The summer before my sophomore year in high school, I went with Jim to a guitar store, Williams Music on High Street just north of Columbus. Jim played bass, and he had a band that was looking for a second guitar player. It was just your typical high school cover band. They played Iron Maiden and Judas Priest songs, some Scorpions and other popular metal bands of the mid-80s. A few days prior, he’d come to my house unannounced to ask if I was interested in joining the band. I was, of course, and then we went down to my basement where he wanted to see me play a few things before settling the matter.
In the basement, I tuned up my guitar and plugged into my shitty little practice amp. I played bits “Crazy Train” and “Iron Man” and “Rock You Like a Hurricane.” I played “Break on Through” and “Roadhouse Blues” and a few other things, and when all was said and done, I got the gig. My first band. I was in my first band. That meant, of course, that I needed a better amplifier, and thus the trip to Williams music was arranged. Jim was by far a better musician than I was back then–he probably still is–so he went with me to help me choose a suitable amp. This was all well and good, but I was not quite yet a sophomore in high school. I didn’t have any money, and I hadn’t even told my parents that I was considering such a purchase. I just went to the store with Jim without really putting much thought into the matter. I was in a band. I needed an amp.
I know, I know. That makes me sound a bit entitled. Middle class with kid living in the suburbs in dire need of an amp. It was a big problem.
At the guitar store, we tried a number of amplifiers and found one that was very cool, a sixty watt Crate amp with two Celestian speakers, the same kind of speakers Eddie Van Halen used the salesman made sure to remind us about twenty times. I was sold. It sounded great. It was loud. It was all black and looked super cool. I wound up signing an agreement for the store to hold the amp until I could come back with my parents to purchase it. I shook the salesman’s hand and left with Jim. As we were walking home, Jim said, “You know, they’ll probably charge you a holding fee or something even if you don’t buy the amp, right?” No, I hadn’t known that. I didn’t know anything about anything back then. I’d never wanted for anything, never had to skip a meal because my family couldn’t buy enough food, never had to worry about new clothes or a roof over my head or anything at all really. I didn’t tell Jim that though. I just said, “Yeah, I know.”
At home that night, I told my mom about the band. I showed her the receipt I’d signed, told her the store was holding the amp for a few days so we needed to go in to pick it up soon. To her credit, she didn’t get angry. She just said, “David,” she was the only one who ever called me that. “You can’t just go in like that and sign for something. You need to ask first.”
“I know, mom, but I really need this.” I still didn’t have a clue.
“It’s almost $300.”
“I know.”
“That’s just too expensive, and now isn’t really the best of times.”
“But mom.”
“I’m sorry, David. Maybe some other time. Money doesn’t grow on trees.”
It went on like that. I tried to argue my case, told her how much music meant to me, that being in a band was a lifelong dream–yes, lifelong, all of my 15 years–but she was adamant, and I wound up going to my room in a huff. I counted the money in my wallet, the change in my change jar, and though I don’t remember the exact amount, it was well short of the money needed to purchase the amp, and the last thing my mom had said was that she was going to go to the store the next day and tell them not to hold the amp for us and that she wasn’t going to pay a thing. I felt like my rock and roll dreams were already slipping away just as they were getting started so I played records in my room and imagined all the concerts that would never happen.
The next day, I went out with some friends somewhere or other, and in the late afternoon, my mother came to pick me up. When I got in the car, I figured I’d try one more time. “Did you go to the store and get the amp?”
“David, we talked about this.”
“But mom.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s it.”
I sat quietly for the rest of the ride home. I stared out the window feeling all the cruelty in this life weighing down on me. I wondered if the band would still have me with my little practice amp. It was doubtful.
When we got home, my mom said, “David, there are a couple bags of groceries in the trunk. Can you bring those in?”
She handed me the car keys, and I grunted some kind of reply. I walked to the back of the car, put the key in the lock, turned it. The trunk popped open a bit, but I had to lift it up to get at what was inside.
And there it was.
There was the 60 watt Crate amplifier with two twelve inch Celestian speakers–the same kind Eddie Van Halen used. There was also a guitar stand and a couple of new cables. I looked at my mom. She smiled at me, “Ha ha. Look at Mr. Grumpy.”
“But…” I didn’t know what to say.
“Now, we’re going to sit down tonight and figure out a way for you to help pay for some of this. And if you don’t I’ll take it back.”
“I will, mom, really, I will. I will. Thanks.”
She walked over and hugged me, told me she understood about dreams, that she wanted me to follow mine, that she was happy I was asked to join a band. “But nothing is free,” she said. “And especially not that amplifier. You need to remember that. You have to earn this.”
It was the moment where I began to grow up. Even though I’d gotten what I wanted, she’d still managed to teach me a lesson and make me feel guilty for the way I’d acted. She made me realize I didn’t deserve that amp. Not. One. Bit. But she made me want to deserve it, and so that was the moment where I stopped being an entitled little shit. I played guitar whenever I could. I improved significantly. Jim even said so a few months later. He was still a better musician than I was, but he said a few times, “Wow, you’re getting better all the time.” I also got a job washing dishes when I turned 16 so I could contribute money for the things I wanted and thought I needed.
That band didn’t last long, and we never played any gigs. I eventually lost touch with Jim and the rest of the guys, but years later with a different band, I was able for the first time to release a cassette tape–it was the early 90s after all. I played bass then, had a different amplifier, one I paid for myself, and when I handed her a copy of the tape, she said, “I’m proud of you, David.”
I said it then, Thanks, mom.”
And I’ll say it again today.
Thanks, mom. Thanks for everything.
