You Are Here, page 5
In fact, he couldn’t think of any Asian guitar players, let alone guitar gods. He’d almost searched once, just to see if Uncle Jack was right. But he decided he didn’t want to know—didn’t need to know.
Lee offered his usual joke reply to Uncle Jack: “I’m half-Asian.”
Uncle Jack laughed, his head tilting back as the screen froze and pixelated. Lee squinted, the only movement from the selfie camera as the Wi-Fi strength dropped to two bars. He ran a hand through his chin-length dark brown hair, his selfie image doing the same. “Uncle Jack?”
“. . . you’d . . . make it . . . fine?”
Airport Wi-Fi. Lee’s mom had warned him about the way it was unreliable and slow, and besides, he had promised his parents he’d save his battery just in case any emergencies happen. This was the first time he was allowed to fly alone, and getting them to agree to Southwest’s twelve-and-above policy had been hard enough. He really should keep his word. But he wanted to tell Uncle Jack the good news. Lee repeated “Can you hear me?” several times until Uncle Jack started moving again on the screen.
“There you are,” Uncle Jack said, his words out of sync with his image. The sound clipped out with a buzzing noise, and Lee looked around to see if anyone in the food court noticed. Minutes ago, it’d been busy. But people had eaten their food or gotten their coffee or whatever, so at least for now, only pockets of travelers remained. Some standing in line, some sitting quietly, and most just staring at their phones. Although, a couple of security guards talked loudly enough to be heard.
“So, check this out,” Lee said, pride pushing his cheeks into a wide grin. With one hand, he held his phone up to get the right angle. With the other, he reached over and flipped down the locks on his rectangular hard-shell guitar case. The lid refused to budge under his fingertips, and he said, “Hold on,” complete with an exasperated sigh, before he unstuck it.
The lid finally opened to reveal a guitar. Not necessarily the best or most expensive guitar, but the most important guitar in the world.
Because it was his: a blue standard-model Stratocaster with a white pick guard, fresh strings changed out only a week ago. Next to it sat a small ziplock bag of guitar picks and the palm-sized, plug-in mini-amp that made it possible to jam anywhere—even if you could barely hear it.
“Ohhhh,” Uncle Jack said, his voice louder than the sudden announcements from the airport PA system. “Nice. You got it through TSA?”
“Yeah. I just walked up and said, ‘I have a musical instrument stored safely in a case.’ They opened it, and that was it. Didn’t even have to bring up the Modernization and Reform Act. They asked more about me traveling alone.”
“Cool.” Then Uncle Jack leaned into the camera. “You’ve been practicing?”
Lee knew what Uncle Jack meant. Not practicing riffs, but practicing the most monstrous riff of all time: “Eruption” by Van Halen.
Sure, it was decades old—Uncle Jack said it came out a few years before he was born in the early 1980s. But even though years and years of music had happened since then, nothing quite sounded like those two minutes of Eddie Van Halen shredding all over a fretboard.
Problem was, it was also one of the hardest songs in history to play. The fact that Lee actually got most of it was a bit of a miracle. The finger-tapping technique needed for the middle, well, his hands kept slipping during that part, no matter how many times he’d tried in the past few months. Sometimes he’d sit for an hour, trying that same thirty-second section over and over, until his palm was sweaty and his fingers raw. Other times, he’d pick up his guitar, give it one spontaneous try, then stop. Or he’d do something in between. It didn’t matter, though, because the same thing happened every time. He told himself that the first step to becoming a guitar god had to be playing through that riff.
He wasn’t quite there yet.
“Practicing. But my tapping still stinks. I actually got the last part down, though.”
“Ha,” Uncle Jack said with a bright grin. “I’ll help you learn to tap. I’ve never been able to play the end, though. Can’t play steady at that speed. So maybe you can teach me.”
“You got it, Uncle Jack.”
“Awesome, dude. We are going to have the best jam session when you get here. Protect your guitar with all your kung fu skills.” On-screen, Uncle Jack swished his free tattooed arm around, fingers forming a fist.
Lee wanted to correct Uncle Jack, first to say that his knuckles should be lined up with his forearm when punching to avoid breaking his wrist, and second, he didn’t have any magic kung fu knowledge. He’d only learned about the wrist thing when the school’s karate club had a lunch demo. Why would Uncle Jack think he knew kung fu?
Lee shook his head, a strange weight in his gut, and though he felt like doing anything but smiling, he forced one out. And just to make Uncle Jack happy, up went a fist. In proper form.
“That’s it,” Uncle Jack said, his man-bun bobbing with a nod and freckled cheeks rising. “Come on, get pumped. We’re gonna jam. We’re gonna go to a gig. It’s going to be the best holiday weekend.”
A yell came from down the airport hall, followed by the pound of footsteps. Lee shut his guitar case, then looked up from his table to see several security officers in blue shirts rushing past, the lead speaking into a walkie-talkie.
“You all right, kiddo?”
“Yeah.” But something was definitely going on. Low voices started to murmur all around him, then shouts came from across the airport’s large hall. One by one, people in the nearby waiting area stood up, craning their necks to see. “Actually, I think something weird is happening. Call you back in a bit.”
“Cool deal.” Uncle Jack stretched out the word “cool” like he always did, then smiled another toothy grin through his orange beard and waved before disappearing.
More security followed quickly. Lee watched as guards walked by with big steps and swinging arms. He stood up and slung his backpack over one shoulder, then moved away from his table, trying to listen in on what they were talking about. “Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . copy that,” the man in front said into the walkie-talkie before stopping and yelling back to the two people behind him. “Sweep the area, collect any loose objects.”
The officers spread out, the lead one walking past Lee’s view. Lee took several steps over to look through the food court’s entrance. In every direction, others also watched, drawn out of their seats by whatever this commotion was. The lead officer had stopped in front of the bookstore, talking with the sales clerk while pointing in every direction. Lee leaned forward, trying to make out any details of their conversation.
But after a minute, the man simply moved on, and the other security officers disappeared into the bustling airport. Without them to watch, people returned to their phones and books.
Lee exhaled and shook his head. “Loose objects,” he muttered to himself, and then turned, surprised that he’d stepped a little farther than he’d meant to from the table. He checked the time on his phone and called Uncle Jack back—then realized that the two security guards who had been eating in the food court had also moved.
Now they lurked by the garbage can several tables away, arms crossed over their blue shirts.
And they were looking at his guitar case.
“Loose objects,” he repeated to himself, though with a totally different meaning this time. The burly men stood, both with the reddish tint that white people got from too much sun, and they talked quietly to each other. Then one spoke into his walkie-talkie while the other grinned.
“Everything okay?” Uncle Jack asked as soon as the connection was made, but Lee ignored him. “Lee? Lee? Hey, dude, what’s wrong?”
Rather than answer Uncle Jack, Lee hit the End Call button with his thumb and slid back into his chair, tossing his backpack down by his feet. He grabbed a few curly fries and then pulled out his phone again, loading up Tetris and trying to look as casual as possible.
Almost a minute passed, but the security guards stuck around. He thought he heard one snicker, but he couldn’t be sure; Lee didn’t want to turn his head and give away that he was trying to monitor their monitoring. Instead, he played Tetris on autopilot, doing his best to look busy while feeling the weight of their stares.
They watched him. But why?
Tetris blocks piled up on-screen, his movements too sloppy to form any lines. The screen flashed, the game asked if he wanted to start over, and Lee made a decision.
He reached over and pulled his guitar case close to him.
“Excuse me, son,” one of the security guards said, stepping nearer. The word “son” sounded the complete opposite of how it did when Lee’s Midwest grandpa gently said it.
Lee had never encountered police or security before, outside of a school presentation or saying “hello” or “thank you.”
He did, however, know exactly what this tone meant. Every jerk cop in every movie ever made talked like this.
Lee snuck a peek at the pair of frowning uniformed men looking at him, then locked his eyes on the guitar case.
The taller security guard cleared his throat and repeated himself. “Excuse me, son.”
“Oh, hi . . .” What word should he use? Sir? Officer? Nothing at all? “Hi, officers. This is mine.” There. Clean and simple and confident.
And honest. Nothing to judge. He was just a kid eating lunch, on his way to see his uncle. With his legally approved guitar.
The bald man on the left—KOWLER etched on his name tag—pointed at the instrument case. “What’s that?” he asked, his salt-and-pepper goatee lifting up when his mouth curled.
“It’s a guitar.”
“Hmm,” the other guard said. He stood several inches shorter than Kowler, though with a trimmer physique. The name UMBRIDGE was etched on the name tag on his broad chest. “Far too big for a carry-on. Seems awfully suspicious.”
“No, no,” Lee said, but then he caught himself. Was he being defiant? Or rude? Would that make things worse? “It’s just a guitar.”
“Listen, kid,” Kowler said. “I don’t think you realize this, but the airport’s in a bit of a situation here. So, it would really help if you weren’t trying to slow us down.”
“No, look, it’s totally legal.” Suddenly, all the notes Uncle Jack sent him came in extra handy. “You’re allowed to bring on musical instruments. The FAA Modernization and Reform Act of 2012 says so, as long as there’s room. And I upgraded my boarding slot to make sure there would be plenty of space so—”
“Where are your parents?”
“I’m flying by myself,” Lee said, the words making him naturally feel bigger. “Lemme open it and I’ll show you—it’s a blue Stratocaster.”
He moved to click open the case’s locks when an “Ah ah ah” interrupted him. “Don’t do that. Don’t touch anything,” Kowler said before motioning Umbridge back several steps. Lee glanced around the food court, the various cooks and cashiers working like nothing extraordinary was happening. Same with the people sitting; most looked at their phones, and only one older woman gave him a second glance.
He felt the officers’ eyes as they continued speaking to each other, Umbridge with his thumbs hanging on his belt and Kowler rubbing his goatee with arms crossed, and though they talked quietly, the words came through clear enough for Lee to hear. “I don’t know. Still seems pretty suspicious.”
“You think?” Umbridge asked. He tilted his chin, an overhead light reflecting off his rough cheeks.
“Look at him. There’s no way he plays guitar.” Lee’s gut twisted at that sentence. How could they say that? He was even wearing a Ramones shirt. They were the punk band. Should he explain how Uncle Jack introduced him to classic punk? “Maybe piano,” Kowler added. “Or, like, violin. But not guitar.”
Lee knew exactly what that meant.
Because there were no Asian guitar gods. Classical musicians like Yo-Yo Ma and his cello, sure, but rock stars? Nope.
“Ah,” Umbridge said, his lips sticking out as he nodded. “See what you mean. But that T-shirt. That’s a legit band.”
“Right. But they sell bootleg shirts in Chinatown.”
Thoughts whirled through Lee’s head. He could talk about bands. And how his parents weren’t like other parents, how they got him into music—real music, not just the popular stuff. How they lived in Berkeley, where his mom—Uncle Jack’s sister—worked as an illustrator, and his dad taught philosophy at UC Berkeley. He wasn’t like what the officers were talking about. He played rock guitar, not piano or violin. He’d always stood apart, except at School of Rock, where he fit right in—just like he wanted. “This isn’t a bootleg,” he said. “I got it from their website.”
“Sure you did, kid.”
Their walkie-talkies squawked in unison, Kowler answering, a muffled voice saying something about an all clear, though the details were drowned out. “Understood,” he said into the walkie before looking at Lee. “What’s your name?”
“Lee Chang. C-H-A-N-G,” he said, adding the spelling like he always did.
“Well, Lee Chang,” the guard said, patting the guitar case, “this is a suspicious object. We gotta take it in.” Umbridge stepped forward, and though he seemed like a pretty average adult height, Lee felt like he, himself, had somehow shrunk down to the size of a guitar pick. “You have to understand, you don’t look like someone who plays guitar. I mean, come on.”
Inside Lee, everything electrified: his thoughts, his muscles, his heart.
Suddenly, every second he had ever put into practicing the guitar, every layer of calluses on his fingertips, all led to this moment. In the food court at Chicago Gateway International Airport.
“Let me show you,” he said. In one motion, Lee clicked open the guitar case, threw back the top, and slung his Stratocaster over his shoulder. He plugged the mini-amp into the guitar’s output jack and turned it up as loud as the tiny speaker would go.
Then Lee stood up, like a guitar god about to take the stage.
Except here, he stood on his chair at a food court. But he felt every eye on him, from the guards to the cashiers.
He fished a guitar pick from his pocket, then held it between his fingers.
There was only one thing to do, one song to play.
Lee slammed the opening A5 chord of “Eruption” and began the riff that started low, then walked up high, before screaming back down low. Then boom-boom-boom, three power chords in a row. The fingers of his left hand flew up the fretboard, sliding the high string up for rapid-fire playing, and shredding at full speed as notes flew out of the mini-amp. Sweat formed on his temple, but he didn’t care; his head bobbed, fingers spider-walking down the fretboard to finish the section.
The notes rang out, a chain-saw-like buzz that wobbled with his whammy bar.
All around him, heads turned and murmurs started. He couldn’t hear what they said, but he knew they watched. And listened.
He went into the next riff, moving up the middle strings at full speed, his heart pounding in time. Because this was the next section, the part he never got right—the part where his hands always slipped.
The finger tapping.
He started, his left hand on the frets and his right hand moving close, a special technique only for the fastest of metal guitar. And with the weight of an audience watching him, he closed his eyes and locked in, his fingers answering. In perfect time. He didn’t think about it, an entire wall of sound coming out rapid-fire. And the strangest thing happened:
His hand didn’t slip.
In fact, he’d gotten through the whole section, the first time he’d ever done that, from the triumphant peak of arpeggiated high notes to the walk down before he slid a dive-bomb on the low string, the note ringing out while he leaned on the whammy bar; then he fired off a quick power chord to close it out.
The final roar faded, the sound from the mini-amp gradually absorbing into the noise of the airport, and he breathed hard, like he’d just sprinted for two straight minutes. Which he kind of had, except with his fingers.
He looked up to see everyone in the food court staring at him. Maybe because of the wild guitar playing. But also maybe because he was standing on his chair.
“What was that?” Kowler asked with a laugh.
“Um,” Lee said, the question stealing anything good he felt. “‘Eruption’ by Van Halen?”
“Sounded like a bunch of buzzing to me,” Umbridge said. “Where’d you get that toy amp?”
“It’s a practice amp.”
“Uh-huh. Does it work with your violin?”
Violin? He’d just played “Eruption” flawlessly.
“Eruption” wasn’t only difficult, the song was on the level of guitar gods. And they didn’t care. They laughed.
In that moment, even though everything looked and sounded and felt the same as the second prior, the world became different.
Lee bit down on his lip. He’d tried. He’d tried so hard to be a rock musician. And he knew what that violin comment meant. Was it so difficult to believe an Asian kid could shred like Eddie Van Halen?
“Ugh,” he let out without thinking.
The men turned to him.
He hadn’t meant to say that. To recover, he coughed. Then cleared his throat. Anything to get away from the situation, to let him melt into the background. All he wanted was to go visit Uncle Jack—why were they giving him such grief?
“Something you want to say to us?”
“I’m . . .” Behind him, people passed, a combination of voices and footsteps and rolling suitcases, totally ignoring what was happening. “It’s just my guitar,” he finally said, his voice quiet. “I’m going to visit my uncle. We’re going to have a jam session. He plays in bands. He’s going to take me to a show. Look.” Lee pulled out his phone and loaded up a picture of Uncle Jack’s band. “He’s the rhythm guitarist.” He held up the screen, half expecting the officers to take his phone as well for no reason. “He’s the one who told me how to get through TSA. He said musical instruments have special exemptions.”
