It’s 11:00 a.m. on a Saturday. It’s hot but not bright, and I’m sweating. The grass is overgrown with weeds—some that look like flowers and some that don’t. I am knocking on the screen door. I am trying to bejmember.

I knew the door was unlocked—it always was—and that no one would answer. It was the same every week. The sun, the grass, the sweat. I let myself in.

The anterior room was a dimly lit kitchen-living room-hallway combination with stairs trailing steeply downwards in the far right corner. Always the smell of Campbell’s chicken noodle. My ribs would tighten.

I’d been taking lessons for three months. So far, I could play a G chord and a C augmented and clumsily transition between the two. The few minor fingering adjustments involved felt like miles. I want to say that we did the same thing every Saturday, but that much I can’t remember. It’s only Campbell’s, dim light, weeds, G to C.

Now piano I could play. I’d taken lessons for as long as I could remember, and I relished practicing and recitals. I was a shy, frightened kid, but put me behind a piano and I’d perform, all “Mom! Dad! Listen! Do you know Scott Joplin? Beethoven?”

But Beethoven wasn’t cool. Piano wasn’t cool. Being a short, shy fifth grader wasn’t cool. Guitar was. Of course, the lessons wouldn’t be cheap—especially when you considered I was already in piano and not about to quit. And private school for four kids wasn’t cheap either. And neither was divorce. But they gave in eventually. It’s hard growing up, moving in increments from child to adult. They knew that.

The soup smell, the weeds, the dim heat. He lived there with his sickly mother, who was chronically bed-ridden. Sometimes I doubted whether she was real or not; she never made a sound, never emerged. Supposedly she was dying.

He worked in construction but taught guitar on the side—he’d always wanted to be a musician, but it was hard. I knew how it went, right? When everyone wants to make it big? We can’t all get our way. He made sure I knew that.

I was his only client. It sounds funny, calling that stunted fifth-grade me a client, but I was. Every week my mom sent me over with a fresh fifty; I’d hand it over to him, and in return I’d get lessons. He told me to get my friends to come along sometime, the girls, the cute ones, the ones like me. In my head I’d say fat chance, but out loud I’d say nothing.

The screen door, the heat, the weeds, the flowers, G to C. The dim lights, the sick mom, Campbell’s, G to C. Ribs tightening, doubts, fifty dollars, G to C. When I got home, my mom would ask me what I’d learned and I’d say: “I don’t know.” Think: Nothing I can tell you. Think: Nothing I want to think about. Nothing I want to remember.

She’d ask me to play something for her. I’d retreat to my room. I’d tell her I was going to practice. I’d hide my guitar under my bed. I’d take a nap, take a shower, think of nothing, remember nothing. I never practiced.

The dim light, the heat, the soup smell, G to C. My room, my bed, hiding. It was always the same after the lessons. It was always numbness and thoughtlessness. It was always me in my room, guitar hidden, thoughts hidden. Memories hidden. Lessons learned but not remembered. It was always the same walking up to that house and walking out of it—but what happened in between I can’t remember. I made sure of that.

What I remember is I begged for those lessons. What I remember is they were expensive. What I remember is fifty dollars, sweat, and low lights. What I remember is “Bring your friends. The cute ones. The girls like you.”

What I remember is that it had all been my idea. That I had nagged for it. That I didn’t know what kind of girl I was. That I didn’t know better.

What I know is that I was scared, knocking on that screen door. That the smell of Campbell’s soup still makes my stomach curl. That I hate dim houses. That I still shake sometimes on Friday nights. That I still can’t play guitar.

What I know is that I hated those hot, overgrown Saturdays. That I hated the weeds, the waiting, the cash. That I hated those lessons. That I hated that man. I hated the things he taught me. But I kept going back.

It’s 11:00 a.m. on a Saturday. I’m knocking on that screen door, trying to go back to that dim house. Straining to see through my own hands held tight over my eyes. It’s 11:00 a.m. on a Saturday, and I’m wandering through a mirrored hallway. I’m lost, with holes in my memory, thirsty, aching to be nine years old again. Aching for another chance.

______

Photo credit: Mycatkins / Foter / CC BY-ND