Chapter Fourteen Lesson Five: Sound

I finally brought my guitar in for Gerard later on that week. I had been playing it a lot since the day where my feelings and realizations reached a crescendo, making a symphony I could finally understand. And I hoped all this practice, this tearing out my hair with calloused fingers, wasn’t all in vain. I had written a few things down, gone through a few different pieces of paper, pens, screamed a few good times and smoked the rest of the pack of cigarettes before I felt like I finally had something worthy enough to show the ingenious artist. Even if I did end up sucking in front of him, the way his face beamed as I entered the apartment later than usual, my acoustic guitar under my arm, was enough to make my day.

“Finally!” was all he said when I appeared, exaggerating the tone.

He burst forth from his seat on the ledge looking out the window, showing his enthusiasm in ways his voice could not portray. There was a moment where my heart fluttered and I hoped he had been at the window looking out for me. Knowing Gerard, he was probably looking at some cobweb in the corner, dissecting it for his own art, but I could dream. And even if he wasn’t studying that cobweb and really was waiting for me, he would never admit it.

“Yeah, I know,” I agreed shakily as I stepped inside.

I dropped my bag down and hung my jacket on the hook, then stood awkwardly in the hallway, waiting. I had been coming to Gerard’s for a few weeks at that point, and this was the first time since the beginning that I felt awkward. Usually, when Gerard welcomed me with opened arms, I would ease into the place with a smile, and then we’d start in on our task for the day. But now, the task was undetermined and I didn’t know where to go. The light weight of the hollowed instrument was suddenly like a ball and chain, dragging me down and making me unsure of my surroundings. I could feel myself shaking but I gripped the neck of the guitar, willing it all away. The rough strings dug in and I knew I would have a mark.

“What are you waiting for?” Gerard called over to me in a mischievous tone.

Since he had sprung to his feet, he had not moved from his position in the bay window to come down and embrace me with a hug like he normally did. Instead, he merely stood solidly, a hand on his waist as he motioned to me with the other. “Come over here and serenade me. Right by the window; all clichés included.” He gave me a small smile and a wink, his thick locks falling over the side of his face.

I smiled at his joke, easing some of the tension off my back, and stepped forward. While I fiddled with my backpack straps and guitar neck, he cleared away his art supplies so I could have the middle of the floor to myself. I wished the paint cans and brushes were scattered around me, though. It would have given me something else to focus on other than Gerard’s stare. His look wasn’t too intimidating, but the fact that he was looking at me, waiting for me was unnerving.

“I haven’t played for anyone before,” I warned, pretending to tune the knobs at the end to pass time and adverting my eyes from him.

“I feel honored then,” he smiled, shaking his bangs out of visage. The way he spoke, the way the words flowed out of his mouth, made my knees weak. He actually wanted to hear me. And I still couldn’t figure out why.

“I’m not that good,” I warned him again, stalling for more time.

“Your opinion doesn’t count, Frank,” Gerard informed me, cocking an eyebrow. “You’re subjective and can’t see the beauty in something you do everyday.”

I acknowledge his answer quietly, keeping my eyes lowered. I remembered the conversation we had had about this before and though I would have much rather relived that memory over and over again, Gerard cut me off.

“Just play, Frank,” he instructed with a calm demeanor. He folded up one knee onto the bench he sat back down on, gripping his hand around it and pulling it close. “I want to hear. I want to know what goes on inside your head and how you’ve expressed yourself…” he trailed off, giving me another wink for encouragement. “And I want to know if I’ve taught you anything.”

I nodded and swallowed hard, his kind words going in one ear and out the other as I tuned my guitar more. I stood in front of Gerard for the longest time, straightening everything out on the instrument, but ignoring my stature entirely. I was hunched over, my shoulders folding in on an angle I didn’t think was possible.

“Frank, stand up straight or I’ll never hear you sing,” Gerard ordered at me, only half-serious. When I lifted my head in perturbed expression rather than following orders, he continued. “There is singing, right?” His eyes were wide and hopeful, but his brows were furrowed, sensing a small dilemma.

“Well…uhh,” I muttered debating whether or not I should continue.

The truth was, I had actually planned this whole day out a lot longer than it seemed. Though I acted like I was a bumbling fool who had not thought about my performance until fifteen minutes ago, I had laid awake half the night before, just thinking about my every move. In my perfect fantasy of everything, I was going to sing as I played guitar (and Gerard would find it amazingly beautiful, of course). I even had lyrics to the small piece I was performing for him. It wasn’t a song or anything, not really, but a bunch of verses and repeated lines put together. The whole composition didn’t rhyme and some parts were a little awkward, but it was still something that had come from me. It was the only good entity out of the mess of scribbles that had taken me hours to come up with. But I couldn’t sing. Not for the life of me, despite what my fantasy had contrived. And when I told Gerard this issue I had, he argued with me yet again.

“Your opinion doesn’t matter,” he repeated; smile growing on his pale face from my aggravation.

He was enjoying this. Whether or not he got a serenade (as he called it) out of me, he was having enough fun fucking with my head and watching me squirm. He wasn’t a total sadistic bastard when he did this; I knew there was some method to his madness. He was trying to boost my confidence, even if I ended up feeling slightly masochistic giving into it. And eventually, I just saw no use arguing with him anymore. I felt naked and exposed standing up there in front of Gerard anyway; I didn’t need to add other emotional scars to the list of things. I gave in and started playing, swallowing my fear, pride and everything else I had to lose.

I began to strum my fingers over the chords slowly, just to warm up. I could fucking feel Gerard’s anticipation as he sat on the edge of his seat, leaning forward, bouncing his feet casually as he listened intently. His eyes were wide and psychotic, looking at me as if I was prey ready to be devoured. This was like a fucking drug to him. Art, in any form, by any person, got him high. He was ecstatic right then, and I hadn’t even done anything but scales. I couldn’t imagine what would happen when the real thing came out.

Part of me wondered if he’d keel over from an overdose of his favourite addiction, and though that would get me out playing for too long (and probably save me some embarrassment) I had to admit I liked how much attention he was giving me. I wanted to hold it as long as I possibly could.

I gave him a quick glance with my eyes, catching his brimming smile in my gaze before I was sure I could do this. I let out little murmurs at first to catch my breath and find the right key (one that didn’t hurt my ears), and started to play.

The composition I had written was simple and pure; something I could read and remember as I played the equally simple chords. Though I felt inferior for deducing myself to elementary level work on the guitar, I needed something easy and straightforward to perform, because this act of performing itself was the hardest fucking thing I had ever done. It was difficult enough to open my soul up to people, but to do it in front of Gerard was a whole other ball game. I respected this man so much that I didn’t know if I could take doing this. He’d see my weakness, see my soul and most of all, see my mistakes. He encouraged me so much, but I still didn’t want to let him down.

I had to close my eyes as I played, to shut myself off from what I was really doing. No matter how tightly shut they became, however, I could still feel that anticipation of a forty-seven-year-old man bouncing in his chair listening to the song that was written just for him. And really, though I tried to pass this off as just a normal composition, this really was just for him. He had been on my mind more than ever now, and that’s what I had spilled onto the page. I couldn’t help it; I had to write about him before my head exploded. And once I had it all out, edited a few times and I had screamed a bit, I was left with what I was performing in front of him, along with the back thoughts of my subconscious.

I needed him to like this. There was some small part of me, in the back of my psyche that even I didn’t want to venture into that had this highly preconceived notion about everything. If he liked my song about him, then he would like me. He already did like me; I could tell that, but I didn’t know if it was the way I wanted him to. And honestly, I didn’t know how exactly I wanted him to like me just then. He was the teacher, the older one, the smarter one in the situation. He had the answers. I was the naïve teenager, always coming to him for those answers. And my song, well, that was my form of a question finally being uttered. I needed to speak in music though, because using real words was far too dangerous for both of us to handle.

During the opening lines, my voice cracked a few times from sheer nervousness. I also wasn’t entirely sure how to adjust my tempo, but I came around. My fingers only slipped on the strings a few times and there was only one awkward pause where I forgot a lyric from the anxiety of it all. Within a few pain-staking moments of my stomach twisting in agony, however, it was all over. Simple as that.

I was done with my song, the lyrics spilled out onto the floor in front of me where Gerard was. I kept my head lowered, the relief running through me, not wanting it to end. Gerard didn’t say anything and when I finally raised my head; he was still quiet and thinking hard, his hand poised on his chin. I was unable to tell if his thinking stance was good or bad, though. I wanted to know his opinion – I really did. I brought the guitar for his request and I learned and played it all again for him. It had benefited me too in the long run, keeping me from going insane while spending time alone in my house. But he had been the sole person as my inspiration. I hoped he knew, because I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him. And though I wanted him to know the question I was asking, and get an answer in return, I didn’t want my feelings to be too obvious in the words I had written down. All teenagers spoke of unrequited love and feelings of confusion. They didn’t have to be about him.

“What did you think?” I finally broke the silence, my voice cutting through everything like a knife. Gerard had been looking down at his one extended foot, but now brought his face up to meet mine. He breathed in deeply and tilted his head to the side.

“Do you want honesty? Pure and complete honesty?” he asked seriously, his lips pursed together.

My heart dropped. I knew from previous experiences that this was never a good opening line. I had a feeling if I didn’t say yes though that Gerard was going to tell me the brutal truth anyway. I agreed, if only to make myself think that I at least at some control over the hurt I knew I was going to feel.

“Well,” Gerard started, nodding his head and swallowing, clearing his throat. “I think that you’re doing very well – for a beginner. That was my main concern, however. Everything seemed too elementary. Too redundant and simplistic. You ran things together too quickly and your words didn’t match. They were too choppy while the music wasn’t choppy enough. There were too many stock phrases in words and music. You need a lot of work…” Gerard trailed off, looking me up and down and then off to the side, my guitar in his viewpoint. “But you are good for just starting out.”

I bit my lip and swallowed hard, his words washing over me like salt water and stinging the open wounds he created. It took me awhile for every connotation, meaning and significance to hit me, but once they did, they weighed me down. If they had been bullets, I probably would have been bleeding and dead on the floor at that point, regardless if I had a vest on or not. They stung. They hurt.

What hurt even more though was I hadn’t really just started to play. I had played before, on and off, for a few years when I was still a little kid. I knew the basics already – that elementary knowledge that Gerard thought I had just acquired, I had known for years. Essentially, I had made no improvement since I had picked up the old and sick instrument and started again. My nights at home, guitar in my lap and magazines open in front of me had been a waste. A complete and utter waste. I had been trying so hard – all for him – but apparently it wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t good enough, I wasn’t trying hard enough and I had been wasting my time. I was unsure about what hurt more though: the fact that I wasn’t good enough or the fact that that Gerard had said I wasn’t good enough.

Was my inspiration supposed to turn its back on me like this? I found myself asking as the blood drained from my body. I didn’t know the answer to my internal question, but I could feel my insides falling apart. My stomach churned and my muscles loosened off of the bone. I nearly dropped my guitar, the corner of it hitting the floor and making a loud echo noise throughout the small apartment, snapping us both into reality again.

“Okay…” was all I could say.

I remained stationary in my stance where he had torn me apart, then I suddenly realized that I had to move. I was still naked and exposed in front of him and I no longer had a guitar to hide it. I needed to move and turn away fast, before I did something else equally shameful. I stepped back and started to busy myself with something behind me, going over to my bag.

“Oh, Frank,” Gerard called after me.

I heard the cushion he was sitting on give way as his body relaxed and got off, chasing after me. He walked up behind me, putting a hand on my shoulder and gently turned me around. My face was red then, blood finding its way back into me through embarrassment and utter pain, seeping and bleeding under raw cheeks.

I hated that he was seeing me like this; it was worse than the actual criticism itself. I felt my eyes burn, but I knew I wasn’t going to cry. The air suddenly felt drier, the dust being stirred around from when he had attacked me. It also didn’t help that I was getting worse and worse at lying to myself.

“Frank, where are you going?” Gerard asked me, his eyes pleading deeply into mine. I looked around then, realizing I was holding my bag and getting my keys out.

I really had no clue where I was going; I just wanted away from the criticism and embarrassment I felt, but I really had no place to go. Gerard’s apartment was my one and only sanctuary. I couldn’t go home; I didn’t want to. All I had there was my mother and father, their dream crushing hands out and ready to pounce, especially if they saw me carrying a guitar home. I had already been damaged enough that day, I didn’t need to go home and have it done all over again. Sam and Travis were long gone, off to get high or find some way to get liquor. I didn’t feel like numbing myself anymore anyway. Even if I hurt so much right then after Gerard’s verbal beating, I wanted to feel this pain. It seemed essential and necessary, because in the long run, I knew he was just trying to help me. I knew I would stay here anyway, in Gerard’s place. Besides, the way his face twisted and contorted when he talked, he looked genuinely sorry.

“I wasn’t going anywhere,” I told him, only half-lying. He cocked a skeptical eyebrow at me as I put down my keys, but I ignored it. I lowered the guitar, dropping it with more force than I needed to. The hollow sound echoed through the apartment again and I couldn’t help but wonder that if my heart had been dropped with it, if it would make the same noise.

“Good, then you can come and sit on the couch with me,” Gerard interjected, buying into my lie. He moved his hand down my shoulder to my palm and grasped it with his fingers. He started to walk and began to tug me along, warm hand interlocking with mine. I went with shaking knees and locked joints, grateful for his guidance.

“I was honest with you, Frank,” he confirmed as soon as we got on the couch. He let go of my hand, and folded his own together, placing them diligently on his small girth of his belly as he talked. “And honesty hurts.”

No shit Sherlock, I said in my head bitterly. I hated it when he stated the obvious; it always felt like he was talking down to me. I didn’t trust myself to say anything back to him out loud, however. At least, not yet. I wanted to see if Gerard had a point to all of this, or if he was just trying to make me feel even more like shit.

“You can keep going after this though, Frank. In fact, you must keep going,” he spoke clear and concise, pointing strongly with his index finger to emphasize his point.

I hadn’t planned on giving up my guitar per se just because of his remarks, but I certainly wasn’t going to be playing with oh-so fond memories anymore. I didn’t bother speaking much, giving Gerard a chance to continue, finalizing his thought.

“If you keep going after and you don’t give a fuck what people think, that’s what makes you a true artist.” He beamed at the depth of his words, but I could only drown in their meaning.

“How though?” I asked perplexed. “If other people hate it, then what’s the point?”

“Do you like it, Frank?” he asked me, his eyes probing me deeper. The answer was obvious; I did like it. I didn’t want to give it up. It had really helped me the past few days, channeling my thoughts and feelings into something concrete. Before I could even part my lips for verification, Gerard saw the answer in my eyes.

“It’s worth it then,” he concluded, nodding his head with a pleased smile.

I approved weakly, shrugging my shoulders as I stared off in the room.

“Did I ever tell you about the first time I got rejected?” Gerard asked, cutting through me once again.

Beforehand I had never really thought of Gerard’s opinion and what had happened using terminology. It had just fucking hurt. I could only concentrate on the feelings. When he labeled it with the big R word however, I found my stomach drop beneath me again.

Gerard had rejected me. Right then, I realized that the answer to my question I had asked in chords and melodies was a no. It was a no to him liking my song, liking me and thus, anything that had been going on in my head the past few days and weeks was a product of my overactive imagination. Gerard didn’t like me. Gerard couldn’t like me. Fuck, he was an adult, and I was merely a child in his presence, falling under his grace in so many forms. A naïve teenager in the true sense of the word.

This realization itself hurt more than exposing my soul and his words against them. I could feel my whole body render itself useless, as I gazed at the man before me who I had read completely wrong. I found it so ironic that he could spend so much time teaching me, using lesson after lesson and it was all useless in the end. I had failed the biggest test to date.

I shook my head to his question, wanting a distraction. I was still slightly curious to see where he was going with this, too. I was sure he wasn’t trying to make me feel totally bad…

“It was my first year in high school,” he started, leaning back on the couch, getting into his story. The past came easier to him in this situation, mostly because he was proving a point with it, and not dwelling on it. He was going to teach me something with it, and he never passed up an opportunity to do such.

“I failed an art project because the teacher didn’t ‘get’ what I had done.” He made a snide face at the remark and used air quotes before continuing. “I was devastated. I had worked for hours on that piece and she had failed me because she couldn’t understand why I had drawn people walking on grass instead of the sidewalk that was right next to them. It was a statement about nature!” He raised his hands in the air suddenly, getting too into his narrative. He looked over at me and smiled, succeeding in getting some positive response out of me.
“I went home with the picture and I burned it. I didn’t want to see my failure over and over again. But it was when I looked at ashes that I realized that I had not been wrong. And neither had she. We had our different interpretations of art. Hers wasn’t like mine and she had failed me for it – but at least she would always remember my picture. It caused a response in her, even if it was a bad one. I realized that was what art was supposed to do then, and I didn’t give a fuck if people liked it or not anymore. If they saw it, that was enough.” Gerard paused for a moment, chuckling to himself. “Now I just burn my art for the sheer fun of it. Not because I was rejected.”

I nodded my head slowly, taking in his story and advice, even smiling a bit with him at the ending line. That situation was all well and good for him, but guitar and music weren’t the same as art. You could interpret art more, in my opinion. You heard music and that was it. Some people liked it, some hated it but that wasn’t because of their interpretation. It was not because it caused a reaction in them. It was a predetermined quirk they had in their own interests that I had no control over. I didn’t like that aspect of it, and Gerard’s advice, though nice to hear, didn’t do anything for me. Mostly because it didn’t matter if someone else had liked what I had written, I wanted him to like it.

And he hadn’t. End of story. It was starting to become useless to dwell on this over and over again.

“I’m not sorry for what I said,” Gerard said suddenly, after we had both been silent on the couch for awhile after his story.

I had been breathing uncomfortably ever since I first sat down and this next statement didn’t help matters. His words cut through me again, but by that point I was pretty sure I was numb. And definitely confused. The more time I spent there, the more it seemed that Gerard cared about me. But at that moment it felt like he was my father, crushing my dreams between his index fingers. Only Gerard was going to make an art show out of my destruction because that was just what he did.

“It was my opinion,” Gerard clarified his thoughts, seeing that his words were doing nothing to help me. “And you should never apologize for your opinion, even if it’s wrong. If you can still back it up, then it’s yours. And it makes sense, if only to you.”

I nodded, staring at the broken TV in front of me. I didn’t want to look at him then. I just wanted to space out and maybe occasionally listen to see if he would build my spirits up. That was wishful thinking at best.

“It’s like a painting…” Gerard continued comparing his thoughts to that of the art he was so good at.

“Would you just stop it for a second?” I barked at him, surprised at my own tone. “Not everything is related to art, Gerard. Some things can just stand on their own.” I shot him one final glance before I rested my face in my hands, leaning forward on my knees.

I had no idea that those words had been building up inside of me. I had always marveled at Gerard’s theories in the past; eating up every word and drinking down every glass of wine. But I guessed I only loved his theories when they were benefiting me, not hurting me. My opinion had changed, and just like Gerard’s new crack pot theory, I was not going to apologize for it.

“You know what?” Gerard asked, not shaken by my out burst, but not exactly pleased by it either. “You’re right. Some things can just stand on their own. Like your lyrics – can I take a look at them without anything in the background?”

My head snapped up at a breakneck speed, eyes locking on the artist. His hand was out and open, waiting for me to hand him the crumbled piece of paper that I had essentially bled my heart on for him. His eyebrows were raised and his eyes spacious; he was going to give this (and me) another shot.

“Umm…” I uttered, digging through my pockets and pulling the requested item out. I handed them over to him slowly, acting as if the paper would break into a thousand little pieces if mishandled, just like my feelings already had. Glue began to form and heal the cracks with Gerard’s second chance, and I prayed as he took the paper and held it close to his face to read my scrawled handwriting, that he would treat what was left of me with care.

His lips moved as his eyes brushed over the words I knew were already there. It was short and simple, but God, at that moment, it spoke volumes.

The sun sets low
With your face painted high
Atop trees where mountains should be
And down below where hell fires grow
I saw your face in an amber liquid
And your nose in the crest of a cave
I would dance with your nimble fingers
If I could be more than minimum wage
The day grows warmer
The earth we lay on blooming
But the sun still sets low on the mountains
And caves where trees spell out others’ name
And my heart is still stuck
In those hell fires of the sun

“This,” Gerard finally said after moments of waiting and wondering, my thumbnails digging into the fleshy part of my palm from clenching my fist so tight. “ This can stand on its own. This is something I would read, love, and maybe quote from later on. Like…” He trailed off, bringing his nose down to the paper again. There were only a few phrases on the page, I thought he would find it difficult to pick up something from them, but apparently, it was not. “‘I would dance with your nimble fingers, if I could be more than minimum wage’ – that, Frank, is absolutely gorgeous. Your analogy to a life of poverty and happiness in the freedom of dancing amazes me. I love to dance; it’s really gorgeous, just like this. And this whole thing has potential.”

He looked at me and tried to smile, hoping that he had made it all better. His interpretation made no sense to me – that had not been what I was trying to say at all. I hated to dance and I surely was not poor. I didn’t exactly know what I had been hinting at, however; it was just there. But that was the point with art, I told myself, recalling his words and quoting him in my mind much like he had done with me. Different interpretations to different people. At least he was finding some kind of meaning in something I had written. At least he was quoting me. My upset feelings from before were getting better, his words healing some open wounds, but the salt he had tossed out earlier still stung the others.

“The guitar…” I mentioned, trailing off and looking over to where I had placed the instrument causally.

“The guitar,” Gerard repeated, drawing in his lips together. “That needs work. And these words do not go with it. They don’t need music to make them stand out.” He smirked at me again, encouraging me through his stained smile. “Just keep practicing Frank. Keep bringing it here and I’ll listen.”

I lowered my head again, nodding solemnly. I had been practicing. I had been doing everything he told me to do. And I still wasn’t good enough. I failed to see how bringing my guitar to his place would help me anymore. It would only make me more self-conscious because I would feel like he was judging me every five seconds. I let out a sigh, silently declining his offer.

“Come on, Frank,” he jabbed, sitting closer to me on the couch and putting an arm around my shoulder. I shuddered and moved away from it. I didn’t want to touch him right then. I felt too weak still. Gerard got the hint from my body motions and, with a reluctant sigh of his own, slid his arm down from my back slowly, resting it inches away from me. Inches that were too close, yet too far at the same time.

“What I can do to make things better, Frank?” he asked suddenly into the air.

His voice right then was so clear and pure. He was really trying to make me feel better. He really wanted things to be okay. This was a first for the artist I had known over the weeks, who had demeaned me because of my lack of culture and knowledge. He was going out on a limb here, and it was all for me.

I brought my eyes to meet his own, and I saw the olive shade tint slightly, perturbed by how upset he had made me. I knew it was for my own good, like he informed me in his rejection lesson, but it still hurt. And he knew that. Unlike all the other times when he wanted me to stew in my own juices and think about what I had done, he wanted to save me from them this time. Or at least throw me a line to make something easier.

“Anything you want, Frank,” he added, knowing he had caught my attention. “Consider it a favor. You’ve done plenty for me.”

I approved eagerly, then drew back a serious countenance to think of what I wanted from Gerard. And as soon as I opened that flood gate in my mind I was bombarded with image after image, sound after sound.

I saw Vivian on the same couch we were sitting on, her naked body displayed in front of Gerard. I saw the way his hands moved as he drew her, taking in her every feature and desire. I saw the way he admired her body as a work of art, and just how gorgeous it had been. I heard him tell me how much he loved her and how they had been intimate together. But most of all, I felt the jealousy churn within me, tying knots and then cutting them out over and over again.

I knew what I wanted from Gerard.

It was a favor that he had to commend to, despite his opposition before. He had not liked the song I sang, but I still liked him, and just like playing the guitar, I was going to keep doing it. There was something in your blood that made you an artist, Gerard had told me once. Maybe that same principle applied to here as well. There was something in his blood, and in my blood, and I was positive they were being pulled together. I certainly didn’t choose to like him as much as I did, but now, I was able to choose one thing. Gerard may have said no to my question, but I was going to give him one final test. And this time, I wasn’t just going to accept anything without a fight. He may have been trying to teach me things, trying to be kind and tender, but I was finally going to get what I wanted from him. I was finally going to win this game, this battle he had started from the moment he had dumped blue paint on me from his balcony, showering me with something I had never known before.

I turned to him and talked solidly, my mind made up. “I want you to draw me, right here, on this couch tomorrow. Just like you did Vivian.”

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14