every weekend with eighteen and nineteen year olds. His mother disapproved and called every group he played with the “damn band,” but thought she might have a genius on her hands and didn’t want to squelch any creative flow. She still pushed classical music and tried to teach him to read notes, but she was duly impressed when professional musicians from miles away came and asked her son to set in on jam sessions or recordings. She could only sigh and shake her head when her talented son chose to play music by Mitch Rider and the Detroit Wheels rather than Bach and Beethoven.
Ruben wasn’t a good student because he always had music in his head. After school, he’d go home and play four to six hours every day. His mother didn’t know quite how to handle the school situation but remembered how proud her husband was of his son who picked up the guitar and in a week could play things without being taught, things the father couldn’t play after being shown many times.
The band he was with, the Mustangs, was good and knew it. They were talented kids doing what they loved. There were five of them: a lead singer, an organ, a bass, a drummer, and Ruben.
A year before, when Ruben was sixteen, a promoter signed them to a contract and booked their gigs. Ruben was earning one hundred to three hundred dollars a weekend. Even at their young age, they were bordering the big-time.
During the school year, they usually played Friday and Saturday nights. During the summer, they played five to seven nights a week. The previous summer they were a house band in Hanford for four straight weeks. The place was packed every night but it got old because the band liked to play at different places. Ruben had plenty of girls who liked him but no one he was serious about. He figured when it was time he’d find a nice Jewish girl like his mother, one who would still fry bacon.
After the usual big breakfast and a quick shower, Ruben was ready for business. He got together some show clothes and put them in a garment bag and laid it on the bed. He picked up two hard-shelled guitar cases and put them on the bed. He opened the newer guitar case and there was his baby, a 1965 Gretch Tennessee Rose - maroon sunburst finish, mother-of-pearl fingerboard inlays, raised metal gray pick guard, Bixsby tremolo bar, and the best pick-ups he’d ever played. She was his baby, and nobody could touch her but him.
He picked up the garment and gym bags with guitars cords, stands, etc., and took them out to the trunk of his other baby, his 1959 Chevy Biscayne. Black, loaded with chrome, custom tuck and roll, a custom four-on-the-floor transmission, powerful V-8, top-of-the-line chrome spinners, and factory air he had installed the past summer.
“Where are you going, son?” asked his mother.
“We’re playing a four-hour dance tonight at The Mag in Fresno. You know, that huge place downtown. We start at eight. I should be home about two in the morning.
She looked approvingly at her son. He had a well-formed, athletic body, clear skin with handsome features, striking light brown eyes and soft, thick brown hair. As far as Naomi Barlow was concerned, there wasn’t a female alive good enough for her son.
“If that girl who gave you that mark is there, I want you to stay away from her. You hear me?”
He answered in the affirmative and went back for his Gretch and the banged-up acoustic he always took with him. He started thinking about last night and sweet Georgia. She had been a near life-changing experience.
The Mustangs had played at Hanford High School’s homecoming dance the night before. Several student organizations had done fundraisers and gotten together enough money to hire the Mustangs. It was fun playing for their homecoming. The gym had been packed. Some senior boys from Tulare and Visalia snuck in to cause some trouble but things never got out of control and everyone had a great time.
After the dance, Ruben was packing up his guitar and gym bag when he heard, “Hey, Ruben.”
It was sweet Georgia in all her glory: short skirt, white boots, and a body that could have tamed the Mongol horde.
“You looked good on stage tonight, Ruben. I mean real good. I love the way you play the guitar.”
“Thanks, Georgia. Glad you liked it,” he said.
Georgia looked away like she was deciding what to do. Finally she turned back. “Hey,” she said, “You got any booze, Mr. Guitar Man?”
Ruben had a drink once in a while but didn’t really like it. But, in this case, he’d go along. What seventeen-year-old boy could pass up a chance to have a drink with Sweet Georgia Thompson?
“Corky,” he yelled.
“What, man? I’m right behind ya.”
Ruben turned around and saw their roady, Corky Kramer, carrying two amplifiers to his van.
“You got any booze, Corky?”
Corky was the Mustangs’ head roady and a good one. Roadies are supposed to have everything anyone could possibly want or need, and Corky always did.
“Brandy, vodka, or wine?”
Ruben turned to Georgia. “Brandy, vodka, or wine?
“Brandy’s good.”
Ruben turned back to Corky. “The lady says brandy.”
Corky put down the amplifiers and went to his van. In less than a minute he was back with half a pint of peach brandy, two sixteen-ounce cokes, and some fair-sized dixie cups. He opened Ruben’s gym bag and put them in.
“Thanks, Cork. Next time I see Del, I’m pushing for a raise for you.” But Corky already had the amps half way to his van.
“Here ya go, Georgia, as ordered.” She picked up the gym bag.
“Where’s that cute little car of yours?”
“Not far at all.” He picked up his guitar and motioned the direction. When they reached the car, he unlocked the door for her. As he opened the trunk and put his guitar in, Georgia reached over and unlocked the driver’s door and put the bag in the back seat. Ruben got in the car and the engine started with the satisfying varuumm of a powerful machine. Ruben didn’t know the first thing about cars, but he had his Chevy checked every other month by the same mechanic and spared no expense in taking care of it.
As he pulled away from the curb, he looked over at Georgia. She looked like she was studying him.
“You’re everyone’s friend, aren’t you? I mean, you’re for real. Most people say you’re a nice guy. Like, you’re not a phony. You’re not nice to people and then talk crap about them. Some people don’t like you, but some people don’t like anybody.”
He switched his eyes between the road and Georgia. “You know, all the guys say you’re the cutest girl in school.”
“What do you say, Ruben?”
Ruben thought about what would sound good and decided on the sincere approach. “I think you are. And you’re nice. All the guys call you Sweet Georgia.”
Georgia smiled and slid over to sit so close to Ruben that he could smell liquor on her breath.
“Let’s go to my house,” she said. “My mom’s gone for the weekend with her boyfriend.” She gave directions and Ruben followed them. He parked in front of the house and turned to Georgia.
“I’ll get the bag and the door. You just sit tight.” Ruben got the bag from the back seat and walked around to Georgia’s side. He opened the door and helped her out. His mother was a fanatic about boys opening doors for girls.
They walked to the door and Georgia unlocked it, stepped in, and turned on a light. “Come in and make yourself comfortable. I’ll get some real glasses.” She took off her coat and threw it on a chair. Ruben watched her as she walked to the kitchen, sex dripping off her like she just climbed out of a pool full of it.
Ruben retrieved the cokes and brandy and put them on the coffee table. As he sat the bag aside, he heard the tinkle of ice in glasses. He got out a bottle opener from a side pocket of the bag and opened the Cokes.