When I was dealing stringed instruments from my house on Cherry Street I got into all manner of financial tangles. One girl sold me two guitars I had to give back to pacify their owners who were drug dealers, boy drug dealers in the wake of the 50s, affecting toughness on Cherry Street on a perfect day. Tom over in West Stockbridge would borrow $900 and never pay it back. I had it. They didn’t. Bill and I walked down the hall into Tony’s careful, well-kept shop and soon were owners of a no-name guitar that probably sold for around $200 or so. Not a Martin or a Gibson or a Guild. We put it into the car and drove, largely in silence, the hour or so it took to get back to Stockbridge. It was suppertime. It was still dark. Daylight savings.
Dick Huntington built us a wonderful oval table of thick slabs fit together, Solid. Beautiful. We had benches on the side and chairs at the ends. Me. Ex. The three children and Bill. He had to make a phone call. There was a girl. Somewhere. Whatever it was about, it did not go well. Bill sat down. I was standing over by the stove. “Steve, I don’t think I am getting what I need from this relationship.” I hastily inventoried the weeks we had spent writing songs and the few times we had got up at the Red Lion Inn in the Lion’s Den and performed them and the day we had just spent getting him a guitar and the commitment I had made to spend virtually all of my time with him from the day I was asked until now. “I can only do what I can do, Bill.” I said. “I am sorry if it isn’t enough.” There the matter rested.
Some Stones Don’t Roll (FicMemOne by Stephen C. Rose Book 1)http://buff.ly/1xhaBaS