Walls

“If you can’t play for us,” Jan says in an encouraging voice, “you know you’d have a tough time on open mic night at the Union.”

Jan and Ken are U. Michigan grads who’ve ventured into enemy territory. Both of them are grad students at UW Madison. She’s working on her Ph.D. in Economics, and he on his M.B.A. I’m in the English M.A. program, but I spend most of my time playing guitar rather than studying.

“Yeah, Lanning,” Ken says, “just play for us like you’re playing by yourself. Think of us as not being here.”

This is like telling someone not to think of a blue elephant.

“I love your John Denver songs,” Jen says. “You do those so well.”

You may well ask how she would know this given that I’ve never played in front of them. The reason she and Ken know my playing so well is that we live in this apartment house on South Park, down near the Beltline Highway. This is not a high-rent district. The walls – and floors and ceilings – are as thin as the ice I feel I’d be skating on if I tried to play on open mic night.

“How about ‘Take Me Home, Country Road’?” Jen suggests.

“Ah, okay, I’ll try it.”

I play the intro, and so far all’s well. I begin singing, and it’s as if I can’t breathe. I need more air than I have to push out the words.

“Sorry, sorry,” I say, stopping and shaking my head. “I think it’s just a no-go. I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can, Lanning,” says Ken. “We’re going to have you over here every night until you get over your fear of performing for other people.”

It’s they who want me to do open mic night at Memorial Union. I can’t figure out how I’ve fallen so deep into the pit of this plan. I should have just said ‘no’ at the get-go. But you know, deep down, I’d love to get up on that stage and kill. I know when I’m by myself my playing is decent. Sometimes it’s even inspired. When I’m deep into my Gordon Lightfoot trance, I can almost channel him.

So, bottom line, it’s all my fault. Saying I didn’t want to do it would have immediately halted this downhill journey. But vanity – it is vanity – got in the way. Or more like stepped aside and invited me to dive into the abyss.

“Every night?” I say. “I can’t do that to you.”

“It’s not a problem,” says Jan. “You sound great. If you can get past this, you’ll be terrific. Folks are going to love you.”

“We’ll cheer real loud,” says Ken.

I smile and nod. “Okay, well, thanks. Okay, let me try another one.”

This time I can’t even get through the intro to “Rocky Mountain High.”

“Ahhhhh, that one’s too hard,” I say. “I should pick something easy.”

They stare at me. Their anticipatory looks are both encouraging and daunting.

“I’d better call it a night,” I say. “I’m so sorry to do this to you.”

“It’s only the first time,” says Jan. “It’ll get better each night. We should shoot for you to perform a couple weeks from now.”

I’m nodding as enthusiastically as I can. Ken is nodding twice as fast.

“You’ll get there, Lanning,” he says. “We’ll help you do this.”

I pack up my guitar, thank them for dinner, and quarter-heartedly agree to return for dinner the following night.

The next day, dreading my evening performance, I head off for class. It’s impossible to concentrate on Old English and the 20th-century novel.

After I park in the apartment building lot, I sit in the car, my eyes closed, trying to visualize a terrific performance after dinner. Finally, I check my watch, knowing the hour is nearly upon me. With barely a half hour to go, I trudge up the stairs to the second floor.

When I reach the landing, I can see something is wrong. Several apartment doors are open in the hallway. This by itselfwould not be Twilight Zone odd, but one of the doors is mine.

My heart beating faster, I run down the hall and into my apartment. I can see right away that my TV is gone. My guitar, my baby. I race into the bedroom, and there it is, sitting next to the bed.

Idiots, I think. This is my Martin. It cost 1200 in 1976 dollars. The TV cost me $150.

Immediately more relaxed, I search through the apartment. Nothing else is missing.

Stepping back out into the hall, I see that Jan and Ken’s door is closed. I knock. Jan opens the door. “Lanning,” she says, “right on time. Dinner’s ready.”

Judging by her tone and demeanor, I get the feeling she’s not been robbed.

“Jen, was your apartment broken into?”

“What?”

I step out into the hallway. “You see all these open doors,” I say. “I think all of these folks have been robbed.”

“Oh my,” she says. Turning back into the apartment, she calls out, “Hon, did you know someone broke into some of our neighbors’ apartments?”

Ken comes to the door to take a look.

I say, “I’m guessing the open doors are to units where the folks haven’t come home yet.”

“Were you robbed?” Jan asks.

“Yes, I was. My door was open when I came back.”

“Did they take anything from you?” Ken asks.

“Oh my God,” says Jan. “Not your guitar?”

I stare at her, then look at Ken. Their faces scream horror at the idea that my guitar is gone

“Well, uh, yes,” I say, “they took my TV and my guitar.”

I would tell you that I don’t know why I lied, but I think you can tell exactly why I did. The police showed up eventually, but I didn’t volunteer that I was one of the people robbed.

This action, I did not share with Jan and Ken. Let them think — the best for all concerned — it was the day my music died.

I played no music for three months. Then, I moved to a new place on University Avenue. The walls were thick. No one could hear anyone else. No one could hear me play and sing anymore