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Musical Notes

Joshua Prater

    Once in a while, we’d bring the bagpipes and tubas out late at night to entertain our neighbors. We had a gong, timpani, and steel drums as well. Shit, we even had an electric banjo hooked up to a giant amplifier. My grandfather had owned a music store and when he croaked, I ended up with a bunch of his junk. My first instinct was to sell it all so I could buy a bunch of weed, but I figured it would be bad karma even though I never knew the old man.
    My roommate Derek had a brilliant idea: we could start a band and make even more money by playing shows and making records. Plus, it would be a great way to meet girls. “Even the worst groups out there make tons of dough and get all the chicks.” His words easily convinced me.
    The cops came out to our pad all the time. They’d always tell us to knock it off, and we’d say that we were sorry, and we were just struggling musicians, but we were really just a couple of assholes. We’d thrash on those instruments at midnight, always talking about how we were going to start the noisiest, most offensive band on the planet. The only thing we really accomplished was making each other laugh and pissing off the neighbors. We would come up with great ideas for song titles and album covers only to forget them when we blacked out on cheap Scotch.
    One night we were getting buzzed on cheap beer. We suddenly felt inspired to play some improvisational jams, so we started rustling through the clutter of instruments in the garage. I grabbed a pair of maracas and started banging them on a pair of congas. Derek started searching around for something new to play, and found a violin case buried deep within the pile. When he opened it up, an envelope dropped out. At first we thought it might be a receipt for the instrument, or maybe some sheet music, but what was inside was something we both never forgot.
    Derek carefully opened the envelope, and I raced over to him and plucked it from his fingers. It was a note from my grandfather. I read Grandpa Rick’s words aloud:
    Hopefully this letter has found its way to my long-lost grandson Billy. I never met you, although I have heard a little about you. By now I have certainly passed away. I sincerely pray that you haven’t sold the music instruments I left to you in my will to support your marijuana addiction, as this note would then fall into the wrong hands. The reason I left you these instruments, Billy, is what in all reality I consider to be a clever ruse on my part in order to deny your loathsome kin my worldly treasure. Aside from my obvious passion for musical performance, I also had quite an affinity for numismatics. Since you are not the scholarly type, I will say it bluntly and say that I have amassed a shitload of old coins worth a lot of money. If you carefully read this letter, I will reveal to you the location of where I have hidden my stash of hundreds, perhaps thousands of silver dollars. Do me a favor and don’t spend these at the liquor store at their face value, you knucklehead. Most of these coins are in a condition that even the most discerning of collectors would envy, and in my estimation worth at least fifty times their face value each.
    Derek and I looked at each other, our eyes bulging out of their sockets. We booth took huge swigs of that wretched brew, already imagining we were drinking the very best that money could buy. I read on:
    Before I reveal where the coins are hidden, I must tell you that I am eternally sorry that I have never entered your life besides perhaps hearing my name in conversation. You know that I divorced your Grandma Sally just before you were born. But there is a rational explanation for that: she was the biggest slut in Reno, and that’s saying something. Without being too graphic, I will tell you that she started off with sleazy accountants and sales representatives, before quickly descending down the evolutionary ladder of bikers, junkies, sideshow freaks, and Australians. You name ‘em, she banged ‘em. I absolutely despised her entire side of the family, and your father’s as well. But enough of that. I just needed to get that off my chest before I could perhaps make some amends for not being a presence in your life. Now carefully follow the directions below to get what is rightfully yours...
    Immediately, Derek blurted “50/50 split. I found the note!”
    “Hell no!” I shot back. “My grandpa, my money! 80/20, in my favor. That’s a generous finders fee!”
    “I could have found that letter and never told you about it! 60/40!”
    “70/30, in my favor, and that’s my final offer because I’m in a good mood right now and I don’t want to crack this beer bottle over your head!” I snapped.
    “Deal!” Derek agreed, even though I’m sure he would’ve taken a 90/10 split in my favor if I wanted to be a jerk about it. We clanked our bottles together and immediately daydreamed of what we were going to do as soon as we cashed in those coins.
    “I’m going to get a stripper!” I announced.
    “I’m going to get a prostitute!” Derek said, one-upping me.
    “I’m going to get a houseboat, a prostitute, and Chinese food!”
    “I’m going to buy a helicopter!”
    “Don’t be ridiculous” I said. “Look, we’ll go to where the old man said the loot is hidden tomorrow morning, when it’s bright outside and we’ve sobered up enough to find it.”
    We could both hardly sleep that night. I locked the door to my room and pushed a folding chair against the doorknob. I clutched that letter in my hands all night. I wasn’t taking any chances.
    Around 12:30 in the afternoon we woke up, which was fine since it was Saturday and we both had the day off. Our eyes were red and crusty, our stomachs growling like hyenas. We each had a burnt English muffin and a cup of coffee before we ventured on our quest.
    My grandfather’s letter led us into the boondocks. It was smart, because that lessened the chances of my birthright falling into the wrong hands. Derek and I walked through a field of dry, cracked foxtails, stopping every minute or so to remove the sharp, spiky nuisances poking our ankles. “This better be worth it,” Derek grumbled.
    Soon, we saw the gigantic, lone oak tree that my grandfather had described in detail. We approached it in awe, dollar signs gleaming in our eyes. I imagined myself on a patio chair on top of my houseboat, Derek flying overhead in his shiny new helicopter. We waved at each other. Our prostitutes waved at each other. We all grinned like idiots.
    There was a hollow opening in the oak tree, just as my grandpa’s letter had mentioned. This had to be the place. I was nervous about putting my hand in there to retrieve my fortune, however.
    “What if it’s full of black widows?” I asked, hoping not to sound like a wimp.
    “I doubt it, probably just a rattlesnake den.” Derek quipped, only adding to my trepidation.
    “Dammit, I wish I had some heavy gloves right now. I hope I don’t get bit by anything and have to spend all my money on a stupid hospital bill.”
    I reached inside slowly, turning my head away, as some rabid or poisonous creature was surely going to leap out of that hole and latch onto it. Then Derek would leave me for dead and spend my money on whatever he pleased. This was not going to be good. I was blindly searching around, my arm down as far as I could reach, when suddenly I felt something. It was the box of treasure! I was sweating nervously as I pulled it out of the hollow tree.
    It was smaller and lighter than I expected, however, and was actually a black plastic lunchbox, the kind a construction worker would use. I wondered if maybe my grandfather had already cashed in those coins and there were fat rolls of hundred dollar bills inside. I shook the box and it jangled. Definitely coins. Slowly prying open the small lunchbox, Derek and I eagerly anticipated its contents. Inside was a small amount of wheat pennies and buffalo nickels, with some Canadian coins mixed in. There was an old piece of paper in there as well, another message from my Grandpa Rick:
    Your Grandma Sally is still the biggest slut in Reno!
    That’s all it said. Derek started laughing hysterically, pointing at me and mocking my Grandma Sally. I sadly peered into the box. There was maybe about three or four bucks worth of change in there.
    “I still want my cut!” Derek demanded in all earnestness.
    Grandma Sally was right. Grandpa Rick was a prick.

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