Sometimes, the New York night, moved at a pace that was a consistent twenty beats ahead of the metronome in my chest. This particular night before, was a blur. Equipment. Twisty cats. The bar. The man in black. Finally asleep by 4am. I woke up on a small futon, in a small warm room, next to my childhood friend, in Brooklyn.
Josh was a flurry of activity that always surprised me. When we were apart, I still envisioned him at eighteen, awkward, soft-spoken, cracking himself up in the corner. But his grown-life brought with it a cast of characters driven by sitcom/action movie plot sequences and with New York City as their stage. He was manic with a huge smile. He was tactful and sincere with his self-deprecation. He was unusually generous and to-the-point with his zillion friends and associates. Josh was making stuff happen in a blizzard of decision making and hurried execution, without any certainty about the importance of his endeavors. All the while laughing more than most people I have known. He was constantly remembering, "one more thing I have to do before we..." I, was along for the ride.
We greeted the new day with a plan. Breakfast, The Fairway Market to stock up on supplies, and then to head upstate to his wonderful home in Woodridge. After a number of unpredicted detours we found ourselves fed by 11am and in his Subaru station wagon. After much effort, the car was packed with a nine foot long thick cardboard tube, a large mixing board, all my luggage, and other electronics. We gleefully decided to reward ourselves by smoking a J for the road.
I smoked way too much. We were both barely functional (in the most fun way) when Josh gasped. "Oh shit I forgot I have to do something really important before we leave. I have to drop off a cd and pick up a few program drivers at a friend's." He rang Scott, a fellow music studio owner and friend, on speaker phone. Scott barely acknowledged him before jumping in.
"Josh, hey, I need to ask yyyou a bbbbig favor. a hhhuge favor. There is an emergency." He stuttered like he was cold and panicked. Alarm spread across my eyes but Josh smiled kindly and then squinted towards me in silent stoney laughter.
"uuuuh mmmy P bass (1967 Fender Precision Bass) was stolen and I think I found it on craigslist and I nnnneed you go to midtown and pose as a buyer and help me get my guitar back." What? I was completely overwhelmed by every word. He took it off speaker to get a better listen. I expected to hear Josh reply with, "call the police." or "sorry, but I am way too stoned right now to be helpful." But instead I heard him say that he would "be right over." As we jerked through the trafficky streets towards the East Village from Williamsburg, we tried to make sense of things. Josh explained that Scott always sounded like that. That everyday is an emergency and that he is generally engaged in a stuttery, quirky rant. He did admit though, that he sounded particularly worked up. I told him that I totally could not handle what was about to happen and he laughed and said not to worry because he could not handle it either. He said were going on a potentially dangerous, time-consuming, and generally insane mission but that it would be "fun." Before he got out of the car he said, "ok I have to get all of my laughter out now because I am about to need to be really serious." And with that, both of us erupted. side-splitting, aching, joyful, dangerous laughter. The kind that had me concerned that I may never actually be able to stop.
After we pulled it together, he had me watch the car outside Scott's music studio while he went upstairs to get the scoop. An hour later, we were both in the car when the guy called Josh to talk about selling him the guitar. We had a blown up photo of the bass with us and we snickered as he described its flaws to the T and lied smoothly about how his grandfather had given it to him. He set up a time to meet Josh at 1:30pm in the lobby of his office building at Sony. He said that his name was Steve Smith. "Scott, we have received word and we are coming back to base, I repeat, we are coming back to base." Just another day in Josh-land. "I feel like Macgyver." he said gripping the steering wheel and playfully bouncing up and down.
I started to come down a little and was able to get my head around the reality of the mission. I was excited. I was having fun. We were buzzed into Scott's narrow building instantly and started up the stairs passing the entrance to his first floor tenants, Students for a Free Tibet. The young, busy voices blended with the sound of our panting as we made our way to the studio. Scott, married and in his mid-thirties, looks like a thinner, taller, younger version of Philip Seymour Hoffman. His studio was immaculate, stylized, and professional. He had designed it himself and it was used by local regulars such as Iggy Pop and other big names musicians. As we entered, he spun his large black chair towards us and away from his towering computer monitors and mixing board. He gripped the the arms of the chair and did not bother to greet us.
"What did he say? Does he have it? Did you ttttell him that you definitely wwwant it?" His eyes were darting and intense. His chin-length blond hair interrupted his flow and he pulled it back behind his ear. Josh began to laugh and asked me to relay the call. Soon after we entered, we were joined by Scott's friend, brilliant music producer, and tenant of the building, Hernan. A three-hundred pound latino guy with a black mustache and intimidating stature. At least, until he opened his mouth. He sounded more like a drunk teenage girl when he almost indiscernibly said "This is crazy, like totally freaking me out!" I could not tell if he had a major speech impediment or if it was just his accent. His hand shake was like a wilting flower. I was momentarily mesmerized by his unique combination of traits.
It turned out that they knew Steve Smith, that the IDIOT is an A&R guy at Sony in the Christian Rock division. (those wacky Christians). He had quickly made his way into Scott's good graces and coveted trust when they had met at church. On many of the nights working with his Sony clients in Scott's studio, Scott had witnessed Steve praying. Scott, being a devout christian himself (I NEVER would have guessed it but I guess at some point he was really messed up and turned to God), felt bonded by their faith. He had apparently given Steve keys to the studio. Steve had shown up uncharacteristically at 9am that morning and had woken Hernan to tell him that the bass was missing!
Steve made little attempt at sneakiness. After a year and a half, he knew that Scott was always on craigslist buying and selling gear, he gave us his real name, and was having us meet him at his office! Very weird. We thought there was a chance he had totally lost his marbles, risking quite a lot for a four thousand dollar bass guitar. Hernan kept slurring and mumbling, "Man, Scott, you can't be giving people keys to this place."
We tried to develop a plan. Scott came up with at least a dozen, not-thought-out, strategies that we denied him again and again. He was fully freaking the fuck out. Pacing, printing photos of himself with the guitar, putting on a disguise, getting his camera ready, etc. We left only knowing that Josh would somehow get the guitar in his hands and Scott would sneak up and confront the guy.
Josh's car was so full that we had to squeeze Scott in a little spot behind the driver's seat. We drove up to midtown as we plotted our course. I was to be the getaway driver. Scott kept interrupting and spitting things like, "JJJosh mmmake sure that when you get the bass that you don't give it back. Do wwwwhatever you can to avoid giving it back oh and if he sssssees me coming he might run for it so make sure you position him ssssso that he can't see me ccccoming." and "Text me when it's ttttime to come in." and "I think I should wear my hood up tight like this and my dark glasses, right?" To things like this, Josh and I would bust-up laughing. We had given up any discipline around seriousness. It was just too much. It was all too crazy. We tried to convince Scott that maybe he was being punk'd. It sure felt like it. But he did not even respond to our taunts amidst the passion of his intent to be reunited with his love, with his precious P bass.
We eventually devised a simple texting system and hoped for the best. I waited, double parked, in front of the hotel next to the Sony Building. After five whole minutes Scott came running back toward the car and told me that he had forgotten his phone. Geez, mister details. He had his hood up and his shades on and looked like the most conspicuous character ever!
Josh went into the lobby and was greeted by Steve who was without the bass. Josh described him as a very attractive, African American guy, in his late twenties. He took Josh up two different elevators and through two levels of security to get him past the fortress of Sony Corporate. They scanned his I.D. and gave him a visitor's pass. They went into his office and talked about the bass while Josh played it for about twenty minutes. Steve sat and wove yarns about the guitar. He spoke of his legendary grandfather who had owned the bass and played it with musical legends like Jimmy Hendrix. He told Josh that even though the bass important to him, he owned others and he wanted to get rid of it. Josh talked him down to $1800 from $2500 and then insisted that he would need to plug it in before buying it. Steve suggested that they go next door to the music store and plug it into an amplifier. He said yes and then went to the bathroom and texted Scott to be at the bottom of the elevators when they came down.
As they emerged into the lobby Steve was holding the guitar. Josh spotted Scott hiding behind a christmas tree with his black hood tied tightly around his face and dark glasses on. He was taking photos through the branches like the paparazzi. And then as Josh and Steve moved towards the door Josh sensed Scott move up behind him. He said to Steve, "Hey can I see this again for a second?" and he pulled the bass from his hands. He then motioned behind Steve and said "Scott." Steve did not miss a beat and said,
"Oh, hello Scott. I'm sorry man." Josh nervously apologized to Steve, turned around with the old Fender and walked out the door , leaving Scott to do whatever he needed to do.
Forty-five minutes after he had left the car, I spotted Josh coming about forty-five feet away. As he cleared the taxis and honking cars at the intersection of Madison Ave and E. 56th St. he held out the bass towards me like the holy grail. He was Lancelot. His armor, a black leather biker jacket, and his helmet, a tweed paperboy hat. I felt the pride of any true and devoted side-kick. I fingered the bass with relief and affection. And then, we had a good long laugh.
what a day...and it was only 2:30.
