“Any old acoustic that is reasonably in tune,” Jake said. He pointed to one on the wall, a Yamaha model that was advertised on sale for three hundred dollars. “How about that one?”
“Okay,” Frank said, reaching up and pulling it down. He handed it across to Jake.
“Guitar pick?” Jake asked.
“Right,” Frank said, trotting over to a jar on the counter that had picks with the name of the store on them. He pulled one out and brought it to Jake.
“Thanks,” Jake said, sitting down in a chair and resting the guitar on his lap. He strummed it a few times, listening to the sound. It was not in tune, but he was able to quickly make it so by ear. Once he was happy with it, he looked up at Laura. “You ready?”
“I’m ready,” she said, putting her mouth to the sax.
Jake began to play out his melody, not bothering with half time, just going straight to full tempo. The moment he started, everyone else in the guitar section stopped whatever they had been doing and turned to watch.
“Nice,” Frank said as the melody recycled for the third time.
“Thanks,” Jake said. “You ready to hop in, Laura?”
She nodded. The next time the melody came around, she played her part. As before, it was a little on the rough side and she missed a few notes, but it was clear that this was the sound they had been looking for.
“I like it,” Jake told her. “Let’s smooth it out a little.”
They continued to play and each repetition sounded better, mixed a little smoother. Laura instinctively brought the volume down to match what Jake was putting out and he nodded in encouragement, his foot tapping to the rhythm. The other customers, meanwhile, were enjoying the show. They all wandered over to get a closer look, a closer listen. Soon, most of them were tapping their feet as well.
“These two are good,” one of the teens said respectfully.
“Hell yeah,” agreed the older man. “What is that they’re playing?”
“I heard him say it was an original piece,” said someone else.
“No shit?” the man asked.
“No shit,” Jake told him, his fingers still strumming.
As the melody came around again, Jake suddenly began to sing the lyrics.
“I climbed on a jet plane
Flew ten thousand miles away
Left behind everything and everyone that I knew
Didn’t plan to stay long
But there was just too many things wrong
So I stay on this island and don’t think of you
“Hiding away from it all on the South Island
Watching the days tick by in a haze
Drinking the time away
Keeping the pain at bay
The South Island blur, I think I’ll just stay”
“Wow,” Frank said, now quite obviously awed by what he was seeing.
“He sounds familiar,” one of the younger guys said.
“Yeah,” agreed the older guy.
Jake ignored them and sang out the second verse, this one dealing with visiting the waterfront bars, hooking up with questionable women, and waking up at home with no memory of arriving there. After singing out the chorus again, about hiding away from it all, he brought the guitar to a halt. The bridge portion was a little more than he thought they could pull off in such an impromptu manner and, being the showman that he was, he didn’t want to leave this small audience remembering the imperfections that would surely result.
“That was awesome, dude!” the younger guy declared once Laura stopped playing her part.
“Yeah!” agreed the older man. “Did I hear that you’re a professional musician?”
“I make a living at it,” Jake told him.
“I swear I’ve heard your voice before,” the other younger guy said. “Who do you play with?”
“Nobody of significance,” Jake told him. “What did you all think of Laura here? Can she blow the horn, or what?”
They all agreed that she was pretty badass herself.
“You see?” Jake told her. “The audience has spoken. What do you think of the horn?”
“I love it,” she said. “But the price...”
“I’ll worry about the price,” Jake said. He turned back to Frank. “It’s listed at twenty-five hundred, you say?”
“That’s correct,” Frank said.
“I’ll give you two grand for it right here, right now,” Jake countered.
“Uh ... I’m afraid the price is not negotiable,” Frank said.
“Sure it is,” Jake said. “Everything is negotiable.”
“Well ... I don’t have the authority to...”
“Then go get whoever does have the authority,” Jake suggested.
That turned out to be the store manager, a mid-forties man who claimed he had once played with the Philadelphia Symphony. He too claimed the prices of the instruments were not negotiable.
“Really?” Jake asked. “How long has that instrument been sitting in your inventory?”
“Uh ... a few years at least,” he admitted. “That is often the case with the higher end instruments.”
“Right,” Jake said. “So if I leave here because you won’t come down on the price, it’ll probably sit up there for a few more years, won’t it?”
“Possibly, but...”
“No buts,” Jake said. “What’s the wholesale on something like that? Maybe fifteen hundred bucks at the most?”
“I don’t have that information before me,” the manager said.
“I would think closer to twelve hundred,” Laura suggested.
“I assure you it’s more than that,” the manager said stiffly.
“All right,” Jake said with a sigh. “I’ll tell you what. How about twenty-two hundred? That’s my final offer. There are other music stores in Portland, after all.”
“Well ... I guess I could let it go for twenty-two hundred,” he said.
“Excellent,” Jake said with a smile. “And, of course, you’ll throw in a case for it, right?”
“A case?”
“You know, to carry and store it in? And don’t be trying to pan off one of those cheap cases on us either. An instrument like that should be stored properly, wouldn’t you agree?”
He agreed. For the price of two thousand, two hundred dollars, Jake was sold the Yamaha soprano sax and a mahogany, felt lined case to carry it in.
“And how will you be paying for this?” Frank asked once the horn was in the case and they were ready for check-out.
Jake pulled out his trusty Visa platinum card, the one with a sixty thousand dollar limit that Jill the accountant paid off each month with money from his royalty accounts. Frank took the card from him and looked at the name on it. It took him a few seconds, but his eyes finally widened.
“Jake Kingsley?” he said, looking from the card to Jake’s face and then back again.
“That’s what they call me,” Jake allowed.
“Holy shit!” Frank blurted. “The Jake Kingsley?”
“It’s the name my mother gave me,” he confirmed. “Can we wrap this up?”
“Oh ... sure,” Frank said. “I’ll just need to see some ID to go with the card.”
Jack passed him his California driver’s license. Frank stared in awe again at the name and the address. “Los Angeles,” he whispered, as if that was the final confirmation. “I just want you to know, Jake, that I’ve always been a fan.”
“Thanks,” Jake said. “Do you mind sliding the card through the little thingy there so we can get on with this?”
“Oh ... right,” he said. “That song you sung ... are you working on new Intemperance material?”
“No,” Jake said plainly. “I’m not.”
“That’s a bummer,” Frank told him.
“A bummer is in the eye of the beholder. Now swipe the card, please.”
He swiped the card. The little machine did its thing and, after only two minutes or so, got an approval of the charge and spit out a little piece of paper. Jake signed it and then he and Laura left the store, sax in hand.
As soon as the door shut behind them, Frank rushed back out onto the sales floor to tell everyone that they had just witnessed an unplugged performance by Jake Kingsley.