Failing Upward

Chapter 5 (part 4): Strangers in the Night

Smith's garage had terrible acoustics. It's not unusual for objects hanging on the wall, like hammers and saws, to vibrate, fly off and hit you while playing. Pruning shears leave nasty scars. Still, without my studio, we were limited to where we could practice. Jimbo's wife kicked us out of their house years ago, and Bill never had a residence long enough to practice in.

When Sherlock went to drop me off, I could tell he wanted me to invite him to stay and listen. He's done it many times over the years, and the band never cared--much. We like having an audience. Spouses, friends and significant others often sat and listened to us play, argue and joke around. But Sherlock would invariably say something insulting, because that's what he does. I almost sent Sherlock down the road until I saw the substitute was already hooked up in the garage. As soon as Sherlock saw he was there, he was out of his car.

"Hello beautiful," Bill said, giving me one of his suffocating bear hugs. "Looking better. Your black eyes are almost gone." He winked at Sherlock.

"We want you to meet the man who was nice enough to sub for you," Bill said, scratching his head. "We were thinking about adding another member. Now, don't get the wrong idea. Sherlock told me you thought we wanted to replace you. Like we could ever replace you? You're one of the best as a writer and a musician. But you know that what the band has needed since the very beginning is someone with a strong distinctive voice. I think he can bring that to our band. He's an adequate guitarist, but exceptional vocalist."

"You're so full of shit," I said to Bill. "You have a great voice, so does Jim. What the hell is this really about? Connections?"

"Well, yeah, that's another part of it. I can't say it isn't. We would never replace you. Shit, you were a founding member of the band! You're what's kept us from tearing out each others throats. You've kept our heads above water. You're the wind beneath over wings for Christ's sake."

"Enough of the mixed metaphors. I came here to practice."

I sat the guitar case down. "And by the way, where'd this guitar come from?" I asked.

"We bought it. So shut the fuck up," Bill said, smacking me in the shoulder. "We care about you, you dumb ass."

"I deserved that. Thank you. It's just like my old one. Where'd you get it?" I asked.

"Bought it from the new guy," Bill said. Shit, I was beginning to feel ungrateful again.

That's when I opened the case, and there it was under the guitar.

"Holy, Shit!" I yelled.

Everyone thought I was off on another nut, and Sherlock bent to look at what the hell was in my guitar case. He stood up. The card was in his hand.

"The missing card!" I said.

"What are you talking about?" Bill asked.

"Long story," I replied, looking at the small envelope in between Sherlock's fingers. The top was ragged and a bloody thumb print--my blood--stained the front. I must have opened it after the accident. Odd, I never ripped envelopes open. Sherlock pulled out the card and looked at it--

He turned it over and showed it to me. All I saw were a series of L's and O's.

"Ones and zeros," Sherlock said to himself.

"Ones and zeros? What does that mean?" I asked, looking the card over more carefully.

"Binary code. For computers."

"You think that's what it is?" I asked Sherlock.

"I can't think of anything else it could be."

"But why would he send his mom flowers with a card written binary code?" I asked. Sherlock shrugged.