. Oh man, just wait until you read what Nate told me next.
J.P.T.
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