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When I was a kid my brother and I liked being able to ride our bikes downtown. Bike = Freedom, then and now. That was about the time we started guitar lessons at the old music store in downtown Galveston. The idea was to get us out of the house, even for a few minutes a day, and guitar lessons seemed to my parents like a twofer as we might actually learn something in the process besides more cussing. Our teacher was Mr. Pedraza, a man so ancient that we could scarcely imagine an older thing.

In hindsight he might have been fifty. But he was bald and walked with a stoop and the two 30-minute evening guitar classes he taught were plainly the albatross around his neck. Ian and I were in different classes, mine from 3:00 to 3:30 and Ian’s from 3:30 to 4:00. We were in different classes not because of differing ability but in order to keep us from clawing each other’s eyes out. My class had two other students, a girl named Sally and a dreadful little redneck bastard named Bubba. Bubba had a crew cut, thick little hands and fingers, was one year older, hated the guitar, hated Mr. Pedraza, and most of all hated me.

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I liked practicing at home with my Mel Bay Beginner Guitar Book No. 1, and Bubba didn’t. Each lesson we would whang away at our cheap little guitars and Bubba never came close to getting anything right which would infuriate Mr. Pedraza, causing Bubba to gleefully mis-finger the chords even more. In between songs Bubba would lean over and say, “After this lesson I’m gonna punch you in the face.” I was really afraid of Bubba. Those hammy little mitts that couldn’t make a G chord to save his life were perfect for balling up and punching; I knew that much from my brother’s beatings, and his hands were tiny compared to Bubba’s.