I leaned against the wall and watched him.
“Good collection,” Hunter said, standing.
“It was my father’s.” I crossed my arms loosely. “He left it to me when he died. His whole life’s right there.”
“Are they organized chronologically?”
“Yes, how did you guess?”
Hunter shrugged one shoulder. “I know music. Not much else, but I know music.” He crouched again, flipping through the eighties section. “My dad played on a lot of these. You want to see his name?”
“What? Yes, I’d love that.”
He pulled a Dale Whitmore record from the shelf, the cover art burnt orange with long shadows in the way that era favored. He turned it over, scanning the liner notes. His finger found what he was looking for and he held it up for me.
I leaned in to read the small print of the liner notes.
Ray Sloan: lead guitar.
“That’s my dad,” Hunter said. “You’d be surprised how many records he played on in your collection. Session musicians were known as the best in the business, and he was the best of the best.” He was already moving through the shelf again, pulling a Bobby Dean Harlan record that had been one of my dad’s favorite albums of all time. “He’ll be on this one too.”
“We listened to that one a thousand times,” I said. “My dad loved it. It’s strange to think your father’s guitar was playing in our house every night.
Hunter was quiet for a moment, still crouched, one hand resting on the edge of the shelf. “I think about that sometimes. My dad played on all these records, and no one but music geeks would notice. I write songs that no one realizes are mine, except for people in the business.”
“Do you mind that? Being behind the scenes?”
He shook his head. “Nah. I’ve just felt lucky to be able to make a living doing what I love.”
“Then why did you leave? Why are you … tending bar?”
“You say “Already Gone”is your favorite song, right?” Hunter asked.
“That’s right.”
“Then you know why I’m here.”
For a second, we simply looked at each other, connected by music and sorrow. However, before I could say anything further, I heard Tyler coming in the front door, calling out to us, breaking the spell.
“That’s Tyler,” I said.
“Let’s go see what the boy can do,” Hunter said. “Thanks for showing me your records.”
“We can play some whenever you wish,” I said.
“I just might take you up on that.”
I left them in the living room and went into my office, figuring I’d do a little writing while they had their lesson, mostly as a way to occupy myself. But I had trouble concentrating. I could hear their voices without deciphering exactly what they were saying, followed by notes and chords.
Forty-five minutes later, the lesson ended. I left my office and found them still in the living room, talking quietly as they put their guitars away.
“How’d it go?” I asked.
“It went great,” Tyler said. “I think I learned more today than the last three years playing on my own.”
“He’s doing very well,” Hunter said. “He’s a quick learner. Good listener too.”
Tyler beamed. “Thanks, Mr. Sloan.”
