{"id":95,"date":"2011-10-11T13:37:30","date_gmt":"2011-10-11T12:37:30","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/douglascowie.com\/?page_id=95"},"modified":"2011-10-11T13:48:38","modified_gmt":"2011-10-11T12:48:38","slug":"owen-noone-and-the-marauder","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.douglascowie.net\/?page_id=95","title":{"rendered":"Owen Noone and the Marauder"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

<\/em>\u00a0<\/p>\n

<\/em>\u00a0<\/p>\n

Owen Noone and the Marauder<\/a> <\/em>was published in 2005.<\/p>\n

Buy it here<\/a>.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Transcript from WXRT Radio Chicago, January 1, 1999:<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We\u2019ve just received breaking news: guitarist and singer Owen Noone of Owen Noone and the Marauder collapsed while performing tonight in Los Angeles.\u00a0 Nothing about his condition has been made clear to us, and we\u2019ve received no official comment from anyone connected to Owen or his label.\u00a0 Stay with us\u2014we\u2019ll keep you posted with any further developments.\u00a0 Forty minutes of uninterrupted music start right after this commercial break.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

———————-<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

PART ONE.<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Everyone knows the end of the story.\u00a0 This is the beginning.<\/p>\n

When I first met Owen Noone it was 1995 and I was a junior at Bradley University in Peoria, Illinois.\u00a0 I was an English major, and believed I was a poet:<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

You\u2019ve been in my dreams<\/p>\n

Three times: once, you<\/p>\n

Were lying next to me; in<\/p>\n

Another you were standing<\/p>\n

In the corner; I don\u2019t remember<\/p>\n

The third, just that you<\/p>\n

Were there.\u00a0 I didn\u2019t have<\/p>\n

The courage to speak or act,<\/p>\n

So I just lay there, breathing,<\/p>\n

Watching and waiting.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

This was how most of it went; rhythmless poems about girls to whom I\u2019d never spoken, to whom I\u2019d never speak, but for whom my heart was supposedly aching. Since nobody else understood what a good poet I was I didn\u2019t have many friends, and I walked around campus with my fists in my pockets, thinking about the day when I\u2019d be great and all these bastards at Bradley would pretend they knew me when.<\/p>\n

I also cursed everyone I knew because they didn\u2019t understand music.\u00a0 I worked as a DJ at WCBU, Bradley\u2019s radio station, hosting a two-hour indie rock show once a week.\u00a0 They gave me the slot because I wrote a long and pretentious proposal discussing obscure bands, insisting that this music was vital to the community at large and not just to a few obsessed college kids.\u00a0 These bands were far more talented, interesting and, like my poetry, destined for immortality in the ages to come, unlike the lousy jam-bands that the fratboys who scored with the girls I wrote about liked.\u00a0 Everything played on commercial radio \u2013 everything \u2013 I deplored.<\/p>\n

This is how, or rather, why I became friends with Owen Noone, because of a debate about music.\u00a0 It was late January, the beginning of the second semester, and everything in Peoria was dead: the trees, the buildings, the sky; an endless gray mass of cloud pushed across the cornfields and down on the city.\u00a0 The temperature never rose much above zero, and even the factories seemed dead, the cold overpowering their usual stench, which normally served in place of a welcome sign as you crossed the Bob Michel Bridge into the city.\u00a0 Because it was so cold I spent most of my time in my room with the heat turned up as far as it would go.\u00a0 I didn\u2019t leave for days, skipping classes and living on ramen noodles and other instant soups.<\/p>\n

It was Friday, and one of the student bars was holding an open-mic night.\u00a0 A girl who was one of the subjects of my poems always sang, so I thought I\u2019d go, telling myself I\u2019d work up the nerve to talk to her, although I knew I wouldn\u2019t.\u00a0 I put on a thermal undershirt, a long-sleeved flannel shirt, a heavy wool sweater, longjohns under my jeans and two pairs of wool socks, then jammed my feet into my shoes, put on my parka, wrapped a scarf around my neck and face, and finished up with a wool hat, a pair of gloves and mittens.\u00a0 I hated the cold.<\/p>\n

By the time I got to the bar my undershirt was soaked with sweat.\u00a0 I opened the door and was blasted as the warm air of the bar collided with the cold outside.\u00a0 I started perspiring even more.\u00a0 The open mic hadn\u2019t started, so I peeled off most of my layers, got a beer and sat at an empty table near the back of the bar, watching people arrive with their friends while I drank alone.\u00a0 After half an hour or so somebody got on stage and announced that the singing was about to start.\u00a0 The first performer would be someone called Owen Noone.<\/p>\n

Owen took the stage.\u00a0 He didn\u2019t have a guitar or notebook, he just stood in front of the microphone empty-handed and said, \u201cThis is a song everybody knows.\u201d<\/p>\n

I\u2019d never seen him before, and he didn\u2019t seem like a student.\u00a0 He was tall, a little more than six feet, and thin, but well-built, not skinny.\u00a0 He wore faded blue jeans and a white dress shirt, and his sandy hair was long enough to cover his ears.\u00a0 He was good-looking, I thought, the type of guy who could probably pick any girl in the room.<\/p>\n

After a pause during which he inhaled deeply, he said \u201cOne-two-three-four,\u201d like he was counting off an imaginary band in his head, and began stamping his foot on the stage and clapping in time.\u00a0 Everybody in the audience started clapping too, even me, but none of us seemed to know why.\u00a0 We were just smiling in anticipation, mild confusion and bemusement, clapping along with this guy we didn\u2019t know.\u00a0 Then he started to sing.<\/p>\n

His voice was bad.\u00a0 He could barely hold the tune, which was even worse than it might be, because he was right, everybody did know the song.\u00a0 It was Guns N\u2019 Roses.\u00a0 \u201cSweet Child O\u2019 Mine.\u201d\u00a0 A few people giggled when he started, but Owen seemed undeterred.\u00a0 He sang slowly, deliberately, and woefully off-key, which was exacerbated by the fact that there was nothing else to cover up his voice.\u00a0 Still, people clapped as he rumbled through the first verse to triumph with the chorus.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhoah, oh oh oh, sweet child o\u2019 mine,\u201d he sang, gaining volume and somehow finding a few of the right notes.\u00a0 His voice began to change slightly, transforming into a parody of Axl Rose.\u00a0 He closed his eyes and grabbed the microphone stand, and by the time he hit the second verse he seemed oblivious to everything, the clapping audience, the fact that he was out of tune, even oblivious of himself.\u00a0 His eyes were crushed in his reddening face and his neck convulsed.\u00a0 He looked almost violent, but not threatening.\u00a0 \u201cC\u2019mon,\u201d he hissed into the microphone between lyrics, \u201cSing along with the Roses!\u201d<\/p>\n

We did.\u00a0 Or rather, we sang along with Owen Noone and his appalling imitation of a recording we\u2019d all heard a hundred times or more.\u00a0 Now strutting and screaming, he twisted his hips like a hack-Elvis, doubling over so his face was a foot from the ground, pumping his fist in time to a soundtrack that he could hear in its entirety, but of which we were only getting a fraction.\u00a0 The pitch of the bar\u2014the whole bar, from Owen on stage, to the very back where I was no longer sitting but standing, craning my neck to get a better look\u2014was raised to an almost euphoric level.\u00a0 As he screamed out the final sounds\u2014they were no longer notes\u2014drawing out the last word, \u201cMeye-ee-eye-ee-eye-eye-eye-eye-eyyyyyyyyye-nuh,\u201d everybody rose to their feet and made a fury of sound that eventually drowned out Owen himself, filling the entire building with a cacophony that pushed against the fogged-over windows and into the cold streets outside.\u00a0 Somebody threw a bra at him, but it missed, and he didn\u2019t notice.<\/p>\n

Then, as easily as he had transformed into a contorted screaming maniac, Owen slid back into the good looking, unknown guy who\u2019d stepped before the crowd five minutes earlier.\u00a0 He left the stage smiling, oblivious to the people laughing and slapping him on the back.<\/p>\n

The next performer was a girl with a guitar who announced that she was going to play Indigo Girls, but no one was paying attention.\u00a0 As she started singing, I heard a hoarse voice addressing me from behind.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou mind if I sit here?\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked up.\u00a0 It was Owen Noone himself, although at the time I had forgotten his name.\u00a0 He held a beer and was soaked with sweat, breathing hard, his hair stringy and damp.<\/p>\n

\u201cGo ahead.\u201d I nodded at the empty chair.\u00a0 \u201cNice singing, but Guns N\u2019 Roses fucking suck.\u201d<\/p>\n

He drank half his beer in one gulp and wiped his mouth slowly with his arm, all the while staring straight at me.\u00a0 I stared back as though it were a contest, but with high stakes.\u00a0 I was determined not to lose.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat would you prefer.\u201d He said flatly.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnything.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLike the Indigo Girls.\u201d He pointed towards the stage without looking away.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s your big idea, then?\u201d<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t have one, but I didn\u2019t want to back down. I breathed deeply to give myself time to think.\u00a0 \u201cNirvana.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s original.\u201d<\/p>\n

I picked something I was sure he\u2019d never heard of.\u00a0 \u201cBig Black.\u201d<\/p>\n

His mouth spread into a wide grin, and he slammed his fist on the table.\u00a0 \u201cNow you\u2019re talking!\u00a0 I\u2019ll do something from Songs about Fucking<\/em> next week.\u201d<\/p>\n

I was crestfallen.\u00a0 And angry.\u00a0 I\u2019d lost.\u00a0 I kept my eyes trained on him, unable to make the gears in my head lock back together to form some kind of response.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m Owen Noone,\u201d he said, reaching his hand across the table, \u201cIt\u2019s nice to meet you.\u201d<\/p>\n

I shook his hand and told him my name, and he repeated that it was nice to meet me and offered to buy me a beer.\u00a0\u00a0 After a few minutes he came back from the bar with a pitcher and set it on the table, the beer sloshing over the sides.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you a student?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you study?\u201d
\n\u201cEnglish.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPoetry or fiction or both?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBoth.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhich do you prefer?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPoetry.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho\u2019s your favorite poet?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJohn Berryman.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs he alive or dead?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDead.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat should I buy of his?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDream Songs<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s your favorite novel?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOn the Road<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve read that.\u00a0 What\u2019s your favorite novel that I haven\u2019t read?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know what you haven\u2019t read.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA bunch of shit and On the Road.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Sun Also Rises.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho wrote it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHemingway.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s your favorite band?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cKid Tiger.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHave you ever been in love?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you like sports?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy not?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI have better ways to waste my time.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRepublican or Democrat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve never voted.\u201d<\/p>\n

Owen\u2019s question and answer session lasted the rest of the night.\u00a0 He asked them as fast as I answered, and mostly one question followed the other without any discernible logic, jumping from one subject to another as though they had some connection too obvious to explain.\u00a0 He nodded and listened to each answer and referred back to questions I\u2019d forgotten he\u2019d asked, grinning the whole time.\u00a0 At the end of the night I knew nothing about him except that he might be insane, but he knew everything there was to know about me, including the name of my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Hamilton.<\/p>\n

The performers kept coming and going on the stage but neither of us paid attention.\u00a0 Owen bought two more pitchers in between his questions, and when I looked up the bar was almost empty and the bartender was shouting last call. \u00a0Owen finished his beer and fired off one last volley.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you ever get the feeling that you\u2019re great? That you\u2019re going to do something really special with your life? That you\u2019ll make a difference?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI guess not.\u00a0 Not really.\u00a0 Do you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAll the time.\u201d<\/p>\n

Owen slapped his palms flat on the table and stood, staring straight into my eyes.\u00a0 He nodded once, picked up his coat and walked away, leaving me alone.\u00a0 After sitting for another minute or two, I stumbled home through the cold, trying to remember if Owen had said what he studied.<\/p>\n

I woke up with a hangover, ate a bowl of cereal and drank as much water as my stomach would hold.\u00a0 I had to go to the library to get some books and articles about Robert Lowell for a paper that was due the next week.\u00a0 After bundling up, I stepped out into the cold.\u00a0 It was almost noon, but the campus was empty, everyone avoiding the sun, which, rather than making things warmer, somehow seemed to drag the temperature even lower, reflecting off the thin layer of frost and snow.<\/p>\n

I turned down Elmwood\u2014the street had the same name as the hall I lived in, which was more or less a brown brick cube with a few thin trees in front of it, bare and gray against the sunlight.\u00a0 A car passed, swallowed by the steam and exhaust billowing from its tailpipe.\u00a0 I beat my arms against my sides, cursing myself for drinking too much and for waiting until the last possible weekend to start my paper, then turned onto Bradley.\u00a0 By the time I got to the library I was once again overheated from all the layers.<\/p>\n

Libraries always look strange, as though at some point in history the architects\u2019 guild decided that because they provide such a unique function\u2014storing a collection of knowledge, like a big inert brain\u2014this gave them license to try out every blueprint in their heads, regardless of where the building stood.\u00a0 Cullom Davis Library is proof of this.\u00a0 Surrounded by trees that, in the right season and with a little imagination, make the area around it seem like the countryside, the building itself is a large concrete and glass box.\u00a0 With the trees bare\u2014all except a lone pine, which provided the only variant from shades of white and gray\u2014the library mercilessly reflected the sun off its glass, and I got angry, as though it were all a plan designed against me and my stupid hangover.<\/p>\n

The place was empty.\u00a0 It was eerie without even the quiet library sounds of rustling paper, books closing, pens scratching and chairs creaking.\u00a0 I wove through the stacks looking for the call numbers I\u2019d written down.<\/p>\n

A book caught my attention.\u00a0 It was shorter than the rest, about half the size, but longer, like a piece of notebook paper.\u00a0 I pulled it out.\u00a0 It was The Penguin Book of American Folk Songs<\/em> by Alan Lomax.\u00a0 The cover had a drawing of a guitar colored like the American flag and with a smiling sunflower in the middle, where the sound hole would be.\u00a0 It made me laugh.\u00a0 The back had red and white stripes and a blurb.\u00a0 I knew who Alan Lomax was, having bought Leadbelly albums after Nirvana played one of his songs on MTV. And I knew some of the songs\u2014\u201cYankee Doodle,\u201d \u201cOld Smokey,\u201d \u201cThe Midnight Special\u201d\u2014but most of them were completely foreign to me, with great names like \u201cGoober Peas,\u201d \u201cGround-Hog\u201d and \u201cI\u2019m a-Ridin\u2019 Old Paint.\u201d\u00a0 I laughed out loud at this last one, but the sound of my own voice made the library feel even emptier.\u00a0 I tucked the Lomax book under my arm with the others and hurried downstairs to the circulation desk.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

There was someone standing on the corner of St James and Elmwood as I approached.\u00a0 As I got closer I realized it was Owen Noone.\u00a0 He was holding a plastic bag and he didn\u2019t seem to be hung-over at all.<\/p>\n

\u201cHi!\u201d he yelled as I approached.\u00a0 \u201cI got those books.\u201d<\/p>\n

I was confused.\u00a0 I\u2019d still been thinking about the library.\u00a0 \u201cWhat books?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know, John Berryman.\u00a0 Ernest Hemingway.\u00a0 I was looking through those poems.\u00a0 Nuts.\u201d\u00a0 He moved his arms a lot as he talked,\u00a0 even though the bag of books weighed him down.\u00a0 \u201cHey, listen, I had an idea this morning.\u00a0 Can you play an instrument?\u201d<\/p>\n

I couldn\u2019t.<\/p>\n

\u201cNeither can I, but I figure we could learn, right?\u00a0 The point is, do you want to start a band?\u00a0 We like the same kind of music and everything, we could get a couple guitars, it\u2019d be a lot better than screaming Guns N\u2019 Roses songs at open mic nights.\u201d<\/p>\n

There was no way I could afford to buy a guitar, and I told him so.\u00a0 I was at Bradley on a National Merit scholarship, which was basically the only way I could have paid for college without taking time out to work and save enough money.<\/p>\n

Owen paused for the first time and looked down the street.\u00a0 Then he turned and looked me in the eyes.\u00a0 \u201cI could loan you the money.\u00a0 Pay me back whenever.\u00a0 It doesn\u2019t matter.\u00a0 Come on, let\u2019s go.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOwen, no, I mean, how could you afford it?\u00a0 What do you study, anyway?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not a student,\u201d he said.\u00a0 \u201cI\u2019m a baseball player.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA Bradley Brave,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u00a0 Peoria Chiefs.\u00a0 Cubs farm team.\u00a0 I\u2019m a professional.\u00a0 But I live in Peoria year-round, because I\u2019ve got no reason not to.\u00a0 Come on, let\u2019s go buy some guitars.\u201d<\/p>\n

I followed him, my bag of books on my back, my paper forgotten.\u00a0 After about a block I asked him what his story was.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s my story?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah.\u00a0 I must\u2019ve told you everything about me last night. But all I know about you is that you play baseball.\u201d<\/p>\n

Owen shrugged.\u00a0 \u201cThere\u2019s not much else to know.\u00a0 I was born in Charlotte, North Carolina.\u00a0 My parents divorced when I was two and I never knew my father.\u00a0 When I was fourteen my mom got remarried to a tobacco executive.\u00a0 We moved into a big house and when I was sixteen, they moved to the Virgin Islands, leaving me the house and a trust fund.\u00a0 I lived by myself in that big house and continued to play baseball.\u00a0 I was drafted by the Cubs out of high school and played in Michigan for half a summer before being moved to Peoria.\u00a0 I\u2019ve been here for two years.\u00a0 I know it sounds weird, but it feels pretty normal when it\u2019s you.\u00a0 No big deal, really.\u201d<\/p>\n

We came to the guitar shop.\u00a0 For a few minutes we stood outside, looking at the instruments hanging in the window: Stratocasters, Telecasters, Jaguars, Les Pauls, plus a bunch of different-colored effects boxes.\u00a0 Inside there was even more.\u00a0 I\u2019d never been inside a guitar shop before, and felt somehow like I was trespassing.\u00a0 In a back corner a guy with long hair, black jeans and a black t-shirt was trying out a guitar, his fingers tapping the strings and then moving on, never lingering for even a second.\u00a0 A blur of notes raced out from a mountain of amplifiers.\u00a0 Guitars hung from every wall\u2014electric and acoustic\u2014and in a back corner, the one opposite from where the guy was playing, were a couple of banjos.\u00a0 We wandered around together, the two of us, looking at the names, shapes and colors of the guitars.\u00a0 Neither of us knew a thing about them.<\/p>\n

A middle-sized, balding guy came over to where we were standing and smiled.\u00a0 \u201cCan I help you gents?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, just looking,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, can I try that one?\u201d Owen said, pointing at a guitar.<\/p>\n

It was a yellow Telecaster with a black pickguard.\u00a0 I knew this guitar.\u00a0 I\u2019d seen lots of pictures of Keith Richards playing one.\u00a0 The salesman took it off its hook and walked with Owen to the corner where the guy with the long hair had just finished his workout.\u00a0 I didn\u2019t want to watch Owen try to play it, so I wandered over to look at the banjos.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow long you been playing?\u201d I heard the salesman ask.<\/p>\n

Owen grinned.\u00a0 \u201cNever played in my life.\u201d<\/p>\n

The salesman plugged the guitar in and turned on the amp.\u00a0 Owen played a single note.\u00a0 It didn\u2019t sound like a real note, though.\u00a0 It sounded wrong, somehow, like it wasn\u2019t a guitar note.\u00a0 The salesman smiled again and offered to tune it.\u00a0 After he\u2019d finished, Owen started up again, playing the same single note.\u00a0 Then he got the idea that he could play lots of other so-called notes.\u00a0 The guy who\u2019d been jamming before was at the cash register with another salesman.\u00a0 They both looked over, then looked at each other and chuckled.\u00a0 Owen seemed oblivious, stumbling away and smiling.\u00a0 Finally he stopped and said he\u2019d take it, plus the amp.\u00a0 He and the salesman walked over to where I was scrutinizing the banjos.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou looking to buy a banjo?\u201d the salesman asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, he\u2019s getting a new guitar too,\u201d Owen said, slapping my shoulder, \u201cExcept, unlike me, this guy can actually play.\u201d<\/p>\n

I was terrified when I heard him say it.\u00a0 Not embarrassed or worried, but terrified.\u00a0 I was going to have to try to play a guitar in this shop, in front of these guys whose lives were all about guitars.\u00a0 My feet felt like they were stuck to the floor.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhich one you want to try?\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked at the salesman.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat one,\u201d Owen said, pointing to another Telecaster, black with a yellow pickguard, the opposite colors of the one Owen was getting.\u00a0 \u201cBut we\u2019ll just take it. And another amp, too.\u201d<\/p>\n

I could imagine the salesman\u2019s glee, two suckers walking in and dropping a couple thousand dollars on equipment they couldn\u2019t even play.\u00a0 He picked another amplifier off the mountain and walked to the front counter with us.\u00a0 The other salesman was standing by the cash register.\u00a0 He smiled at us.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnything else I can do for you, gents?\u201d the salesman who\u2019d helped us asked.<\/p>\n

Underneath the glass of the counter were a series of effects pedals.\u00a0 Owen was looking at them and stroking his chin.\u00a0 \u201cYes,\u201d he said, \u201cOne of those orange boxes as well.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Fuzz pedal?\u201d the salesman said.\u00a0 He took a key, unlocked the case and took it out.\u00a0 \u201cI tell you what.\u00a0 Since you guys are spending so much today, I\u2019ll throw this in free.\u00a0 I\u2019ll throw in a bunch of cables and some picks, too.\u201d<\/p>\n

Owen was ecstatic.\u00a0 \u201cGreat!\u00a0 How much does it all come to?\u201d<\/p>\n

The salesman tapped the prices into the cash register.\u00a0 I felt like I was waiting to hear lottery numbers.\u00a0 \u201cTwo thousand, three hundred and thirteen dollars and seventy-seven cents.\u201d<\/p>\n

Owen took out a credit card. \u201cDo you take Visa?\u201d<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

We called a taxi and took our new merchandise back to my room in Elmwood Hall.\u00a0 It had clouded over and snow flurries had begun falling and swirling in the wind.\u00a0 There was hardly room to sit once we\u2019d brought in the amps, shoving dirty clothes, books and CD cases aside to make floor space.\u00a0 I had to unplug my computer so we had enough outlets.\u00a0 We were ready, Owen sitting on my desk chair, his guitar running through the effect pedal and into the amp, me on my bed, plugged straight in.\u00a0 Well, we were sort of ready.\u00a0 Neither of us seemed to want to start. We sat facing each other, grinning.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you have any idea what to do?\u201d Owen asked.<\/p>\n

Suddenly I remembered the Lomax book.\u00a0 In the back was an appendix that started with \u201cAmerican Folk Guitar Style.\u201d\u00a0 There was a drawing of a guy playing guitar, plus a diagram that showed a bunch of different chords, and where you should put your fingers to make them.\u00a0 I set the book, with this page open, on top of my amp.\u00a0 E minor looked like the easiest, so we played that one first.\u00a0 From my guitar it sounded impossibly real and clean, filling the tiny space with music I\u2019d never heard before, recorded or live, as though somebody else had played it.<\/p>\n

Owen leaned over to see how it was done, then strummed across the strings.\u00a0 It sounded like multiple grand pianos being dropped off a roof, an assault that felt like the room would explode before it dissolved into a piercing whine of feedback .\u00a0 Owen lunged across and flipped the power switch, ending the torture and supporting himself on the amp to keep from falling.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think we should turn it down a little,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

We spent the rest of the afternoon and evening trying to contort our fingers into the right chord combinations.\u00a0 Around nine o\u2019clock we both realized we were hungry, and I realized I had a paper to write.\u00a0 Owen insisted on paying for a pizza, which we devoured when it came.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you mind if I leave this stuff here for now?\u201d Owen asked as he stood by the door, shrugging into his jacket.\u00a0 \u201cI don\u2019t feel like hauling it across town tonight, and besides, I want to do some reading.\u201d\u00a0 He rattled the plastic bag and left, closing the door behind him.<\/p>\n

While I worked on my essay I kept looking over at the guitars, one black and yellow, the other yellow and black, leaning upright against the amplifiers.\u00a0 I wondered if we\u2019d ever be any good at playing them.\u00a0 Every once in a while I went over and picked mine up, turned on the amp and plucked a couple of notes, trying to remember a chord or two.\u00a0 Then gave up in frustration.\u00a0 But I kept at it, off and on for the rest of the night.\u00a0 I couldn\u2019t help going back and picking up the heavy instrument, strapping it over my shoulder, and making sound.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Owen\u2019s gear lived in my room into the spring, creating an obstacle course that was hard to negotiate, particularly if I got up in the night.\u00a0 After a while, though, the guitars,\u00a0 the amps and their tangled networks of cables became pieces of furniture, and I didn\u2019t give them any thought.\u00a0 Owen came over a couple times a week, working around his baseball schedule, and we rehearsed chords until we had them memorized and could change between them.\u00a0 Then we began working on songs from the Lomax book.<\/p>\n

The first one we chose was \u201cYankee Doodle,\u201d because we knew the tune.\u00a0 Neither of us could read music\u2014I\u2019d played trombone for about five weeks in grade school and had a vague recollection of quarter notes and half notes, but that was about it\u2014so we had to rely on the sound of the chords to provide an idea of how the tune went.\u00a0 With \u201cYankee Doodle\u201d our dependence on this method was limited, and by the middle of April we could more or less play it competently.\u00a0 I strummed and occasionally picked out the arpeggios, and Owen blasted the chords through the fuzz pedal and sang.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe oughtta play at the open mic next Friday,\u201d Owen said one Sunday.<\/p>\n

I looked up.\u00a0 \u201cNo way.\u00a0 Not in front of all those people.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on, we can play it without trying now.\u00a0 Sort of.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

Owen stared me down.\u00a0 \u201cYou won\u2019t be embarrassed.\u00a0 We can play it.\u00a0 I\u2019ve got nowhere to go but up after that performance last January.\u201d<\/p>\n

After a little more badgering, I reluctantly agreed.\u00a0 I found it hard to say no.\u00a0 Owen had a confidence about things that I didn\u2019t, and he always found a way to persuade me.\u00a0 I spent every free minute going over \u201cYankee Doodle\u201d that week, even though it was only three basic chords, G, D and C.\u00a0 Owen had the hard part, singing nine verses.\u00a0 By the time Friday night came around, there was no way I could have made a mistake.\u00a0 I was still terrified, though.\u00a0 What if people didn\u2019t like it?<\/p>\n

Owen didn\u2019t concern himself with questions like that.\u00a0 They were irrelevant.\u00a0 As with the first open-mic night, the point wasn\u2019t whether or not people liked it, the point was to get on a stage and close your eyes and let go and see what happened.<\/p>\n

We were the last name on the list that night, and by the time our turn came, everybody in the bar was glowing with a mix of damp heat and alcohol.\u00a0 I didn\u2019t want to be drunk when we performed, and Owen had limited himself to two drinks per evening for the baseball season, but we both raised a toast for courage and slammed down a double Jack Daniel\u2019s before we went on.<\/p>\n

The master of ceremonies announced us as \u201cOwen Noone and\u2014\u201d here he looked to the side of the stage where we were standing.\u00a0 Owen tried to mouth my name, but the guy couldn\u2019t understand, so he said, \u201cOwen Noone and friend.\u201d<\/p>\n

People remembered Owen from January and cheered and whistled, some of them yelling about Guns N\u2019 Roses.\u00a0 I shuffled after.\u00a0 We plugged our guitars directly into the PA system, Owen running his through the orange fuzz pedal, and stood facing the crowd.\u00a0 My entire body was shaking, and I felt sure I would collapse;\u00a0 I didn\u2019t think I\u2019d be able to hold the guitar, much less make the chords.\u00a0 I looked at Owen, who looked back at me, then leaned into the microphone.\u00a0 \u201cWe\u2019re Owen Noone and the Marauders,\u201d he said, then looked over at me again.\u00a0 \u201cMarauder.\u00a0 This is a song that you all know, so please sing along on the chorus.\u201d\u00a0 He took a deep breath, counted one-two-three-four, and we began.<\/p>\n

People giggled, and nobody sang along on the first trip through.\u00a0 Without Owen\u2019s pedal on everything sounded clean and strange to me.\u00a0 I kept my eyes on my guitar, as though I could will my hands to do the right things if I held them within view.\u00a0 Then, when we got to the second chorus, Owen stepped on the pedal and a blast of noise and energy pulsed through the bar.\u00a0 I froze and looked up sharply, stunned by the outburst of noise.\u00a0 Owen had his eyes closed and was singing in a sing-songy way like it was a lullaby or nursery rhyme, but off-key.\u00a0 Still, nobody was joining in.\u00a0 I looked back down and kept playing, and when we got to the next verse, Owen stepped on the pedal again.\u00a0 Then we returned to clean chords until the third chorus, when he stepped on it a third time.\u00a0 This time the bar joined in, a choir of voices rumbling to the stage and supporting Owen\u2019s.\u00a0 The whole thing was discordant, but people were clapping, knocking time on the table with their glasses and bottles, Owen\u2019s voice rising and becoming a hoarse yell.\u00a0 Then the calm of the verse.\u00a0 The pattern continued through the rest of the song, becoming more and more boisterous as it went along, and I even forgot that I was playing and strummed along automatically, watching Owen, watching the crowd watching Owen, pumping along to the rhythm of our guitars, his voice, the audience\u2019s clapping and bottle thumping.\u00a0 On the last chorus, which we went through twice without even thinking, I sang, my voice disappearing off the stage and into the audience without a microphone.\u00a0 I didn\u2019t care.\u00a0 I was happy.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Two weeks later Owen knocked on my door.\u00a0 I was reading Measure for Measure<\/em>, and every thought I had, and everything I said seemed to be in iambic pentameter.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood morrow, sir,\u201d I said after opening the door.<\/p>\n

\u201cHuh?\u201d<\/p>\n

I held up the book, a big mustard-colored Complete Shakespeare.<\/em>\u00a0 \u201cNever mind.\u00a0 Too much of this, methinks.\u201d<\/p>\n

Owen scratched his head.\u00a0 \u201cListen, I\u2019ve got bad news.\u00a0 I\u2019ve come to pick up my guitar and stuff.\u00a0 I\u2019ve been promoted to Triple A.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut that\u2019s good,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, good for baseball, bad for the band.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat band?\u00a0 It\u2019s just the two of us, anyway.\u00a0 I mean, it\u2019s been a lot of fun, but I\u2019d say you\u2019ve got more important things going.\u201d\u00a0 I felt like I was trying to convince myself as much as I was him.\u00a0 That night playing \u201cYankee Doodle\u201d had been one of the best moments of the past few years.\u00a0 I\u2019d felt confident, and when we\u2019d finished, people had told us how much fun it was, and I\u2019d felt like I was something more than this shy kid who walked around with his hands in his pockets, looking at the pavement.\u00a0 All of this was because of Owen.\u00a0 He\u2019d bought the guitars, he\u2019d insisted we play, he\u2019d brought me a fraction of an inch out of the shell I\u2019d created.\u00a0 And now he was going.\u00a0 \u201cWhere is Triple A, anyway?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIowa.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIowa\u2019s not so far.\u00a0 Where in Iowa?\u201d<\/p>\n

His eyebrows crumpled down and he turned his head slightly sideways.\u00a0 \u201cI have no idea.\u201d\u00a0 We both laughed.\u00a0 I helped him gather together his guitar, amp, pedal and the various cables.\u00a0 \u201cI tell you what,\u201d he said, standing just outside my door, his things clasped to his side with his arms.\u00a0 \u201cYou graduate in another year and a half, right?\u00a0 If I haven\u2019t made it into the majors by then, I\u2019ll be back, and we\u2019ll hit the road and make this band thing work.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d I said, chuckling through my nose, \u201cRight.\u201d<\/p>\n

Owen smiled, set down the amp, gave a mock salute, picked up the amp again, and walked down the corridor, disappearing around the corner on his way to the stairs.\u00a0 I closed the door and returned to the Duke and Isabella.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

I spent the rest of my college career as I\u2019d spent most of it already, writing bad poetry, doing my radio show, reading and writing papers.\u00a0 And playing guitar.\u00a0 I managed to steal the Lomax book from the library by turning it back in, then going back a while later, peeling the \u201cDue for Return\u201d slip off another book and fixing it into the Lomax, then playing innocent and showing that it wasn\u2019t due for another two weeks when the security alarm caught me.\u00a0 I learned all the chords listed in the back\u2014there weren\u2019t all that many anyway\u2014and practiced the different styles.\u00a0 I also learned to read the music by beginning with songs that I knew the tune to, more or less, and working it out.\u00a0 By the time graduation day rolled around, I knew a couple dozen songs, although not all from memory.\u00a0 I\u2019d also managed to get a job at Caterpillar in Peoria, writing and editing their internal newsletter and press releases.<\/p>\n

The graduation ceremony was long, hot and boring.\u00a0 It was almost 90 degrees that day and sitting in the sun wearing a robe over a suit\u2014my mother had insisted I wear a suit\u2014made it almost unbearable.\u00a0 The commencement address was given by some state senator who told us that the world we were about to enter was ours to fashion to our greatest ideals and that we had more opportunity than any generation before us.\u00a0 We would all be going off to different futures, some of us into business, some of us to further education, some of us, like him, into public service, but we\u2019d all, each in our own way, be contributing to the singular future of America and, indeed, the world.\u00a0 \u201cThe world is yours,\u201d he concluded, I remember this exactly.\u00a0 \u201cDon\u2019t let anyone stand in the way of your vision of it, your dreams.\u201d\u00a0 And vote Republican! I hoped he\u2019d add, but he didn\u2019t.\u00a0 After the speech, we spent hours listening to people\u2019s names and achievements as they walked across the stage.\u00a0 At the end, hats were thrown.<\/p>\n

After taking me to a deli for a supper of subs and french fries, my parents left.\u00a0 They had two hundred miles to drive because Dad had to be at work early the next morning.\u00a0 It was out of the question to take a day or two off in the run-up to the summer shut down, even if it was your only kid\u2019s graduation.\u00a0 After supper they dropped me off at Elmwood Hall\u2014I had two days before I had to leave and move my stuff to my new apartment.\u00a0 My dad shook my hand and said he was proud.\u00a0 I was the first one in the family to finish college.\u00a0 My mom cried and gave me a hug.\u00a0 I stood on the sidewalk, watching their car as it rolled away towards Main Street and I-74, which would take them home.\u00a0 Staring down the street until they disappeared, I suddenly felt empty and alone.\u00a0 I hadn\u2019t known very many people at Bradley, but the few people I did know were all leaving for different places, cities like Chicago, St Louis, Indianapolis, some of them even as far as New York or San Francisco.\u00a0 I was staying in Peoria, a place I\u2019d hardly left in four years and only a few hours\u2019 drive from where I\u2019d lived my entire life.\u00a0 Of course, it was by choice that I was staying, but something made me skeptical, or scared, about venturing wider into states, regions, cities to which I\u2019d never been, places that were names and postcard pictures, places that were television news footage.\u00a0 No, I preferred to stay in Peoria, work at Caterpillar, a respectable job with a respectable company, and save some money.\u00a0 I could always go to those places later, when I had experience, money and something about myself to sell.<\/p>\n

\u201cI hoped I\u2019d find you here.\u201d\u00a0 I recognized the voice and turned.\u00a0 It was Owen Noone, unchanged from the few months I\u2019d known him a year and a half before, except he was tanned and wearing sunglasses.\u00a0 I couldn\u2019t think of anything to say, but then I remembered what he\u2019d said before he\u2019d left.\u00a0 He grinned, and took off his sunglasses.\u00a0 \u201cHave you been practicing?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d I said. Owen was taller than me, and it made me feel younger than him, standing there answering his questions.<\/p>\n

\u201cAll right,\u201d he said. \u201cWhere are we off to then: East, West, North, South?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOwen.\u201d\u00a0 I was speaking slowly.\u00a0 \u201cWhat are you\u2014I can\u2019t\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI told you I\u2019d come back if I didn\u2019t make it, and I haven\u2019t.\u00a0 Baseball\u2019s getting boring, anyway.\u00a0 Catching a ball, hitting a home run, stealing a base.\u00a0 People cheer.\u00a0 I\u2019ve been playing lousy, too, and I think they were about to send me back here, so I just saved them the effort and expense.\u201d\u00a0 He pushed his hand through his hair and I could see small dark patches in the armpits of his gray t-shirt.\u00a0 \u201cSo, which way are we headed?\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Share<\/a>