1963 Fender Stratocaster

 Paul had found the fountain of youth, and it was slowing stealing his mind. 

It didn’t look like much, faded and worn. The retirement present from his old boss. The boss who forced him out of the business he built. Paul remembered the chubby and energetic kid he had hired and mentored for the past 10 years. Derek was twenty years younger, and through political maneuvering with the Board had taken over as CEO. If Paul still had the fire in his belly then maybe he would have fought harder to keep his executive position. But Paul was ready to get out of the day to day grind, to prioritize something else than making money for the shareholders. 

Paul stretched out his fingers, loosening them under a heating pad for a few minutes. He had finished a bar of triple strength THC chocolate this morning and his numbing buzz was fading.  Opening the new bar, he looked forward to the release of not caring, when he noticed the tan case leaning against the wall, reminding him of what he used to be able to do.  

He hadn’t been able to play guitar in years due to the arthritis in his hands, which is why Derek gave him the damn thing. 

He put the chocolate bar down and pulled out the Fender Stratocaster, a 1963 edition, just like himself. Picking the strings without plugging it in, he grimaced as his stiff fingers tightened the tuning keys to pull the strings taught, and in tune.  

He strummed a G chord, and the guitar resonated with a thick full sound. He looked down, the guitar sounded more like an acoustic than a solid body. He played a few more chords, and then, a short riff from a favorite Van Halen song. The guitar just felt right, the neck fit his left hand perfectly, not too thin or too thick, the size and weight comfortable. Inspired he pulled the amp out of the closet and plugged it in, turned a few dials and played several of his favorite licks. His fingers remembered the chords, remembered the positions and soon he was lost in the music. His worries about the direction of his life, his lack of purpose faded away among the chord changes, quick runs and bent strings. 

Afterwards his fingers felt almost normal, but he knew the exercise and endorphins from playing loosened his joints. The pain would be back again soon.

He didn't even notice at first, like most bald men he kept his eyes away from the long bare expanse above his eye brows. 

“You need to shave.” Jenese, Paul’s wife said. 

“Shave?” Paul rubbed his jaw. "It’s only been a few day, and what does it matter if I look like a homeless man? I am retired, remember?”  

They were balanced on stools at their kitchen island, they had stopped eating at their dining room table when Anna, the youngest of their two kids moved to New York.

“No, your head.” Jenese pointed with the back of her fork. “I heard you playing again today, how are your hands?”

Paul rubbed his hand over his head and felt faint stubble on top. Faint stubble where he had not had hair in over 20 years. “What the heck?”  

That his hands didn't hurt, that escaped his attention entirely. 

His retirement had not been going as planned. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He hated golf, and Jenese fixed things around the house, not him.  Crossword puzzles were the highlight of his day, but that only lasted half an hour, he whipped through those with ease. He tried to go on a run until his inflamed knees turned him around, and he limped home. 

But his real concern, what crushed his spirit, and made his day to day life miserable were his hands. Arthritis turned his fingers into claws that he had to heat and massage each morning to even hold a coffee cup. The edibles were the only solution, he took more and more to keep the pain down, but they also kept down his interest in life. 

After a few days playing the Fender his hips felt better too, and so when Jenese suggested they go for a walk, they ended up going three miles before he even thought about turning around. The crystal blue sky and cool weather of the early June day made it easy to keep going.

The Fender called to him, and so he played every day now, his hands somehow loosened, allowing him to play like he did 25 years ago when he had re-focused on playing. Building up skills he had lost with a long break for his career and kids . The days flew by and suddenly he cared about life, and saw the joy. 

His other interests faded, the Wall Street Journal still came every morning, but the news didn’t interest him, the words somehow didn’t make sense.

He felt weird about it, but he measured his hair in the mirror the next morning, noting how it lay on his scalp. He played for almost 5 hours, learning a new song and practicing a particularly tricky bridge. That night his hair was a half-inch longer.  

His skin felt tighter around his neck, and he slept through the night without having to get up and take a piss for the first time in over 20 years. A goddamn miracle. 

At the doctor's visit he knew something was up, the battery of tests the Doctor suggested, even an x-ray of his knees. Waiting he started on the crossword on the back of the newspaper, but only got one answer. “They must finally be getting harder.” He muttered to himself.

He put the paper down and pulled out his comb, fixing his part. He had bought the comb the week before, hesitating before even touching it. He knew it was irrational, but he worried if he bought the comb the magic would go away and his hair would be gone, again. 

Doctor Borghi sat him down in the white office.

“What is going on Doctor- is there something wrong?” Paul said. “I have to say, I have not felt this good in years.” Paul breathed deep, expecting the worst. Some insidious form of cancer that gives you one last burst of energy before- 

“No, you are in great shape.” Doctor Borghi broke into his thoughts. “Nothing is wrong, very much the opposite. Your heart rate, blood pressure, and cholesterol have always been good for your age, except now they are good for someone 20 years younger. You are getting healthier since we saw you last year. Has anything significant changed? “

“Well, I retired. Paul smiled with the good news. “And have been filling my time playing guitar-”

“Well the lack of stress seems to be doing your body well! Oh, and you stopped shaving your head! I like the new look.” Dr. Borghi lifted the file, pointing up to his own bald head on the way out.   

Once he got home his cell rang with a familiar number.  

“Amanda!” Paul answered, excited to hear from her, one of the partners at the law firm who had backed him.

“Paul, I am sorry, but we need a favor.”

“Of course, anything for you.” Paul stood up a little straighter. 

“Derek screwed up the Aegis deal. The bank wants to redo the financing structure, basically to what you proposed before you left. Can you walk them through it? It shouldn’t take more than a few hours, and …” 

While Amanda talked, Paul’s gaze unfocused, staring at the wall. Paul naturally had a strong memory, but what made his mental prowess legendary was how he worked at it. He had a well traveled path in his mind, his ‘memory palace’ where he tracked memories. Lately the hallways were getting dimmer, connections blurry. He really wanted to remember this, really wanted to help Amanda, and show Derek up. He gritted his teeth searching for the door, focusing on the name and then he found it, he remembered the account, the situation. But when he opened the door in his mind, the room was empty. He couldn’t remember anything about the financing structure of the Aegis account. But what really scared him was he didn’t remember what a financing structure was. 

“Sorry, Amanda.” Paul interrupted. “We are going out of town, I can’t help you.” He hung up and stared at his phone, scared.  

Their trip to New York City was a smashing success. Their daughter Anna’s play received rave reviews in its opening Off-Broadway at the Cherry Lane Theater. While there, Paul ran for the first time in years, his hips and knees felt good, though he had to stop and walk several times to catch his breath, and to get his bearings. Somehow, he kept getting lost in the City he used to know like his own.   

The 10 day trip was the longest he had gone without playing since he got the Fender, and he felt it. His fingers seized up on the flight back, and he cursed when he saw loose hairs in his comb. Was it too good to be true?

Back at home Paul saw the white Fender, its metal bridge glinting in the light. He had stopped playing his other guitars, and he made a decision to play another that afternoon, his red, black, and white striped EVH. But when he sat down to play, he looked down to see the white Fender in his hands. He couldn’t help it, the strings, the neck vibrating under his hands just made him feel better. 

He started to get an idea about what was happening, but couldn't put it into words. He looked at the old beat up guitar again, his twin in age and experience. The Fender gave him something, something he wanted, but at a cost. 

How are you looking like this, your hair? Jenese asked. Are you sure Doctor Borghi didn’t say anything?”

Paul looked up her, she had a look of concern, and something else-

“You’re jealous!” Paul said, shocked. 

Jenese grimaced. “Are you using any lotions, or taking any pills- are you taking testosterone?”

“Nothing like that. I think it might have to do with the guitar, I mean playing the guitar, it gives me- I don’t know. You should try it, it might do you good to have a hobby-”

“A hobby?” Jenese’s eyes were bright, her jaw clenched. “You think if I have a a damn hobby-” She wiped her face. “I don’t know what is going on with you, you are acting crazy, forgetting things-”

“What, I haven’t been forgetting things-”

“You forgot Anna’s birthday.” 

Paul’s shoulders slumped. “Well, yes, but,” 

“You left the stove on yesterday, you got lost on the way home from airport, you -”

“- I am sorry!” Paul said, and left the room.  

But he wasn’t sorry, he felt so good! An addict, he needed the feel of the Fender, it energized him. It was the first thing he thought about in the morning, and the last thing he thought about at night. When he saw a small black elastic band on the floor of his daughter's old room, he knew it would solve his latest problem. Now below his ears, his hair was longer than he had ever had it in his life, but he couldn't cut it, not after so many years. The low ponytail did the trick, kept his hair from falling in his face when he played.

Driving to the store for Jenese, he saw it gleam in the showroom, and just had to turn around to take a closer look. Once the salesman realized Paul was going to write a check for it, he had no problem letting him test drive, then ride home, the Ducati Scrambler, in Tangerine Orange. Even threw in the goggles at no charge. It took Paul a couple trips around the parking lot before he got the hang of it, but his body figured out how to balance right, and then he felt the unbelievable joy of the wind whipping through his hair. He did not even mind the bugs he caught in his wide grin as he twisted down on the throttle and roared down the 101 freeway.

“I thought you were going to the store- instead you bought a motorcycle?” 

Jenese said. “Are you out of your mind? Do you even know how to drive a motorcycle?”

“I made it home. It’s not that hard. And it is so cool!” Paul could not stop smiling. 

Jenese folded her arms and narrowed her eyes. “Where's the car?”

Paul leaned back, and snapped his fingers. “I forgot about the car- I left it at the dealership. How about this, I’ll give you a ride down there on the bike!” 

“There is no way in hell I am getting on a motorcycle with you in this condition.”

“Condition?” Paul’s hands went up in confusion. “I am sober, I didn’t even take an edible-”

Jenese rolled her eyes. “‘This, acting like a teenager, condition.” 

Paul tried to watch the crime drama with Jenese on TV, but it didn’t make sense, he couldn’t follow the clues. Instead he walked from room to room, did a few sit-ups and some push-ups.  

“What do you think about going down to the Vinyl Room, it is open mic night-” Paul asked Jenese, breathing hard from his exercises. “We can check out some live music-”

She looked up from the couch, already in her pajamas for the night, ‘no’ written on her face. “I’m pretty tired-”

“OK then!” Paul went into the garage just to turn on the bike and listen to the motor. Maybe a short spin around the block. And, just in case, he brought his Fender.

A few people were gathered in front of the Vinyl Room. The two young women ahead of Paul chatted with the man sitting on a stool just outside the open door. Music flowed out into the street, a woman’s plaintive voice singing over an acoustic guitar.   

“ID” The large man said to Paul. He wore a button-up flannel with the shirt sleeves torn off. His huge bare arms were covered with dark tattoos. Paul pulled out his wallet and handed the man his drivers license. 

The man looked down at the card, and then at Paul with a sneer. “This aint you. Get the hell out of here kid.” His two fingers spun the driver's license down the sidewalk.

“What the hell-” Paul looked up, and the man folded his huge arms on his chest, ‘Eat Shit’ in large cursive letters inked onto his forearm.

 Paul walked down to collect his drivers license. “I don't understand?”

He found the card on the sidewalk and put his guitar case down as he picked it up. He remembered taking this picture, just a few years ago. He looked at a middle aged man with a bald head and wrinkled face. With shoulder length hair and a smooth complexion, Paul didn't look anything like this picture. He might have been better if he had used his son’s ID instead of his own. 

He looked at the card, and then back at the bouncer, as he waved in three more women with a smile. Paul set his jaw and saw a man step out of a side door down an alley to piss behind a dumpster. Paul slipped in through the propped open door.  

He put his name on the list, and listened to several enthusiastic but untalented singers and musicians before his name was called. 

He had the crowd from his first chord. His long hair flowed everywhere as he nodded his head to the beat. Paul lit the stage on fire, his fast riffs and runs on the Fender caused the crowd to roar. Loud applause erupted as his set ended.  

The brunette woman came up to him as he was packing up the Fender, her low cut shirt drawing his attention. 

“Wow you ‘re really good.” She said, standing so close he could smell her perfume. “Did you go to high school around here? You look familiar-” Her hands toyed with her hair.

“High School? No-.” Paul squared up to her, his voice low. 

“Do you know what I have outside, an 800 cc Ducati. It’s like a rocket ship. Have you ever felt an engine that big between your legs?”

The brunette’s eyes got big and Paul’s whole body buzzed with electricity.

“You want to go for a ride?”

Her eyes got even bigger, staring over his shoulder. “I think your, mother is here for you-”

Paul turned around and in the dim lighting saw a middle aged woman glaring at him. 

“My mother? She’s dead…” Paul squinted, confused.

Something about her face was familiar-

“Jenese- you came! Did you see the show?”

Jenese slapped him, and walked away. 

“Jenese!” Paul stood up to follow her out. The bouncer saw him and pointed. 

“I remember you, what are you doing in here- you think you're pretty smart…”

Jenese turned. “-He was a very successful lawyer, I'll have you know!” Her voice cracked, and then began to cry.

Paul stopped. “I ain’t no lawyer. I am a goddamn rockstar!”