My good friend was going to do the Burns show again. We'd played it together before and he thought we could maybe rework and/or do it properly. I'd been hoping. I was grateful my cut of previous proceeds had kept me fed but he was owed a lot he'd never see. Maybe he'd recoup with a tour? No go. We got a sixty/forty split on a one-off Burns night gig. I'd nothing else bar teaching guitar. Word went out, they sold some tickets.
We kept in touch over the new year and met again in early January. He'd sharpened up some old ideas. I listened to his new ones, threw in a word myself. It was good to enthuse and a gig to look forward to. Maybe clear a hundred each? Good man, I thought but prepared for less. I owed him. This time I'd sing as well. We'd work at his place - my heating had gone ornamental months before.
Then a fast car broke my arm. I took soup with my lawyer and blessed my remaining luck: I stood a chance of compen eventually, I could always play keyboard with one hand, I'd jumped out of the way, mostly. But I felt sorry and my arm was sore. I wanted to lie low and lick it. I packed my guitars away, read up on fracture care and hid my worries, throbbing morosely through keyboard scales. I rang George and asked him to cover my class in the guitar shop. I packed the flute and saxophones and flexed my swollen fingers.
Hoping its short neck would be easier on the plastered arm, I tried tuning my mandolin, even holding the pegs still and turning the instrument. I was hurting myself. This was no fucking good. I left my hair to go dirty and washed my face as clean as one hand would allow. I hoped my eye infections wouldn't come back. Or boils. I'd had a carbuncle once. Showering was now a polly bag affair to keep the plaster dry. I stuffed down toast and painkillers. I needed help to zip my jeans now. Shoes were difficult too.
On the tablets it got hard to shit. Four hours I strained to drop a fat log. It was a sore lesson. I convalesced for ten minutes then broke an old plate to slice up something the pan could swallow. I hoped my piles wouldn't come back. Or fissures. I bought apples and ate them like sweeties.
I made love which was murder. The plaster's surface rasped and I kept losing my grip. This was no fucking good at all. Folk said I was accident-prone and I felt like laying them out. I counted down the days till the next clinic visit and prayed they'd say something good. Even a change of plaster would let me stroke my wrist and kiss it for a minute. I'd smooth the hairs at least.
The doctor had read about the gig in the paper. He said okay, he'd let me wear a wrist brace but I'd to watch out, not to bang off anything. No physio but I should try playing again. I cried a bit and hid it as I escaped into the winter sun. Muscles had wasted and there was an extra lump on my wrist with a swelling on the back of my hand. I managed a minute on the wee guitar, maybe twice that the day after. I quit the painkillers. Overdoing it was less likely if the pain could let me know. I dug out the horns and they were easier. If I could just not bang it on anything.
I went back to the guitar shop class. A family presented their boy for a trial lesson. He said he knew nothing at all about playing. I said he couldn't get any worse at it then. He smiled. I borrowed scissors from Ellen in sheet music and had him trim his left hand nails while I unfolded his newly-bought half-sized guitar from its cardboard coffin. I pocketed the poisonous silica gel pad.
Bert had tuned it up but the strings were set high as usual and were soon slicing the boy's fingertips. I asked if he had a tennis racket. He looked puzzled and said no but he had one for badminton. I suggested he jam it upside-down in a top drawer and play a good CD. Then he could hold his guitar and mime, singing into the racket handle. I'd started like this myself. Except I'd had no guitar and had had to hold my brother's racket like one. I said he should lock the door before he began, remembering my ma catching me being Chuck Berry all those years ago.
It was good making them laugh again. The boy asked if he could buy a guitar bag, embarrassed to be seen with the cardboard box. He left blowing on his tingly fingers but he was smiling. The dad booked more lessons - which they wouldn't come back for.
The show went really well with a full house too. I embraced my good friend afterwards and left him to get dressed. I'd no costume to change so I packed my gear and went straight to the bar, expecting he'd join me soon. Word came he'd had to go, his mother was in a coma. I knocked back donated drink on his behalf and missed him. He waited the days with her till she died.
