TALES FROM THE HELL HOUSE #4

       One night we were sitting in Klutch's room, and as usual, drinking beer and watching T.V.
   I guess the television was a little too loud, because our upstairs neighbor started pounding on the floor. We turned the volume down a bit and continued watching.
    Again came the pounding, so the volume went down another couple clicks.
We thought it was pretty quiet, but it seems our neighbor didn't because again she pounded on the floor.
"What the hell?" Klutch asked, looking up towards the ceiling as a light rain of plaster dust filtered down.
Dave shook his head, "just turn it down a little more"
We turned the volume down to a level so low that we were literally all huddled inches from the T.V. just to hear it.
     Then the pounding started again, and then turned into stomping, Then Jumping up and down.
Then came the scream. It was like an air raid siren. it started as a low howl, and grew in pitch and volume, culminating in stomps that accented the words "SHUT-UP, SHUT-UP, SHUT-UP.....SHUT- THE -FUCK- UP!" It was so violent that the light fixture in the ceiling came loose and fell to the floor behind us, shattering on impact and spraying the room with glass shards.
    The crash of the light fixture was followed moments later by a muffled scream from upstairs,
accompanied by frantic pounding foot steps that went in a sort of marching run from room to room, while she continued screaming.
"fuck" Dave muttered. we looked at each other silently. The next move was unclear.
     We were cleaning up the broken glass when there was a pounding on the back door.
    We answered it, and found our up-stairs neighbor standing there in tears, pulling her hair, babbling about no sleep and too much noise and no one understanding about how hard she tried to be friends but how she had to work tomorrow…
her eyes were wide and slightly crossed, a mix of anger, confusion, crazy...

I smirked, “you want to hit me, don't you?”

It was a taunt, not an offer, but she took it.
she stept into an oddly theatrical martial arts pose,  and swiftly punched me in the stomach.
I stumbled backwards and collapsed on the kitchen floor holding my gut.
     All of the stress drained from her face, and was replaced by an odd serene look and a slight smile.

“Thanks” she said, heading back up the stairs to her flat.

Klutch and Dave nodded and smiled nervously as she went back upstairs, but after shutting the door  we huddled for a quick house meeting. It was evident that she had gone insane, but the question was should we call someone? a hospital? the cops?
    We finally decided it would be best to just torture her in our own special way.
  So we gave her a few minutes, then crept up the stairs with some fireworks, squirt guns and water balloons.
    A battle ensued, and by the end of it we were all soaked, sitting in her destroyed kitchen singing songs and taking turns bare knuckle boxing her refrigerator door.
    Aside from the broken light, our swollen knuckles, and taking a punch to the gut, it was a pretty good night.
The next evening she showed up at our back door again, this time looking very sheepish and holding a six-pack of beer. Her knuckles were wrapped in a bandage.
     "So…?" Dave started to ask.
      She cut us off and apologized, then went on to explain that the night before she had been on some kind of heavy duty mind and reality altering drugs, and she remembered almost nothing about it.
But she said it looked like she had gotten a little crazy in her apartment, and was sorry if she made too much noise. 

“I didn’t… do anything… did I?”   She was holding the beer like an offering, her eyes pleading for us to say no.

 “Nope” I said, “I mean nothing really. You did come and asked us to keep it down, 'cause you had to work or something, but…”
She looked relived. "thanks," she said.
I smiled and took the beer.
"Anytime"

doodle-oodle-ooo!

    So, let me start by telling you, I am not a particularly superstitious person.
However,  I have found that superstitions, luck, religion, karma, and all things otherworldly or unexplainable do not seen to care whether you believe in them or not.
 I have seen the impossible happen without a care for my believing, and I have seen a sure thing suddenly and inexplicably evaporate, as though it were the impossible all along.
  So, I have come to believe that it is a good idea to respect the idea that sometimes things happen whether you believe they will or not.
Because the truth is, you just never know.
    Case in point: The Brady Bunch Tiki.
When I still owned my tiki and Ukulele store, almost everyday a person would come into my shop and, regarding the Tiki necklaces, say:
"These are exactly like that Brady Bunch episode! where Greg finds the Tiki! Did you ever see that one?"
    I used to explain that yes, I have seen it, but no, none of my necklaces are "exactly like" that particular Tiki.
    I used to tell them that I do not make that design, but they would usually cut me off, calling to their friend, "Hey look, they have those Tiki's like on the Brady Bunch!"
    Now I smile and laugh, as thought it is the first time I have hear that one, and neither confirm nor deny, because although what follows actually happened to me, I really can't offer a rational explanation as to why, other than to repeat my previous statement.
    Sometimes things happen whether you believe they will or not.
  
   In the very early 90's I was watching a recording of a tongue-in-cheek, Ken Burns style "documentary" about the Brady Bunch. Part of this documentary was a segment titled "Taboo" in which they talked about the afore mentioned Tiki. They even showed a short still  close up of the Tiki hanging around Peter Bradys neck.
I was stoked.
Ever since I started my business Tiki King, I was always being asked if I made that Tiki, I always chuckled, "No way man! It's TABOO! Doodle-oodle-O!" But this documentary was like a sign. It was time to make that Tiki.
So, which Tiki was it?
I really don't know for sure, but it's true origin was most likely a Hawaiian souvenir shop. It looks much like the many mass produced Tikis of the mid seventies, made by Coco Joe, or maybe H.I.P. It is vaguely Ku shaped,  and more than likely cast resin, or permastone. It is said to be currently in the possession of Barry Williams, (who played Greg Brady on the show) He claims to have "rescued" it from a prop room a couple years ago, while producing "Growing Up Brady" at Paramount, and says that he wears it while on tour.
      So the big question, is it really taboo?
The logical person would say of course not. It was a hunk of resin, or a chunk of plaster. It was a TV show prop. It was not sacred, it had no manna. There was no reason that it should, or could, cause anything to happen, and it certainly was not really Taboo.
     But, Sometimes things happen whether you believe they will or not.
    So on my day off, I began sketching out the design, using the video as a guide.
That night I was riding my Vespa, and got a Flat tire. Not too big of a deal, the Vespa has a spare tire with it. But it was odd. I had actually never had a flat before. But as luck would have it, it happened in a parking lot and it only took a few minutes to swap the tire over.  It was a minor inconvenience, and being a scooter mechanic, I was able to get the tire patched up the next day, and all was right again.
As I said, It was a minor inconvenience
    So a week later, on my next day off, I finished the sketch and transferred the design to a piece of wood.
That night as I was taking a short cut through the tenderloin, one of the worst parts of town, the engine coughed and sputtered, and then cut out.
    Much to my surprise, I was out of gas. This was a surprise, because one, I had  never run out of gas before. And two, the Vespa has a reserve tank to keep this sort of thing from happening. Somehow, the switch was on reserve already and so I was forced to push it to the nearest gas station, which was about three blocks away, UP HILL! and we were late getting somewhere already. So as I am pushing the Vespa along, trying to ignore the prostitutes, pushers, addicts and other denizens of the back alleys,  I say to my wife, "Man, I must have angered the gods, or carved the wrong Tiki or something..."
"It's that Brady Tiki" she laughed, "It's Tabooooo! doodle-oodle-oooo!"
      So I stopped working on the Tiki for a couple weeks, and mulled it over.
     But, eventually logic won over. I decided that surely, the flat tire and running out of gas were simply co-incidences, and the Tiki certainly could not really be "Taboo"
So one fine day at work, there was a lull in the action, so I got out the piece of wood, the sketch, and picked up my knife.
      No sooner had I shaved off a few chips of wood when I heard a scream. My boss was yelling frantically for me to come up to the front, and as I got to the door that separated the showroom from the repair shop, I was met by a wall of muddy water. I stood there trying to make sense of the fact that a river was now in our show room, and soon I was standing in a swirling mess of murky water about two feet deep.
   Apparently,  directly in front of our shop, a water main from 1906 had decided it was time to burst, and was now sending up a ten foot geyser of water, sand, mud and cobble stones.
   We ran to and fro, trying to move things to the tops of counters and tables, and did all we could to get
things to higher ground.
Oddly enough the flood hardly touched the two stores next to us, but filled ours with about two feet of water. The result was about several weeks of lost business, thousands of dollars in damaged merchandise, and gruesome cleanup ( the place had to be gutted, all the drywall removed. It was a mess)
      I told my boss about the Tiki, and although we were in agreement that it was most likely simple co-incidence, we also were in agreement that sometimes things happen whether you believe they will or not, and that the Tiki had to go.
    So we ceremoniously burned the drawing, asking the gods for forgivness, and tossed the unfinished Tiki into the storm drain. As we stood in a moment of silence, a man walked up.
     "So how much did you loose?" he asked.
We didn't really know. $10,000, $20,000, it would be weeks before we added it up.
     He then introduced himself as a representative of the city, and told us that we would be reimbursed for ALL of our losses. We simply needed to fill out some forms and send them in once we had totaled it up, and he assured us that everything would be made right.
 Here is the thing. Like I said, I am not particularly superstitious.
But,  1st , a flat tire.
Then, being late and running out of gas in a bad area,
Then the flood.
 Each incident progressively much worse than the previous.
Then, after destroying it, all is promised to be made whole.
     So is that Tiki Taboo? Would I ever consider giving it another try?
No.
Because I have come to believe that it is a good idea to respect that sometimes things happen whether you believe they will or not, and I  do not intend on finding out what would happen next

Because the truth is, you just never know.

TALES FROM THE HELL HOUSE. #2

The clock said 3:30 am
It's red numbers had a slight twitch, a blur.
They would shift sideways, then back.
 I closed my eyes for what seemed like hours, concentrating on breathing slowly.
3:31 am
“Fuck it”
I decided retaliation was in order.
Earlier that night we were drinking espresso, and Dave came up with the idea to add “Vivarin” caffeine tablets to the espresso pot, because before the espresso, we had been drinking "Schuss Boomers", an odd concoction of hot Dr. Pepper and rum, and Dave said the rum was making him too sleepy.
I admit, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
But now I was lying in bed twitching and having strange tunnel vision hallucinations.

“Fuck it”

  I turned on the light and fished around on the top of my dresser until I struck pay-dirt.
A bundle of bottle rockets,  a pack of "Black Cat" fire crackers, and a half a pack of "Old Gold" cigarettes.
 I unwrapped the pack of fire crackers, unbraided two and set them aside. I took the remainder with me as I crept down the hall with a cigarette dangling from my mouth, and an aluminum baseball bat in my hands because, well, you never know.
Outside Dave's door I crouched down, quietly setting the bat on the floor.
Working carefully, I took the fire crackers and untwisted the main fuse, brushing away some of the black powder to slow the burn.
 Then I slowly slid the pack under Daves door until only the tissue paper fuse remained outside.
I lit it with my cigarette, grabbed the bat, and retreated to my room.
The click of the deadbolt on my door was followed by the staccato raping of the fire crackers, and then a few seconds later, Dave was beating on my door accusing me of being some kind of fucker.
I thought it was rude of him to beat on my door in the middle of the night, so I began launching bottle rockets out under the door,  and then listened to Dave scream and run away, presumably back to his room.
    After a while I figured justice had been mostly served, But we still needed a random element.
So I took the two remaining fire crackers and crept quietly into the kitchen.
I placed them on the stove burner under the coffee pot, which had been set up before we went to bed so that whoever woke up first need only turn on the burner to start the coffee.

Satisfied, I went back to my room and laid down.
Then I reached over and shut off my twitching alarm clock.
I didn't think I'd need it.

I dozed, having odd uneasy dreams until, right on schedule,
BANG!.....BANG!

Time for coffee!

TALES FROM THE HELL HOUSE #1

     The Hellhouse was the bottom flat of an old Victorian in San Francisco, on Ashbury St, half a block up from Haight.  it was next door to Janis Joplins old flat. I moved into the Hell house after being politely kicked out of my sisters flat upstairs.  My "room" was actually a closet under the stairs. It was slightly larger than a bed, but was cool in it’s own right. My new housemates were Klutch, Dave, and a Hawaiian guy who was never there. This was in the 80's. I was a punk rocker and a bike messenger. Full of energy and bad ideas. The hell house was perfect for me.
    TALES FROM THE HELL HOUSE are some of the things that went on there.

TALES FROM THE HELL HOUSE #1

 We were sitting in the kitchen on a Saturday afternoon drinking beer when I got an idea.
I chugged down the last of my beer, and then went down the hall and out to the front door. Our door bell had never worked, at least not in the time I had lived there. Knocks often went unnoticed, as we spent a lot of time in the kitchen, which was at the back of the flat.
     I decided it was time to fix this problem,  so I carefully pried the little black button out of the door bell housing and looked inside. The contacts were blueish green with corrosion.
I knew just what to do.
 I then slid out the little sign that said "Bell" and changed it to say "Hell",  and tossed the button aside, replacing it with a thumb tack facing point out.
     I then went back into the kitchen and cracked open another beer. When I told my housemates what I had done, and they both asked “why?”

“This way we’ll know when someone is here” I assured them.

“how do you figure?” they asked

Almost on cue, we heard a scream  and then a string of obscenities coming form the vicinity of the front door.

"Someone is here," I said.

I answered the door  to find friend standing on the porch rubbing his thumb. Cradled in his other arm were some fantastic offerings.
Booze, and Lawn Darts.

    Dangerous game for drunks with no lawn. 

    But then again, I think that applied to most everything we did. 

    Croquet seems fairly tame until you played our version, with a golf style swing in the narrow hallway of our flat. Instead of wickets, we set up a ramp and a series of targets. The only real rule was that the players had to be drunk, and the object was to hit the ball down the hall and up the ramp so that it flew through the air and hit one of the targets. If the target hit was the globe, the reward was to drink a tasty cold beer. Sometimes a player would miss the targets, and the hard wooden ball would careen into the kitchen and destroy something in there. If this were to happen, the penalty was to drink a tasty cold beer. It was a good game. 

     Bowling is pretty safe, unless the pins are replaced by a television set, and you are "bowling" from the third floor balcony. 

     This once lead to the idea of "bowling shots" 

It goes like this:  The "bowler" stands on the third floor balcony, and the "pin boy" on the ground below. The "score keeper" fills the three holes with vodka, then the "bowler" rotates the ball, spilling out the vodka, counts to three and releases the ball. The "pin boy" attempts to catch the vodka, but not the ball, in his mouth. 

     Lucky for us, we argued too long about the scoring system, (if you should gain or lose points for being hit with the ball) and by the time we were drunk enough to do it, no one was able to climb the stairs with the ball. 

    We invented another game called "Ceiling fan pool". The idea was to throw an (empty) egg carton up into the air so that it was hit by the fan, and landed somewhere interesting. This would be met by cheers, and toasts, and more beer. One night, as the hours wore on into morning, the game mutated into "Wadded up newspaper pool", then "Empty beer can pool", then "Full beer can pool", and finally "Anything in your grasp pool".
Interesting note: a ceiling fan missing a blade becomes highly unstable, and will eventually rip itself from the ceiling and even catch on fire.
     The funny thing is that the bowling ball, the croquet set, the ceiling fan, these were all gifts.
From People who knew us. 
From people who should have known better!
Maybe they did it for their own amusement.

One housemate was (god only knows why) given a gas powered weed whacker for his birthday.
Later in a drunken frenzy he "cleaned" his room with it.
Aluminum baseball bats, fireworks, bowling balls, Lawn darts, weed whackers...
Dangerous gifts for dangerous games.
For dangerous people.
Gifts from people who should have known better...
Then again, Maybe they did.

Gnome Roast

   My friend Kenny asked for this tale.  He knows it already 'cause he was there, but I'll tell it now, for you.

It goes like this.
     In the late 80's and early 90s I was a mechanic. I mostly worked on old Vespa scooters, but also "modern" ones like the Yamaha Rivas, Jogs, Zumas, etc. I worked for one of San Francisco's few Scooter shops at the time, which I will not name because, well, you never know.
    Work as a mechanic can be somewhat feast or famine. Many days went by with hardly a break from the wrench, other days were a waiting game. On these slow days, we would amuse ourselves by doing things that were not specifically repair oriented. My supervisor was an English guy who raced motorcycles and drove a hearse. He wore all black, and listened to nine inch nails. He didn't mind our antics, and in fact, he encouraged them. Some times when there was no work to be done, he would shout from his desk, "Oi! Tiki... Blow something up!"
    He was my boss, and  I was obliged to comply.
    Now and then the shock waves from our improvised fireworks would summon the general manager from the front of the building. He would come running back, wild eyed, waving his arms and pleading for us to make it stop.  But for the most part we were able to feign ignorance and blame it on a back-fire or a blow-out.
  Now, the part about the blow-out was not entirely untrue, as we had discovered that in the absence of material more volatile,  you could lock the air compressor hose to the valve stem of an old inner tube, and it will inflate to point of bursting, which, if this were to happen, say in the elevator shaft, creates a quite satisfying "boom" which would cause the sweat shop manager from upstairs to come running down, wild eyed, waving her arms and pleading for us to make it stop.
     One of our proud moments was when we discovered, quite by accident, that our tennis ball canon, modified to accept a lag bolt, was capable of propelling said bolt clean through the cinderblock wall, leaving a cartoon like hole in the perfect shape of the bolt.
     Good times.
      Our general manager was an unaware catalyst to our mayhem. We always seemed to be able to persuade him to buy things that ultimately would be put to bad use.
     One particularly slow day we convinced him that we needed a garden gnome as a mascot, for good luck and to boost moral. We must have seemed sincere, as he went out and bought a us fine concrete garden gnome.
     He placed it at the back entrance to the shop where it sat on its cement barrel, swigging from a mug of beer,  sure to attract a flood of customers.
     As luck would have it, it was also around this time that we discovered that a degreasing gun, properly modified, became a fairly impressive Flame thrower.
      One fine afternoon, our manager came out back to check on the source of shouting and cheering. He came around the corner asking "So, how's our gnome doing...."  and was greeted with this....

So there you have it.
The gnome disappeared shortly after this, and our general manager never would tell us what happened to it.

Glorious drunks

  A woman and her niece came into my shop carrying a small case.
She said hello, and said she had a surprise for me.
She set the case down on the counter, and opened it up.
     It was, of course an ukulele.
      But not just any ukulele, It was one I had seen before.
      But, let's start over, a little over a year before.
     A man wandered into my shop one day, drunk as could be, but managing to avoid knocking into anything. He went over to the Ukulele wall and stood, weaving slightly.
   "Hello!" I said, and waited. These things can go several ways. usually they look at the Ukuleles, for a minute, ask If I have guitars, strum a few clumsy chords, and then leave.
"Mind if I sit?" he asked.
"Go ahead" I told him. I kept an eye on him, but busied myself at the desk.
He looked absent mindedly at the wall of ukes.
he cleared his throat
"You know he no longer travels but he's still pretty spry, He's not much on talking and he's just too mean to die"
I looked up, "Excuse me?' I asked politely
"Uncle Slayton" he said.
I shook my head."Don't know an Uncle layton"
"James McMurtry?"
I shrugged.
"You never heard of James McMurtry?" he asked
"Yeah, sure," I told him, "I heard of him. I know his dad wrote a bunch of books, "Lonesome Dove" was one..."
He nodded. "Yep. James is a poet, an' a good singer. Saw him up at Don Quixotes."
 Don Quixotes is a night club just up the street from the shop.
"Hmmm..." I said, nodding.
"Sings songs an reads poetry. James McMurtry. He's real good, you should check him out"
I nodded again.
He looked thoughtful for a second, and then cleared his throat.
"You know he no longer travels but he's still pretty spry, He's not much on talking and he's just too mean to die"
"I've heard that one" I said.
He nodded. "can I play the Guitar?" he asked.
"Sure, just be careful"
"you got a pick?"
I handed him one. He made a few rough attempts at playing, and then put the guitar back in it's stand. "Never could play the gee-tar" he said. "Ok to play one of these ukuleles?"
I went over and pulled one of the less expensive models off the wall and tuned it up.
 "Here you go," I said, handing it to him "please be careful with it."
He strummed it a couple times, and then said, "It's my birthday today!"
"Well, happy birthday" I said.
"Yep, It's my birthday so I went up to Don Quixotes and had some drinks"
"Well, Ok then"
"Had some drinks..." he nodded. he looked thoughtfull for a moment. "They told me I have the cancer in my throat, the doctors, they told me..." He tapped a spot under his chin. "I gotta go get it taken care of." He seemed lost in thought for a moment. "I'm all about holistic and organic and natural, ya know? but when they say you have cancer, you gotta get that shit zapped!"
He strummed the uke a couple more times. "It's my birthday so I had some drinks up at Don's... Saw James McMurtry there once..."
I smiled. "That's what you said"
He looked at the ukulele in his hands. "Ok," he said, "I'll take it!" He fished in his pocket and pulled out a credit card and his I.D. " I want the guitar too..." Then he looked up at the wall. "You do these paintings?" he asked.
"Yep"
"well shit!... put one of those on there too..."
I smiled, "Tell you what, uh.." I glanced at the I.D. "Steve? You come back sober, and I'll sell you anything you want, but today I am only gonna take you for 60 bucks, for the uke"
He mulled it over for a few seconds. "Ok, Fair enough"
He signed the slip, gathered his things and shook the ukulele at me. "I'm gonna learn to play it," It sounded like a challenge. "But for now, I gotta go.... Back to Don Quixotes!"
He gave a little wave and left, and I watched him weave his way up the sidewalk and out of sight. I remember thinking that he would be back the next day or so, wanting to return the uke.
But he didn't.
 It was a couple weeks later that he showed up at the shop, this time sober, uke in hand.
I got ready my return policy speech, but to my surprise, he asked what I had in the way of books.
"I have been having a blast with this little guy" he said, "but I think I need some help"
I smiled, "books are right there..." I motioned to the book shelves. "I recommend "Tip's-n-tunes" Good stuff..."
He bought a couple of books, and a few weeks later I loaned him the movie "Rock that Uke"
After that he came in and bought another uke for his wife. I was writing up the sale, and found myself asking, "so how's it going with...?" I knew I had no business asking, but it was out there, and that was that. He looked surprised, but smiled. "good!..yeah, good. Doc says it is responding, so..."
"good deal" I said.
As he was leaving he turned, "Hey, thanks, ya know? thanks for asking"

About a week later he came in again. He brought his wife's uke in to get restrung as well.
"The wife and I are having the best time playing these darn things. We've been watching James Hill, and, I mean, I know these are cheapies, but I wanna try and get that sound. Amazing!"
Then came the next part.
But it was so conversational, so, "off-hand" that it took a moment to sink in.
"I spent yesterday with my kids up in Oakland, it was good to see them, I gotta go back up tomorrow and take care of some stuff. Doc says my days are numbered, so my wife is taking some time off to...you know, take care of me, until... but we get to play the ukes together more, so..." He managed a very matter of fact smile.
It was like he was telling me his car had broken down, or about how it sure is humid today.
But no. He was telling me that he was on his way out.
I searched for the right thing to say, but there was nothing there.
"Well, " he said, "I'll, uh, see you later..."
he started to walk out, but I stopped him. "Hey, uh, are you going to be in town next week?"
He thought for a moment. "yeah, I think so."
"Come by the shop if you can, on Monday or Tuesday, I want to show you something"
"Will do" he said.

So here is the thing.
Many years ago, I built a little soprano ukulele out of Koa and mahogany. It started out as all Koa, but as I was building it, the top was destroyed as I was routing the binding channel.
Literally tore it off and sent it sailing across the shop like a Frisbee, shattering against the back wall.
 So I made a new top out of Mahogany.
It was sweet, really pretty wood, and a great sound.
Loud, but mellow at the same time.
 I really liked this one, but then decided to sell it, because one, I am not a soprano player,
and two, I was trying to establish myself in the uke-building world.
 So I put it up for sale on my website.
The next day it fell off the wall and cracked the headstock, so I took it off my website and hung it up in my workshop where it stayed for a long time.
One day I decided to fix it.
I was able to repair the crack, and reinforce it so that it was actually stronger than before, and the repair was undetectable. I hung it on the wall, where it stayed for a year or so.
I would play it now and then, but like I said, I am not a soprano guy, so again I decided to sell it.
I thought I should take some new pictures of it, and as I reached for it, I knocked it off the wall.
It fell, this time damaging the sound board. I was able to repair the crack, but I decided not to put it on my website because of the repairs, and potentially have to deal with shipping it back and forth for approval, so again, it went back on the wall.
So then five years go by, and I open my ukulele shop.
I needed some inventory, so I was going through the ukes I had. I took down the little soprano and as I was tuning it up, the ebony saddle broke in half. So, I replaced the saddle, but decided it did not want to be sold, and again, I hung it back up on the wall, where it stayed for some time.
 
Steve came back by the shop on that Tuesday.
"Hey!" I said, "glad you could come by"
I went into the back and came out with a small case. I opened it up, and handed the little soprano uke to him.
I had re-strung it in Low G, and cleaned it up a bit, made it shine. It played beautifully.

He regarded it for a moment, gave it a few strums, and nodded. "Nice"
I told him, "This was the first soprano ukulele I ever built."
I wanted to tell him the story of it's journey. I wanted to tell him here was a time when I thought that little uke was cursed. That it did not want to exist, and should be thrown into a volcano, or burned in a pyre, that it had somehow angered the ukulele gods, and that is why it kept breaking.
But that now, I think it had a job to do, and all the problems were simply a way of making sure it was here and ready when the time came.
I wanted to tell him that story, but, all I said was, "I want to loan this to you for...well, as long as you want to play it"
He smiled. "Really? wow... I...Thanks"
"No problem" I said.
as he was leaving, he turned, "I'll make sure you get it back, after... well..."
I cut him off.."when you are done playing it."
"Thanks" he said again.
He came in a few weeks later just to tell me he was loving the little soprano.
We talked about ukes, and different players, just kinda shooting the breeze.
Then he said "Hey, we should go have a drink some time up at Dons, get away from work ya know?"
"Sure" I said.
He smiled, "whoop it up a little"
I nodded, "Get gloriously drunk"
"I'd like that" he said.
"Me too."

But I never saw him again.
I was hoping that it had turned around, that he was just busy.
But then I read his obituary in the paper.
And that was that.

     Until one day when woman and her niece came into my shop carrying a small case.
     She said hello, and said she had a surprise for me. She set the case down on the counter, and opened it up.
    It was, of course the little soprano ukulele.
    We talked a little,  they thanked me, and told me how much Steven had enjoyed playing.
They looked around a bit and then left.
I stood for a moment looking at the uke, then gave it a little strum.
"Good job" I told it, and then closed the case.

Epilogue:

A man came into my shop one day, and after regarding the wall of ukes, asked if I built any sopranos. I went and got the little uke from the back and showed it to him. He played it a bit, and then told me that it was the best he had ever heard. "How Much?" he asked.
"Well, it's not currently for sale, but if it were, $450.00" I told him.
"Worth every Penny" he said with a sigh, "but I don't have that many pennies"
After he left, I thought, "why not?" So I put a price tag on it and hung it on the wall.
And so began a love affair. He came in at least once a week just to play it, and always seemed to struggle putting back up on it's peg.
One day he had finished playing it, and muttered "Someday..." so I asked, "How much can you afford?"
he thought about it, and said, "well I don't want to be insulting, but maybe $300"
"it's yours" I said.
He bought it, and that was that.
But it wasn't.
One day he came back in and asked if I did repairs.
"Sure" I said, "What have you got?"
"The little Uke I bought, I ...I sat on it..."
"Bring it in" I told him
He brought it in, and it was pretty bad, but I was able to nurse it back to health, it it still played sweet.
When he came to pick it up, he asked how much.
"No Charge" I told him.
He thanked me, and promised to be more careful.
As he walked out of the door, I looked at the little uke,
"Behave yourself" I whispered. "your work is done. time to whoop it up a little"
I haven't seen it since.

Regarding flying

    Morning brings a vaguely coffee scented beverage on a jumbo jet, then fine Sonoma wine on a twin engine turbo prop. The drinks seem to be getting better as the transportation get smaller.
   I begin to wonder what I'll get in the cab, but no, no such luck.
    On the return trip there is a delay, so they offer free beer. The Flight attendant opens a fairly large jug of high end micro brew, but gets no other takers, which results in many free refills for me. 40 minutes later I get to the airport, and find it a challenge to walk without alerting security. I have 4 hours to kill before my connecting flight so I do some absent minded shopping. Airports have almost anything you can imagine in micro packs. 2 aspirin. 2 peptos. a single pack of alka-seltzer, tiny deoderent, a pre-pasted single use toothbrush.
     I amuse myself by going shop to shop looking at all the mini offerings, and as I sober up slightly, I realize I am also hungry, so I try and find some decent food. 

But, at this hour, the only place open is an airport sports bars that offers appetizers, and more booze. "When in Rome" I figure, and take a seat in the corner.

 "Make it tall" the menu says "1 dollar more".  

A seductive printed whisper seeming to wink at me from the page decorated with nachos, hotdogs, hot wings and margaritas.
   "a shot on the side!" it coos, "only a dollar". 

It's like a strip joint for your sobriety, a lap dance for the liver, and I oblige.

    My connecting flight is late, so the flight attendant gives me a couple bottles of Courvoisier, on the house.
Expensive brandy and a mini bag of pretzels. I down them, and then drift off into uneasy dreams of dimly lit theaters, and wake up in a different state, still flying. 

The lights are low, and I can hear soft snoring around me. The flight attendant is back with another bag of pretzels,
"Another drink sir?"
 I manage a sleepy smile. "Sure" I say, and look out the window. The twinkling lights below seem to have star filters, making each pin point a brilliant firework like display. She hands me twin bottles of Brandy, and as I fumble for my wallet, she waves it away with a smile and a wink.
"After Hours" she says.
   I don't argue.
    I pour the bottles into my plastic cup, and then whisper a toast to no one in particular.
   "To flying"