Someone took notice of me, though—a lanky, long-haired senior who looked like one of Andy’s useless hippies. He sought me out one day when I was eating my own lunch in the gym, two bleachers up from Astrid and her posse of gigglers.

“You Jamie Morton?” he asked.

I owned up to it cautiously. He was wearing baggy jeans with patches on the knees, and there were dark circles under his eyes, as if he was getting by on two or three hours’ sleep a night. Or whacking off a lot.

“Come down to the Band Room,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I said so, freshie.”

I followed him, weaving my way through the thronging students who were laughing, yelling, pushing, and banging their lockers. I hoped I wasn’t going to get beaten up. I could imagine getting beaten up by a sophomore for some trifling reason—freshman hazing by sophomores was forbidden in principle but lavishly practiced in fact—but not by a senior. Seniors rarely noticed freshies were alive, my brother being a case in point.

The Band Room was empty. That was a relief. If this guy intended to tune up on me, at least he didn’t have a bunch of friends to help him do it. Instead of beating me up, he held out his hand. I shook it. His fingers were limp and clammy. “Norm Irving.”

“Nice to meet you.” I didn’t know if it was or not.

“I hear you play guitar, freshie.”

“Who told you that?”

“Your brother. Mr. Football.” Norm Irving opened a storage cabinet filled with cased guitars. He pulled one out, flicked the catches, and revealed a gorgeous dead-black electric Yamaha.

“SA 30,” he said briefly. “Got it two years ago. Painted houses all summer with my dad. Turn on that amp. No, not the big one, the Bullnose right in front of you.”

I went to the mini-amp, looked around for a switch or a button, and didn’t see any.

“On the back, freshie.”

“Oh.” I found a rocker switch and flipped it. A red light came on, and there was a low hum. I liked that hum from the very first. It was the sound of power.

Norm scrounged a cord from the guitar cabinet and plugged in. His fingers brushed the strings, and a brief BRONK sound came from the little amp. It was atonal, unmusical, and completely beautiful. He held the guitar out to me.

“What?” I was both alarmed and excited.

“Your brother says you play rhythm. So play some rhythm.”

I took the guitar, and that BRONK sound came again from the little Bullnose amp at my feet. The guitar was a lot heavier than my brother’s acoustic. “I’ve never played an electric,” I said.

“It’s the same.”

“What do you want me to play?”

“How about ‘Green River.’ Can you play that?” He reached into the watch pocket of his baggy jeans and held out a pick.

I managed to take it without dropping it. “Key of E?” As if I had to ask. All that shit starts with E.

“You decide, freshie.”

I slipped the strap over my head and settled the pad on my shoulder. The Yammie hung way low—Norman Irving was a lot taller than I was—but I was too nervous to even think of adjusting it. I played an E chord and jumped at how loud it was in the closed Band Room. That made him grin, and the grin—which revealed teeth that were going to give him a lot of problems in the future if he didn’t start taking care of them—made me feel better.

“Door’s shut, freshie. Turn it up and jam out.”

The volume was set at 5. I turned it up to 7, and the resulting WHANGGG was satisfyingly loud.

“I can’t sing worth a crap,” I said.

“You don’t have to sing. I sing. You just have to play rhythm.”

“Green River” has a basic rock-and-roll beat—not quite like “Cherry, Cherry,” but close. I hit E again, listening to the first phrase of the song in my head and deciding it was right. Norman began to sing. His voice was almost buried by the sound of the guitar, but I could hear enough to tell he had good pipes. “Take me back down where cool water flows, yeah . . .”

I switched to A, and he stopped.

“Stays E, doesn’t it?” I said. “Sorry, sorry.”

The first three lines were all in E, but when I switched to A again, where most basic rock goes, it was still wrong.

“Where?” I asked Norman.

He just looked at me, hands in his back pockets. I listened in my head, then began again. When I got to the fourth line, I went to C, and that was right. I had to start over once more, but after that it was a cinch. All we needed was drums, a bass . . . and some lead guitar, of course. John Fogerty of Creedence hammered that lead in a way I never could in my wildest dreams.

“Gimme the ax,” Norman said.

I handed it over, disappointed to let it go. “Thanks for letting me play it,” I said, and headed for the door.

“Wait a minute, Morton.” It wasn’t much of a change, but at least I had been promoted from freshie. “Audition’s not over.”

Audition?

From the storage cabinet he took a smaller case, opened it, and produced a scratched-up Kay semi-hollowbody—a 900G, if you’re keeping score.

“Plug into the big amp, but turn it down to four. That Kay feeds back like a motherfucker.”

I did as instructed. The Kay fit my body better than the Yammie; I wouldn’t have to hunch over to play it. There was a pick threaded into the strings and I took it out.

“Ready?”

I nodded.

“One . . . two . . . one-two-three-and . . .”

I was nervous while I was working out the simple rhythm progression of “Green River,” but if I’d known how well Norman could play, I don’t think I could have played at all; I would simply have fled the room. He hit the Fogerty lead just right, playing the same licks as on that old Fantasy single. As it was, I was swept along.

“Louder!” he shouted at me. “Jack it and fuck the feedback!”

I turned the big amp up to 8 and kicked it back in. With both guitars playing and the amp feeding back like a police whistle, Norm’s voice was lost in the sound. It didn’t matter. I stuck the groove and let his lead carry me. It was like surfing a glassy wave that rolled on without breaking for two and a half minutes.

It ended and silence crashed back in. My ears were ringing. Norm stared up at the ceiling, considering, then nodded. “Not great, but not terrible. With a little practice, you might be better than Snuffy.”

“Who’s Snuffy?” I asked. My ears were ringing.

“A guy who’s moving to Assachusetts,” he said. “Let’s try ‘Needles and Pins.’ You know, the Searchers?”

“E?”

“No, this one’s D, but not straight D. You gotta diddle it.” He demonstrated how I was supposed to hammer high E with my pinky, and I picked it up right away. It didn’t sound exactly like the record, but it was in the ballpark. When we finished I was dripping with sweat.

“Okay,” he said, unslinging the guitar. “Let’s go out to the SA. I need a butt.”

 • • •

The smoking area was behind the vocational tech building. It was where the burns and hippies hung out, along with girls who wore tight skirts, dangly earrings, and too much makeup. Two guys were squatting at the far end of the metal shop. I’d seen them around, as I had Norman, but didn’t know them. One had sandy blond hair and a lot of acne. The other had a kinky pad of red hair that stuck out in nine different directions. They looked like losers, but I didn’t care. Norman Irving also looked like a loser, but he was the best guitar player I’d ever heard who wasn’t on a record.

“How is he?” the sandy blond asked. This turned out to be Kenny Laughlin.

“Better than Snuffy,” Norman said.

The one with the crazy red hair grinned. “That ain’t sayin shit.”

“Yeah, but we need someone, or we can’t play the Grange on Saturday night.” He produced a pack of Kools and tipped it my way. “Smoke?”

“I don’t,” I said. And then, feeling absurd but not able to help myself, “Sorry.”

Norman ignored that and lit up with a Zippo that had a snake and DON’T TREAD ON ME engraved on the side. “This is Kenny Laughlin. Plays bass. The redhead is Paul Bouchard. Drums. This shrimp is Connie Morton’s brother.”