Charlie Estrella

VIII. IN THE DUNGEON

VIII. IN THE DUNGEON

Six months into my “exile,” and I had hit a wall. Since school was out, I played my Goldtop about eighteen hours a day but felt like I needed a new direction with the music – a new challenge. I was pleased with my ability to teach myself, and I knew I was good, but I had hit a plateau. I could listen to a song and play along with it. Didn’t need the sheet music. My technique was top-notch for a kid, although I knew I had to work on my speed to compare with legends like Eddie Van Halen I had not quite mastered Eddie’s tapping technique, but I was skilled at tricks like tremolo picking and sweeping. I tried a variety of genres – jazz, classical, it didn’t matter. I was a sponge and I wanted to eventually become so good that I could play it all. And I was only thirteen.

It was summer and Mom was adhering to her punishment. She only allowed me outside to do chores. Maybe I’d mow the lawn or take out the trash for a couple dollars, then sneak out while Mom was at work to get stuff at the music store.

Then Mom caught me. She started doing drive-by check-ups. Guess she suspected I was doing something with the money I’d earned. If she paid even the slightest bit of attention to the music coming from the basement, it would have been so obvious. She was sitting on my bed when I snuck back into the dungeon. Imagine my shock – considering she hadn’t set foot in the basement since my banishment. She always left my meals at the top step. I heard more from her broomstick pounding the floor above my head than I did from her, which I really didn’t mind.

She reached behind her back and lifted my Goldtop. “Looks like you’re enjoying this noisy thing,” she said to me.

I nodded my head, worried she was about to smash it on the cement floor, Pete Townsend-style. Then she stood, scoffed at me, and walked upstairs, Terry dragging behind her, bouncing off the stairs. I cringed with every bounce. As Mom was slamming the door she screeched, “You can have your toy back in two months.”

Two months without the only thing I enjoyed in life. The only thing that gave my life meaning. There was so much more I needed to learn about the guitar. I had become frustrated that I could not break through that wall and become as talented as I had hoped. And with Terry hidden away from me, I worried I’d lose it – the skill, the focus, the technique. I worried I’d lose interest after two months without her.

“Did you? Did you lose any of that?”

The opposite. It was like a junkie had his heroin taken away. Cold turkey was impossible! I’d listen to music and play air guitar on a tennis racket. I unstrung the racket and glued the strings along the handle, trying to create something remotely close to a guitar. I really think I was going insane. Couldn’t sleep. It was difficult to eat. I imagine it was remarkably close to that feeling one gets when they are passionately in love with someone who has gone away.

“You’ve never been passionately in love with someone?”

Hmm… not exactly like that.

Note: “WHAT DOES ESTRELLA LOVE?”

In hindsight, this was a really good time in my musical development.

“How so?”

With Terry stashed in Theresa’s chamber of horrors – her bedroom – I wasn’t satisfied pretending to play guitar on a tennis racket. I taught myself how guitars were made. I began unraveling the onion layers behind what makes the guitar such an exquisitely perfect instrument.

There are so many unique aspects of the guitar. It is polyphonic – you can play multiple notes simultaneously. You can play the same notes in so many different shapes, allowing you to elicit such a wide array of tones. A guitar has a higher range than most instruments. You can hit up to four octaves on the neck. There are so many gear options that allow you to alter and enhance a guitar’s sound: pedals, slides, pickups, amps, strings, capos, power supplies. All these toys make a guitar morph into whatever you want. I could have spent hours at a time in the music store – and I wanted to buy everything.

During my downtime, with Terry sequestered in Mom’s room, I decided to learn how to build a guitar. I had two months to decipher how to make the perfect ax for me.

Carmello was super helpful. Whenever I could sneak away to his store, I picked his brain on everything to do with guitar-making, and he was more than willing to share his considerable knowledge. Turns out Carmello spent a decade working in the Gibson Guitar factory in Nashville. The guy was a savant when it came to guitar manufacturing. His specialty was hollow bodies, but he knew a ton about every model. He even gave tours of the Gibson factory. Man, I wish I could have taken one of those tours!

I had a list of everything I needed to start constructing my own custom ax: Premade neck, birch plywood for a blank body, string, ferrules, tuners, screws, pickups, pickup rings, plastic control knobs, potometers, capacitors, input jack control switch – I decided on five-way switches for a Fender Strat-style guitar since I already had my Les Paul. It’s amazing how much goes into one of those machines.

Clearly, I didn’t have the funds for all that stuff. More than that, I didn’t have the necessary tools. When Dad moved out, he took his huge toolbox and left Mom with one of those basic “wife” tool kits.

I moped around for a couple days until I got a call from Carmello.

“Allo, Virtuoso!” That’s what he called me. Even though I did not feel like a virtuoso, I loved the nickname, especially the way Carmello said it with his thick Sicilian accent. “Can you come down to shop? Have something to show you.”

The next day I snuck out while Mom was at work. Carmello escorted me to the back office of Musica Negozio. It was like Christmas morning for me! Carmello Ponte had assembled everything I needed to build my first custom guitar. He even brought in a jigsaw, plunge router, and orbital sander.

“What? Why? I can’t believe it, Carmello!” I had tears in my eyes.

“It is investment in you, Virtuoso.”

For the next month, I spent hours down at the music store, slipping out of the dungeon whenever I had the chance. Carmello walked me through everything. He often neglected customers to help me in the back of the store with my guitar.

After a couple months “Mellie” was done. She was so beautiful, carved into a Flying V, I painted it a deep blue, with lightning bolts. I didn’t know then how prophetic the lightning turned out to become. Across the fretboard was emblazoned “Virtuoso” in silver cursive lettering.

“Mellie?”

Named after Carmello.

Mellie is my second-favorite guitar, after Terry.

“Do you play it on tour?”

Never. She’s been retired for a while.

Anyway, Gail came downstairs a lot during that time. She was very encouraging – brought me snacks and a little radio so I could find out what was happening in the outside world. She really wanted me to eat more. I was so thin and pale. Good thing there was no mirror in the cellar, or I’d have scared myself. It was when I felt the closest to Gail, although I feel bad that I didn’t show it and never really told her how much I appreciated her support.

One night, after Mom fell asleep, Gail came down to hang with me. She had a tape recorder, set it down, and played it. The sound was muffled and low.

Gail had recorded me playing guitar from her bedroom. She said she could hear me through the vents in the house and placed the recorder outside the vent in her room. I had recorded myself playing a lot on the four-track, and – not to brag – I already knew I was decent. But Gail didn’t know that, and I was touched that she wanted to capture my music. She told me she wasn’t sure how long Mom would allow me to continue playing – that for several weeks Mom had been threatening to permanently take Terry away from me – and Gail wanted to make sure if I ever stopped playing there was proof of how good I was becoming. Gail said when my punishment was over, she was going to start inviting her friends over to hear me play. She wanted to arrange concerts in our backyard. Those little gestures stuck with me. They really helped me through my two-year stint in Mom-prison.

“Did she keep her promise?”

About the concerts? Yeah. It was awesome. Like mini-Woodstocks – scores of high school kids crammed into Mom’s backyard, getting high, getting laid, getting into my music. I’d play for maybe two hours. Someone would inevitably bring a keg, and as soon as the keg was dry the party was over. It was probably where I developed some stage presence and gained a ton of confidence.

Charlie suddenly stopped mid-thought and took a deep breath.

I’m not sure I should mention this, but…

“Then please mention it.”

It’ll make Gail look… I don’t know. I love Gail. I don’t want anything to tarnish her.

Another minute of dead air passed. LaRissa knew when to stop talking and allow her interviewee to fill the gap in the conversation.

Let’s just say… Gail did what she thought was needed to make me feel better about my situation. I don’t think I need to elaborate any more than that.

“Are you two still close?”

Haven’t seen her in ten years.

“Can I ask what happened?”

Mom… boys… school… She bailed. Sixteen years old. Mom thought she got pregnant and ran away with a guy. The cops investigated for like a year before they just labeled it a cold case. Mom pretended to care, but I think it was a relief for her, not having to take care of her daughter – not having to stress about a rebellious teenager. And the less Mom knew the better. She probably assumed – or just convinced herself – that Gail was okay and had just run away with one of her guys.

“Did anyone ever find out what happened?”

Not really, no.

“What do you think happened to her?”

She’s dead.

“My goodness, I’m so sorry. Do you know this for a fact?”

It’s… it’s a feeling. In my soul.

Note: “SEARCH FOR GAIL STARSIAK.”