You Can Learn Anything on YouTube
A rejected story
Description: I wrote this one a few years ago now, well before Oasis announced their reunion tour. Oasis feature heavily, but it’s not really about them.
I submitted it to a handful of publications without any luck. It was recently once again rejected, so I figured now is as good a time as any to share it here.
Being desperate for money is no joke. I'm not talking about yearning for millions to live the life of some gluttonous slug in a mansion somewhere overlooking the peasants. I'm talking about being desperate for enough money to pay the rent, to put food in your belly. I could drag myself along to one of them food banks but by fuck if anyone who knew me saw me my family would never live it down. I can just hear it now. 'Did ya hear Tom Gildea's son was in the food bank the other day? Must be blowing his money on the drink.' I fucking wish I had the money to blow on the drink. No. I'm just like all the other plebs out there that found themselves out of work in the middle of a global pandemic. There's not more to it than that.
You'd think those bastards we took the time to cast a vote for would make sure we had enough money in our pockets to eat, wouldn't ya? No such luck. Those pigs swilling their expensive wines and scoffing their smelly fucking cheeses are laughing at all of us. More fool us for voting them in over-and-over-and-over-and-over...
Anyway, there's this one fella in the square who sits there with his acoustic guitar singing Oasis and other shite like that and people can't help themselves but give him hard cash. I even saw a mother send her wee girl over to put money in the lad's guitar case. The poor wee girl looked like she was star struck or something. Like a deer in the headlights she walked over all wide-eyed and bent down, never breaking eye-contact with the guitar fella, and dropped a few quid in the case. He did one of those smug, head nods while closing his eyes and rolling his lips together until his beard and moustache merged as one mono fuzz. Christ, how does he make so much money for such dog shite? Anyone could do what he does. Singing fucking Noel Gallagher songs is hardly a fucking feat. Any prick could wing that, you can learn anything on YouTube these days. Maybe people feel sorry for him. Maybe they hope he'll fuck off sooner if he gathers enough coppers. Or maybe they're all just fucking idiots with more money than sense of what real talent is.
I was standing there watching the grift one afternoon. Watching the minstrel flog his melodic snake oil. The scowl on my face wasn't subtle. I didn't care, the hunger pangs in my stomach were pissing me off. He put his guitar down on top of the money inside the case. He pulled out tobacco and rolled himself a cigarette, sparked it and took a drag.
“Hey, fella,” he said looking in my direction.
I didn't respond at first, thinking he couldn't be speaking to me. When he repeated himself, I looked around me and realised I was the only person there. It was like the shoppers had upped and vanished into thin air.
“What?” I said, arms folded.
“Would ya do me a favour and keep an eye on my stool and gear while I run into the shopping centre for a piss?”
“Aye, no worries,” I said without even thinking the proposition through.
My legs led me over to the smoking talent vacuum and I stood there while he readied himself. He pulled on his coat, scooped up the paper monies in the case from beneath the guitar - leaving the coins where they were - and pulled the case lid down, latching it closed.
“Cheers, fella, I'll be back in a flash,” he said slapping my shoulder.
Callin' me fuckin' fella, I thought. I didn't say anything. Just watched him, shoulders hunched, make his way towards the shops with the thin trail of smoke tailing him.
When he was out of sight I sat on his wee three-legged wooden stool. Of course it'd be a handmade wooden stool. Wanker.
I eyed the guitar case. It was battered with age and covered in fading stickers of various bands, mostly shite ones. Fuck me, this clown was a cliche. A cliche with food is his belly and money in his case. That thought stuck with me. He had money in his case. I looked around the square. Not a soul in sight. I started picking at the dog-eared corner of one of the stickers absently, thinking about all the shite and bullshit in my life all the while the hunger pangs a background noise. I don't know what overcame me, but I reached for the handle of the case and next thing I knew I was booting the stool as hard as I could sending it soaring into the side of bins with an almighty clatter. I turned and ran as fast as my legs could carry me. I don't know if you've ever tried to run with a bulky guitar case before but let me tell ya, it's a fucking hassle. The handle wasn't rigid but hinged and so the damned thing swung wildly as I ran, almost as though it was trying to escape me. It didn't help that the coins inside the case were pinging around and bouncing off the guitar. The discordant cacophony of notes emanating from the case was sure to draw attention to my ill-conceived heist. I saw people in shop windows looking out at this inelegant figure, all flailing arms and legs, dash down the cobbled side streets away from the square all the while wrestling an uncooperative guitar case. There's no way someone wouldn't put two-and-two together. I just had to hope no one got a good look at me.
I arrived back to my shitty flat five or so minutes later. My lungs were burning, my thigh and knee were sore from the case whacking against them. Hand shaking, I stabbed the key into the lock, swung open the door, threw the case on the ground unleashing an explosion of notes, and I collapsed onto the saggy armchair. My lungs roared and seared with pain. I gasped like a man who needed a ventilator. The ringing of the tossed guitar slowly merging into a harmonic single low, slowly fading note. What the fuck did I just do?
A while later, when I could breathe without pain, I knelt beside the guitar case, the bruised knee complaining, and I opened the latches. I took the guitar and placed it on the floor gently. I had a headache and did not want another round of screaming, uncorralled vibrating strings. I looked inside the case. There was my haul. There must have been around nine quid in there. Hardly a windfall. I picked a shite day to rip off the local busker. I dragged the coins over the cloth lining into a pile and scooped them up and pushed them deep into my pocket.
My head was busting. I put on my hoody, pulled the hood up and out over my forehead and stepped outside. I figured I had to keep a low profile for a while, just in case. I sullenly walked to the pharmacy and bought myself a pack of paracetamol. I treated myself to a coffee from a cart nearby and swallowed down 3 tablets. I found my way back home and spilled what change I had left onto my wee coffee table. A fiver and some shrapnel left. Maybe enough to buy a loaf of bread and some sandwich fillings.
I slumped back into the chair, eyes closed and rubbed at my temples. My head flopped to the side and there it was taunting me, the wanker’s guitar. That'd be worth a few quid, maybe. I got out of the chair and reached for the instrument of that fuck's audio assault. I didn't know much of anything about guitars but I had seen a mate years ago look along the neck to see if one he was buying was warped or not. I did the same. It looked straight enough to me. I turned it around and onto my lap. I gave the strings a strum, one after the other. It didn't sound right, it must have detuned with all the bouncing around. If I could retune it and maybe put an ad online I might be able to get a decent bit of money for it and the case. A package deal.
I put the guitar down and swiftly made my way into the kitchen. I ran warm water into a bowl and grabbed one of those washing-up sponges and went back to the case. I got on my knees and peeled off the stickers as best I could and then started scouring the sticky white remnants off. A lot of cursing and elbow grease later the case just looked like a regular black, heavily worn guitar case. No unique identifiers. I could pull this off. I picked up the guitar and that's when I noticed the signature scrawled across the back of it in permanent marker. This spoofer had signed his own guitar. Fuck me. If I scratched that off I doubt anyone would buy such a damaged looking instrument. I again slumped back into the chair. Just my fucking luck.
I must have fallen asleep as the next thing I remember is the rattle of the key in my front door. I bolted upright, still a bit foggy and confused from sleep.
“Alright, Gildea?” said my bastard landlord.
“Just let yourself in, Frank, don't worry about me.”
“Smart mouth for a man who owes me two month's rent.”
“One month, Frank. Only three weeks into this month.”
“Potato, tomato.”
I just stood there eyeing the blood sucking leech.
“Look, Gildea, I'll have to move you on if you don't get on top of the rent situation. This isn't a shelter for bums.”
“I'll have it for you. I'm hoping to start a new job soon.”
“What's the job?”
I hesitated. I hadn't thought this lie through. Then, when did I ever think anything through?
I remembered the evidence of my crime on the floor just behind me and glanced reflexively towards it. The landlord spotted my tell and leant to the side to get a look.
“You play guitar? I didn't know that.”
I shrugged.
“I better not get complaints from the other tenants.”
“You won't.”
“So, what's this job? You in a band now or something?”
“No, I'm going to start giving guitar lessons,” I blurted out.
I had no idea where these words were coming from. I must have been losing my mind.
“Is that right?” he said with a smirk and rising inflection. “Give us a tune then.”
My face flushed with heat.
“I don't do requests, Frank. I'm a professional.”
He laughed at that. Prick.
“Look, Gildea. Don't get cocky. Remember who you're speaking to.”
This attempt at intimidation didn’t really land how he intended it to. He brushed passed the awkward moment.
“I tell you what. My oldest wean wants to learn the guitar. I'll be fucked if I'm gonna cough up cash for some hippy waster to teach her. How about you give her a few lessons until she gets bored of it and moves onto her next notion, and I'll give you another week's grace on that rent? Should give you time to get a few customers for your business.”
He said ‘business’ with finger quotes.
I turned around and looked at the guitar. I had a flash of picking it up and swinging it wildly and bringing it down on my landlord's head, over-and-over-and-over...
“Well!?” said the leech.
I snapped out of the fantasy and thought, how hard could the basics be?
“Aye, dead on, you got a deal.”
“Good man yourself. She can be a wee bollocks, but I expect you to be patient with her.”
“I don't suppose you've got around to booking an electrician for the kitchen lights, or a plumber for the leaky taps?”
“Oh, aye, I'll let you know as soon as I nail them down. They're busy this time of year.”
I didn't have the energy to have this argument again, so I left it.
“I'll bring the wee girl round tomorrow at nine, first thing. I'll be seein' ya, Gildea.”
And before I properly registered an objection the leech let himself out.
#
You can learn anything on YouTube. I read an article online about a man who taught himself to paint from YouTube. He was making a packet now selling his art. I wasn't brave enough to take on fixing my own electrics or plumbing issues, but in principle you could find out all this shite on YouTube too.
I searched "Teach yourself guitar basics". Thousands of videos. Piss easy, I thought. I brought up the first video and watched the full ten minutes of the overly enthusiastic fuck explain what strings were what, what parts of the guitar were called, and it ended with a "simple" blues scale. I tried to emulate what he was doing. I didn't have a pick so I made do and used my fingers. Pushing the strings down with my other hand was fucking painful. I hadn't expected that. Whatever I was doing sounded nothing like the video.
“Fuck sake, tuning,” I said to myself.
I took a break and made myself a cup of tea. I had found a spare pack of the minstrel's tobacco in his case, papers and all, so made myself a smoke to go with the tea. I sat on the floor and searched how to tune a guitar while sipping and smoking. Turns out this was more straight forward than I thought. I downloaded an app and plucked a string and a needle moved around as I turned the tuning key. It was like a computer game. In no time at all the few notes of the blues scales I plucked sounded close enough to the video. Piss easy.
Next, I decided I better learn at least a part of a song to start teaching the wee girl something. Maybe if I made it interesting enough she would want to keep the lessons going and it'd buy me more time for the rent. I only had to stay a lesson or two ahead of her on YouTube for the grift to work. Who knows, maybe I would get good and make money out of teaching.
I had no clue what kind of music she listened to. Probably some shite off TikTok or whatever. I started with a Radiohead song. I spent what I thought was a good hour trying to copy the chords on the video tutorial. It was fucking agony on my fingertips pushing the strings down. I couldn't understand why I was being so slow between chord changes either. The fingers on my strumming hand were starting to feel a bit raw too. I looked at the time on my mobile. Fuck me, it was nearly midnight already. I was fucked. No way I was pulling this off.
My hands were starting to go all numb from the cold. No central heating in my shithole flat. I made myself a coffee and another cigarette. I moved the ancient electric heater in front of me and the guitar and flicked it on. I was going to pull an all-nighter, like I used to as a student. I could do this.
At around 3am I gave up on the Radiohead song, it was too fucking hard. I searched for an Oasis song. Four chords. Now we were talking. I strummed and strummed the night through. The tenants above me were drinking and partying hard so I got no complaints. By around 8am I thought I was starting to get the hang of it. My chord changes were still far too slow but I could pretend I was slowing it down for the wee girl so she could keep up. Didn't want to overwhelm her and all that.
My fucking fingertips were near raw from pushing into the strings, they looked swollen too. The fucker had metal strings. Why the fuck would you do that? It was like pushing as hard as you can into cheese wire. The videos I watched all said beginners can start with nylon. I wish I'd stolen a guitar from a beginner.
It was 8:30am and I was wired. Too much coffee and nicotine. I was starting to melt with the heat too. I'd forgotten to turn off the rusty heater. Fucking electric bill was gonna be massive. Sweat was dripping from my head, my t-shirt and jeans sticking to me. I pulled off my top and bottoms, knocked off the heater, cracked a window, and sat back on the floor in my jocks. I'd cool down soon enough and ready myself for the arrival of my pupil. One or two more run-throughs of the tutorial video and I'd be grand. It'd be enough to bluff it for the first lesson.
The pressure must have been propelling me on. I pushed through the pain and held down the cheese wire and between slow chord changes strummed the guitar with more enthusiasm than any Oasis song warranted. I started getting lost in the moment. I was starting to feel the music. Starting to 'get' it. It was as if it was becoming an extension of my being. I closed my eyes and drifted, becoming enveloped by the notes. I could feel the sweat splash around me as I thrashed at the strings, but I didn't care. I was making music. Mid strum I heard a scream. I jumped out of my skin and sent the guitar skidding across the floor into the cooling heater. Through the ringing notes of the abused instrument, I saw the landlord's daughter standing with her hands over her mouth, keys dangling from her grasp.
“Oh, shite,” I said and grabbed my t-shirt to cover my bare legs and jocks.
The landlord was a couple of steps behind his daughter.
“What in under fuck!” he shouted.
There was horror in his eyes.
“Sorry, I didn't hear her come in. You really shouldn't let yourself in, for fuck sake.”
They were both standing there speechless. The landlord pushed his daughter out the door.
“Gildea, what the fuck? What the fuck!”
He just stood there staring at me, his eyes bulging out of their sockets, looking me up and down.
“Actually, I don't want to know. Clean this mess up and be out by the end of the week.”
He turned and left before I had time to react. Fuck me, I knew I was pale as fuck but I can't have been that hideous in my jocks.
I was delirious with lack of sleep, utterly confused at the over-reaction. I reached for the cigarette balanced on a tin and then I saw it. There was blood all over my hand. It was streaming from two of my fingers and dripping onto the carpet. I looked down at the guitar. It was smeared with my blood like it had been used in some sacrificial ceremony. My torso too was Jackson Pollocked with red. I raced to the full-length mirror in my bedroom. My face, my white jocks, my hair, all sullied with my insides. I looked like a butcher who’d had a mental-break mid-butchering.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” I said and slouched my way to the bath and climbed in and turned on the shower, sitting down humming that Oasis song to myself as the water rained down onto my head.
There was a choke and a sputter and the water started spitting out brown gunk. I moved to the end of the bath and watched the shower head fit and jerk. Maybe I could fix it myself. You can learn anything on YouTube these days.
END
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citations:
tube: https://au.pinterest.com/pin/693554411348534752/
room: https://pixabay.com/photos/lost-places-abandoned-room-old-597166/
stool: https://pixabay.com/photos/stool-beanbag-furniture-wood-old-7697244/
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Here’s something you can learn on YouTube about the fabled algorithm: