My dad never loved me. Well, maybe I’m overdoing it a little. Mom says he loved me. He wasn’t fond of me, though, I can tell you that much. I could never do what he expected of his kids. His name was Abe. Only Jeremy got to call him that.

I was okay in school. English was my strong point. I sucked at geometry. My dad was a whiz with numbers. My stupidity offended him, I guess. My brother, Jeremy, was in my geometry class, and he aced every term. My dad loved him for this. Now, let me tell you, my brother was a junior when I was a sophomore.

He was in my geometry class. Honestly.

Another thing I sucked at was sports. Utterly and completely. My parents signed me up for a youth soccer league when I was seven. I quit shortly after scoring my first—and only—goal. It was a beauty, right over the goalie and into the net of the other team. Not aware of my error, I turned to celebrate with my team. Tristan Jackson stormed up to me and punched me in the face, almost immediately breaking my nose.

I got an apology letter the length of three sentences a few days later in the mail.

My mom, Lyra, stayed up late one night, brainstorming different activities suitable for me, preferably ones that I could walk away from unscathed. She wasn’t worried about Jeremy; he was a football, basketball, and baseball star. He excelled in all three, none more than the others. Jeremy had our dad on his side. I needed our mom on mine.

The next morning, she approached me and asked how I felt about learning guitar. I agreed, and she called a local music shop. My mind wandered a little, and I wondered if I’d even be good at guitar. I prayed that I would.

My mom hung up the phone, threw my jacket playfully at me, and told me that we were going to sign me up. My father caught us sneaking out the door, and he wasn’t happy, to put it mildly. He yelled at my mom, claiming that three hundred dollars for a chunk of metal with strings was a huge waste of money. My mom held her ground and waited for him to stop yelling. When he finally ceased, her voice raised and she screamed back. I mean, she wailed. She screamed about how Jeremy always got the newest, shiniest, most expensive baseball bat or basketball sneakers, and that wasn’t it time for me to get something nice like that?

My dad’s mouth hung open. So did mine. My mom took my hand and led me out the door.

“Dean, your daddy’s…he’s just…tired,” my mom stammered awkwardly as we drove. “You’ll do great at guitar, and he’ll realize it sooner or later.”

It was a nice thought, even if it had “FAKE!!!” written all over it.

As we entered the store, my stomach was in knots. My eyes and my mind took in all the instruments around me. One guy in his late twenties was sitting on a stool, strumming a guitar perched on his lap.

My mom obviously had no idea what she was doing, and the store employee we talked to knew it. He walked us through the shop, pointing out certain guitars and naming a bunch of different brands and styles. He asked me if I wanted to pick one that I would play for my lessons. I gazed in awe around me, and finally picked out a deep blue one.

The man took it and chuckled a little. He explained to my mom that the guitar I had selected was a bass, and whether or not I wanted to learn how to play it over regular guitar. She shrugged and nodded. He placed the bass over to the side and led my mom to the counter so she could sign me up. I stayed behind, staring at it. Tentatively, I reached out and ran my fingers over the cool, heavy strings. A weird feeling percolated inside of me. I didn’t know what it was, but I liked it.

My teacher was a guy named Jimmy, who was a construction worker. He insisted on having hour-long lessons in place of the usual half-hour ones, and my mom agreed, kissed my forehead, and left.

Jimmy had me show him my bass. He picked it up, slipped the strap over his shoulder, and plucked a little. He assured me that this was a nice bass, and placed it on my shoulder. It was surprisingly heavy, and I felt myself doubling over slightly from its weight. A bit panicked, Jimmy took the strap off and told me it’d be better if I played sitting down for awhile, until I got used to it.

My lessons weren’t in the studio the store provided for its teachers. They were in Jimmy’s big tan van from his construction company. He grabbed the door handle and yanked it open. The back had two coolers in it, an amp, and a guitar case, along with lots of other little things. He had me sit down on one of the coolers and told me that if I ever got thirsty, the drinks were right under me. While he was tuning my bass, his head down, I peeked inside the cooler. Sure enough, there were about fifteen bottles of Poland Spring water inside.

“Told ya so,” he said. I jumped, and he laughed.

Jimmy was an amazing teacher. My mom and I adored him. He instilled this passion for my bass that I really doubt any other teacher could’ve given me. So, if you’re reading this, Jimmy, thank you.

---

My dad never warmed up to me playing an instrument. He insisted that when I practiced, he had to be out of the house, or I had to have my bedroom door shut and my headphones on so the amp would only make my bass sound loud to me.

When Jeremy graduated from high school, my dad went with him. He had been offered a baseball scholarship, and if my dad wasn’t going to follow him, I’d paid you a million bucks. The family was cut down to just me and my mom, and honestly, I loved it. She loved listening to me play, and I loved playing for her.

I was such a momma’s boy.

---

“Hey, Abe,” my friend, Adam, said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “You doing anything tonight?”

“No, I don’t think so,” I answered, sticking my pen behind my ear. “Why?”

“I got tickets for a concert tonight at the Garden,” Adam explained, leaning back in his chair. “It’s Springsteen, man. Springsteen.” He repeated the name tauntingly, and I grinned.

“Sounds good to me. Do you want to meet at your house or something?”

Adam shrugged. “Sure. My son wants to go, too. He likes the band opening for Bruce. Is that okay?”

“Fine. Hey, man, where’d you even find these tickets? I heard they’re impossible to get.”

“Just won ‘em. Radio was holding a contest. Sweet deal, huh?”

“Definitely.”

“Hey, Abe?” Adam asked a little hesitantly. I looked at him. “How’s Jeremy doin’? I haven’t heard from him in awhile.”

“Oh. Well, he’s doing all right, I guess. He still hasn’t gotten over it.” My oldest son, Jeremy, made it to the Major Leagues about five years ago, but completely wrecked his knee during a game last year. They told him to rest it and try to find another job for the time being. He hasn’t yet.

“That’s understandable,” Adam mused. “How’s your other son? He still live around here?” A knot formed in the pit of my stomach. I had no idea were Dean went with his life. Hastily, I made something up.

“He moved up to New Hampshire awhile back. I think he and his girlfriend live up there.”

“That’s nice,” Adam said. Suddenly, his phone began vibrating, and he yanked it out of his pocket. He glanced at me. “I’ve gotta take this, Abe, sorry. But I’ll see you tonight? Six o’clock good?”

I nodded, and Adam walked away, conversing with some customer on the other line.