Frankie and the Bass

That must be a bass because it has four fat strings, thought Frankie.

The bass was clunky and ugly, sitting in the window at The Music House on Lake Forest Blvd. The old junker was black and white. Actually not even white, but some depressing mixture of beige and buttermilk. The edges were softly rounded like the back of the new AMC Pacer parked in Frankie’s neighbor’s driveway. It was the kind of bass that Mr. Rodgers would softly strum with his thumb while whisper-singing like half a man.

No flames, no neon finish, no sharp, pointy edges. Frankie’s MTV heavy metal heroes would definitely not be drowning in an avalanche of hot babes if they were forced to play such dull looking hunks of timber.

But the price was probably right.

Frankie knew he could never save the $345 he would need to get his hands on that red Fender Precision Bass he had seen at “Hoc It To Doc” pawn shop last month.

Frankie moseyed into The Music House to get a closer peek. The store smelled like old records and dirty carpet. Wall-to-wall guitars, basses and amps. A few drum sets in the back. Music books, instructional tapes and videos, kazoos, jew’s harps, harmonicas, tuners, and strings.

Behind the counter stood an old dude. But then again, everyone over 25 looked like a fossilized relic to Frankie. But this guy actually was pretty damn old, with long, thin light brown hair revealing generous chunks of pale scalp. The Fu Manchu mustache did not exactly make him look like a spring chicken, either.

Fu Manchu Dude wore tight brown corduroy pants and a floral long sleeved shirt. The type of shirt that Robert Plant would wear while femininely dancing around on stage while John Bonham bashed away on the drums like a caveman. The leather vest with an enormous peace sign back patch was a nice touch, too. And don’t forget the cowhide moccasins to complete the 1969 casualty-of-the-Woodstock-generation costume.

“Jimmy Page was the best of all-time, period,” Fu Manchu Dude said to a teenage kid casually strumming a Gibson flying V.

“No way, man. Have you heard Joe Satriani,” said the kid.

“That Satriani clown can play all the notes he wants at lightning speed. Page would blow him out of the water any day with style! Your generation is getting ripped off with some seriously crappy music,” said Fu Manchu Dude.

“Page was pretty good in his day, but you’ve gotta get with the times, man! ‘Satch’ is the future of guitar,” said the teenage kid.

“Pretty good in his day? Put that guitar back on the rack and scram,” said Fu Manchu Dude.

“Don’t take it personally, bro, it’s just my opinion,” said the teenage kid, grabbing his backpack and walking out the door.

“Can I help you, man?” asked Fu Manchu Dude, turning to Frankie.

“Is that black and white guitar in the window a bass?” asked Frankie.

“Yup. Four strings means it’s a bass, bro. Do you know how to count to four? Come back with your parents and maybe I’ll cut them a deal. Moms like me,” said Fu Manchu Dude.

Frankie fumbled with his sweaty hands in the pockets of his Levi’s jacket, feeling very unimportant. Fu Manchu dude wandered crookedly into the back of the shop, where Frankie could hear rummaging.

The store had quickly become empty. The bass sat in the window by the front door, seeming lonely. Frankie had grown mighty tired of taking it on the chin from the Fu Manchu Dudes of the world.

Frankie’s feet stepped with urgency toward the window and his hands removed themselves from the pockets of his Levi’s jacket. His armpits felt swampy and his heart kicked enthusiastically against his sternum. Frankie reached out and gently lifted the bass by the neck, caressing it with both hands. The bass felt warm and grateful. Frankie’s legs took him quickly out the front door and onto the sidewalk.

Frankie glanced through the glass door and saw Fu Manchu Dude’s beady little blue eyes beaming at him. Fu Manchu Dude started running toward the door.

“Don’t even think about it, twerp,” yelled Fu Manchu Dude.

The truth was, Frankie had not really give much thought to what he was doing. His feet carried him like a racing greyhound across the empty sidewalk. A cold and dry winter wind stung Frankie’s soft, delicate face.

A quick glance back, and Frankie saw Fu Manchu Dude not really running, but instead having a series of controlled falls using his helplessly skinny legs for support. Long, wispy hair sadly waving in the cool breeze like a white middle-aged flag of surrender.

Fu Manchu Dude then started wheezing, as his lungs turned to fire. He could then only walk at a brisk pace. All those clove cigarettes.

Frankie coolly glided onto the sidewalk beside Lake Forest Blvd., as a public bus slowly came to a stop in front of Del Taco. Frankie hopped onto the bus and tossed three quarters into the payment funnel next to the driver’s stick shift.

Fu Manchu Dude watched Frankie trot up the steps and onto the bus. Fu Manchu Dude heaved on the sidewalk with spit dangling from his mouth, bent over with his hands gripping his corduroy covered knees.

Frankie caressed the stolen bass in his arms and studied its cracked finish with a lover’s gaze. It was meant to be his. The bass promised a future of late night rehearsals, gigs, and of course, girls. Lots of hysterical, cheering girls.

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