From Fame to Shamrock
by Logan Gaines
part 1
A guitar can tell many stories, but there was one guitar that had a story no one could believe.
It all started on August 17, 1989. Another sticky, hot Thursday afternoon in Amarillo, Texas. I was the lead guitarist of the band Myotis. Sadly, I had no choice but to upgrade my guitar, as I’d put new strings on it and it still wouldn’t play in tune. So I drove my black jeep to the Yellow Rose Pawnshop to look for a new one with my roommate and bandmate Humphrey.
“Hopefully they’ll have the perfect guitar for our new music,” said Humphrey, our drummer, petting his long, black hair in the passenger seat. “The perfect guitar for this rock festival today.”
“It doesn’t need to be perfect,” I said, as we walked into the pawnshop. “We’re looking for an electric guitar, not a glass slipper. If it can play, we are cool, brother.”
My eyes scanned the place. With the smell of cigarettes in the air, we saw a row of bicycles hanging on a wall behind the counter. Countless amounts of jewelry flashed behind glass in a case. In the back right corner was the guitar selection. My eyes latched on to a cherry-red guitar.
“Can I help you guys?” asked an employee sternly, as he stood behind the counter in a gray shirt that had a hole near the collar.
“Yeah, I’m looking for an electric guitar for around three hundred dollars,” I said.
“I have a few in the back. Give me a minute,” said the employee, starting to walk away.
“How much do you want for that cherry-red one in the corner?” I said, pointing at the instrument.
“That one?” He paused. “Five hundred dollars. But I’ll sell it to you for four-fifty.”
I looked at Humphrey, who simply shrugged.
I had never gone over my budget to buy anything, but I would not have haggled on the price even for one dollar less. This guitar was begging me to play it. So strange and natural was the feeling as I curled it into my palm. I felt I could play any song flawlessly with it. Looking down at it, I knew this guitar was now part of the family.
“I’ll take it,” I told the man.
The cash hit the counter and the employee put the guitar in a battered case. I rushed out of the store, eager to play my new toy, and I could see Humphrey was amazed by this. He had so many questions. He had known me since kindergarten and never seen me give in so quickly.
* * *
As we drove to the festival, not much was said between us. I was sipping my cold black coffee, focused on the road, and reveling in the idea of my new guitar.
When we arrived at the festival site, I got out of the jeep with the guitar case in hand.
People were screaming as rock music blasted into the air. I didn’t care; I had one thing on my mind.
I flashed my backstage pass and walked upstairs to the stage. The fans were in a party mood, but the musicians backstage were even rowdier. A beer-drinking contest between all the drummers was taking place to my left. Our lead singer, Chet, was making out with three women in a corner. A lucky fan had been invited on stage to get a free tattoo, and the backstage crowd was in a frenzy over this.
I was handed a cold beer, but put it down immediately. I wanted to see what this guitar could do, if our connection extended beyond the pawnshop.
Humphrey stood nearby watching, as I took the guitar out of the case. “All tuned up?” he asked me.
“Let’s see,” I said, as the pick met the strings.
Sour notes emitted from the guitar. Then the strings snapped, as did the neck and part of the body. I was crushed. I’d spent all that money and was so excited. I’d already fallen in love with that guitar, in part because it looked like the one my idol, Orson Hatcher, used to play.
“Don’t worry,” Humphrey said, starting to walk away. “I’ll ask for a favor.”
I nodded, then looked down morosely, noticing a yellowed envelope in the body of the guitar. Humphrey paused and we looked at each other. I wriggled the envelope of the guitar and opened it, discovering a letter that would change my life forever.
As the music blared and Humphrey looked on, I read the letter silently and intently:
To my fans, I regret to inform you that I lied to you. By now you’re thinking that I, Orson Hatcher, died in a car crash. However, that’s not true. In reality I decided to step out of the public spotlight to live a quiet life in Shamrock, Texas. The reason for that is...
Here, the letter cut off. You can’t be serious, I thought. I was dying to learn why Hatcher had stepped out of the spotlight and why he would cut off his confession there and how it ended up in the guitar.
“What’s going on?” Humphrey asked, pulling me from my thoughts. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
I paused, still trying to process everything. “Do you remember Orson Hatcher?” I finally said.
“Yeah, of course.”
In 1953, Hatcher caught the attention of millions across the globe. His hip-shaking stole the hearts of young women and enraged parents. He had dozens of hit songs and a movie career. Even with all his fame, he put his career on hold to serve in the Army during the Cold War in ’57.
Hatcher was so cool, and, as a young kid, I wanted to be just like him. Sadly, I was only five years old when he reportedly passed away in a car accident at the age of thirty-five.
“This letter claims he’s still alive,” I said. “It says he faked his death to live a quiet life in Shamrock.”
Humphrey’s frown gradually morphed into a smile. “Shamrock is only an hour from here,” he said.
I smiled back.
The music had stopped and a stagehand gave us our cue that it was time to go on, which reminded me that I didn’t have a guitar to play with. I began to panic.
“Maurice, get out there,” the stagehand said to me.
“My guitar broke!” I said, holding it up as proof.
He looked around confusedly, then ran off to find a replacement.
“Here, kid,” said a man with a Texas drawl. “I have one.”
I turned to my right and discovered a stout man in a white cabana shirt and tan cabana hat. I recognized him as Dylan Grove, Hatcher’s ex-manager. I must be dreaming, I thought. What the hell is he doing here?
“Thank you. Thank you very much,” I said, taking a black electric guitar from his hand and hurrying toward the stage.
I was greeted by loud cheers that filled my body and soul. I’ve come out like this dozens of times, but I’m always nervous. I shouldered the guitar and stood near the mic stand. We rocked out with our new material, but also tossed in a few of our well-known songs. It was the best show we’d done in years.
After the encore, Humphrey and I walked off the stage together, arm in arm, laughing. Grove was waiting in the shadows. I smiled and extended the guitar toward him.
“I appreciate it,” I said, still wondering if I was dreaming.
He took a puff from his cigar and exhaled. “That guitar is yours now, kid,” he said.
“Are you serious?”
“I have dozens of ’em.” He looked away, then again turned toward me. “You guys have a unique sound. Keep up the good work. Someday, someone will sign you to a big contract, and you won’t be just a big local band anymore.”
“How about today?” asked Humphrey.
“My days in the record business are over, kid,” Grove said.
“Orson was a big influence on our music,” I interjected.
Grove frowned, as if I’d told him that someone in his family had died. Then, after a long pause, he suddenly started to open up about their relationship. How he’d discovered Hatcher when he was seventeen. How he was there for his wedding. The fateful day he passed away in a car accident. He said that day crushed him and made him quit the business.
Humphrey and I thanked him for his honesty and contributions to music history. As he nodded his farewell and disappeared into the shadows, I watched, the guitar still clutched in my hand.
“Mr. Grove, before you go, I have a question for you,” I said.
“What’s that, kid?” he asked.
“You think there’s any chance that Orson’s still alive?”
“Of course, but only in my heart. I cry every time I listen to “The Final Chapter,” the last song on Blues of an Ohio Man.”
“It’s a beautiful song,” I concurred. “I heard Ohio was like a second home to him, because his mother was from Steubenville.”
“That’s true. He was real close with his ma.”
I considered bringing up the broken guitar and the letter, but it felt silly, too farfetched. Also, I didn’t want to burden him any further. So instead, I simply smiled. He tapped me on the shoulder and nodded at Humphrey and then quickly disappeared.
* * *
The next morning, Humphrey and I jumped into my jeep and, with full cups of coffee, drove to Shamrock. We walked around the city, looking for clues to Orson’s existence. Our first stop was an antique store, which was stuffed with collectibles. It was like stepping into a time machine.
Soon, a tall lady in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, with shoulder-length black hair, approached us. “Can I help you gentlemen?” she asked in an Australian accent.
“Do you have any Orson Hatcher collectibles?” I asked.
She paused. “Sadly, we don’t, but if you are interested in looking at some, I know the right guy.”
She walked to the front counter and jotted something down on a notepad. She then returned with the name “Ohio.” Ohio’s address was also on the small, yellow sheet of paper, and she explained that he was trying to get rid of his massive Orson Hatcher collection. He was retired now and would like to sell his collectibles to other fans that would enjoy it.
Humphrey and I thanked the lady and quickly exited the store. If Ohio is a mega-fan, I thought as I approached the jeep with the piece of paper in hand, he might have some idea if the rock legend is alive and living in the area. It would at least be worth it to ask him a few questions.
We sped to the address: 1955 Polk Avenue.
The house was massive and featured white columns, red rose bushes, and peacock statues stationed by the front door. A standard white picket fence surrounded the property.
“What do we do now?” asked Humphrey, clearly starting to lose his nerve.
I stared at him blankly. “We open the gate and walk to the front door.”
But the moment I touched the gate, a voice rang out. “Hello! Are you guys lost?” A muscular man in a black, long-sleeve shirt, with a long, white beard, was standing on the front porch, hands on his hips.
“No,” I said, stepping back. “We’re looking for a man named Ohio.”
“That’s me. And you are...?”
“Maurice,” I said. “This is Humphrey. The lady at the antique shop said you’re a fan of Orson Hatcher. We’re fans of his, too.”
Finally, he lowered his guard. He approached the gate, opened it, and invited us into his home, where we were welcomed by his old basset hound named Rhinestone.
Ohio’s home was clean beyond belief. The living room had white furniture, white carpeting, and a fish tank that contained a baby crocodile. We stepped into the kitchen, which featured hickory-wood cabinets and a bear-skin rug.
“How long have you been fans of Orson Hatcher?” asked Ohio.
“Since I was four years old,” I said.
“How old are you now?”
“Thirty.”
Ohio smiled and walked over to the fridge. He pulled out a bottle of tomato juice and offered us some, but we declined. However, we didn’t decline the opportunity to sit down at his hickory dining table. After Ohio took another sip of his juice, he wiped his lips with his hand, which I noticed had a long, straight scar.
Copyright © 2024 by Logan Gaines
