By Friday evening the bad news was sinking deep. All four of our parents said they couldn’t help us and be our sponsor for a patrol. We’re sunk. We’ll get split up and Kyle will make our lives miserable.
I truly felt lost. I really wanted this scout thing to work out. I wanted it to be just as fun as I saw my father having in the photos in the old album.
I couldn’t think of what to do next. I started to feel sorry for myself. I threw on an old album by The Smiths, flopped down on my bed and started to wallow in my own self-pity. What a Friday night this was going to be.
I tried passing the time with a little Red Dead Redemption. But I just wasn’t feeling it. Logged on to a little Call of Duty. Couldn’t find anybody online. So, I bagged that. I logged onto my PC, maybe there were some new YouTube videos I could catch. I started doom surfing. But there are only so many Annoying Orange, OK Go and Double Rainbow videos you can handle in one sitting.
Then I remembered what Sawyer told me on Tuesday. He said he found a friend of my dad’s on a web site. I checked my phone for the link and called it up on my computer.
Emerald City Glassworks. It was a studio that specialized in pieces of art made of hand-blown glass.
I clicked on the ABOUT US link. Where did they mention my dad’s friend and bandmate? There was a quick description on the page.
Emerald City Glassworks is a captivating art studio nestled in the heart of Seattle. Here a collective of many artists bring the enchanting world of hand-blown glass art to life. Situated amidst the city’s vibrant art scene and creative energy, our studio is a sanctuary for artists, enthusiasts, and collectors alike, dedicated to the exquisite craft of hand-blown glass.Our gallery showcases an array of hand-blown glass art pieces, from dazzling chandeliers that illuminate spaces with a warm, ethereal glow to intricate glass sculptures that evoke a sense of wonder and intrigue. Each piece is unique, reflecting the individual creativity of our artists. Scroll through our bios of our collective of artists.
As I scrolled down the page, there were a few headshots of the different artists. And then I saw his photo, Johnny Burnside. There was a short bio.
“Johnny Burnside is a local artist and musician. His pieces have been installed in galleries and public places around the country. You can see his largest installation, a 30-foot-wide hand-blown glass chandelier, hanging in the main entrance of the Seattle Public Library. When not creating new works of art at the studio, Johnny can be found at many music venues performing his acoustic sets. “
That’s him! Now what? Do I call him? Should I email him through the web site first? What do I even ask him? I surfed around the site a bit more and found the address of the studio. It wasn’t that far from my house. I could skate there in under an hour.
“Screw it. Let’s go” I muttered to myself. It’s better than moping around here all Friday night. I picked up my board and started to head out. Just before I left my room I stopped and noticed the old photo album. I picked it up and stuffed it in my backpack. Then I had one more thought. I rummaged through the box of old albums of my father’s. I found his band’s album. I stuffed it in my backpack and headed out.
The studio was on the waterfront of the southern part of Lake Union. There were a lot of run-down warehouses. The first time you see it, the area looks a little sketchy.
But as I skated through the neighborhood, I could see an occasional open door or dirty window. There were spaces for a lot of artists, metal sculptors and painters. Empty garages were used as a place where a band could practice. You could smell the paint, the turpentine, the sparks from the welders, the ink from printing presses. It just felt…creative. And I felt comfortable. It wasn’t so sketchy. It was just its own place where people could do their own thing. That didn’t scare me.
I took me awhile to find the address of the studio. But when I finally figured it out the building looked abandoned. There was barely an address on the door. Just a few numbers stenciled on the door in spray paint.
The entrance facing the street was locked. I didn’t even think to check if they would be open now. Does this place even have regular hours? There was no doorbell, no door knocker, not even a mail slot to look through and catch a glimpse of what was inside. What a waste of time.
I decided to look around. Maybe there was a sign that would tell me the times they were open. Then I could come back. But I couldn’t find anything. I figured I might as well head home. Total bust of an evening. I dropped my board on the sidewalk and started to hop on. But as soon as I started to roll, I noticed something on the sidewalk. I quickly stopped and started to roll back. There was something painted on the sidewalk.
It was a cluster of green emeralds. And next to it was an arrow pointing straight ahead.
Emerald City Glassworks. Is this giving me directions?
I skated down the sidewalk in the direction the arrow pointed. When I reached the end of the building, I saw another painting on the sidewalk. Another batch of emeralds. There was another arrow. Only this time it was pointing in the direction down the alley. I turned and started to slowly roll down the alley. Then I heard a loud CLASH! It sounded like two giant pieces of metal clashing together. It scared the shit out of me. Maybe this area is sketchier than I thought. Then I heard another clash. I slowly skated down the alley towards the far corner of the building. As I reached the corner, I stopped. I slowly peaked around the corner of the building. Another CLASH of metal.
Relief. It was just some guy throwing his trash in a dumpster. Every time he tossed a bag in, he let the dumpster lid free fall down letting the lid make a huge racket.
Then it hit me, that guy is coming out of the back of the Emerald Glass studio. Was he the maintenance guy cleaning up? Once the guy went into the building I started to walk further down the alley. I could see a large roll up garage door was open. That must be the studio. How close do I get? Is this safe?
I peered into the studio and what I saw blew me away. There were huge pieces of glass art in various stages of being built. All sorts of colors. A huge furnace was firing. That must be where the glass is forged.
The sunset was coming in through the skylights and made everything even more colorful
Then it hit me. That guy throwing out the trash was now working on a piece of glass. That’s him. That’s my dad’s friend, Johhny Burnside, aka Shreddy Mercury. What the hell do I do now? I slowly stepped into the studio. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to knock or say anything. Screw it, I just started to walk in. I wasn’t looking carefully where I was walking and bumped my hip into a work bench. The metal tools on the bench rattled. That caught Burnside’s attention. He spun around and saw me.
“Hey!” he snapped. “No tours. There’s a hot kiln open. Step back out of the work area. What do you want?”
I froze. I wasn’t ready to tell him why I was there. I didn’t even know why I was there.
“Who you looking for?” he asked.
“Sorry, I’m looking for Johnny Burnside.” I mumbled.
“Who wants to know?”
“Nobody. Me. I’m an art student. I like your work.” I lied. I’m no art student. But I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him who I was yet.
“Yeah? Which one do you like?” He wasn’t buying it.
“I love the chandelier in the lobby of the public library”
“Yeah? What do you like about it?” He kept working, barely looking up at me.
“Everything, The color, the structure, the use of space”
Burnside started to chuckle under his breath. He knew I was full of shit.
“Nice” he said. Then you probably also like the chandelier I did for the Museum of History and Industry.”
“Yeah” I was just going with it now. “I saw it on the way here”
He stopped working at his bench and looked straight at me.
“I don’t have a chandelier in the Museum of History and Industry. We’re closing kid. What can I help you with? Otherwise, I have to close up.”
I froze up again. I need to think of something fast or I’ll never get to talk to him again. Then an idea hit me. I grabbed my backpack and unzipped it.
“Easy their kid.” Jonny warned. What did he think? Did he think I was armed?
I reached into the backpack and pulled out the album. Johnny immediately recognized it. He stared right at it for a good ten seconds. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Was he happy? Scared? Pissed? Then he started to smile and started to laugh. But not just laugh, it was a decibel ear-popping hyena laugh.
“What junk shop did you pull that out of?” He couldn’t stop laughing. “How much did you pay for this? A dollar? Fifty cents? No matter what, you overpaid” he continued to laugh.
I held the album out to him still frozen to speak. Burnside just kept looking at me and laughing.
“What?” he stared at me. “Are you serious? What do you want? An autograph? You mean you actually listened to this?”
“My friend and I listen to this a couple times a week. It’s one of my favorites.”
“It’s not very good.” he quipped. “In fact, it sucks” he laughed.
“I don’t care. It’s still my favorite. It always will be, more than anything by The Clash, Pistols or New York Dolls.”
“Now I know you’re full of shit. Have we met? You’re not part of some underground online fan club, are you?”
“No. My friend sent me the link to this studio’s web site. I wanted to meet you.”
“You want an autograph?”
“No.”
“Ok. You just wanted to say hi? Well thank you for coming. I appreciate the memories. That was a good time. But I really need to start closing up now”
“Do you still play?” I was desperately gasping for anything that could keep the conversation going. If he got me out that door, I’ll never come back.
“Sometimes. But not those tunes. Sometimes I sit in with friends around town”
“I’d like to come see you if that’s ok”
“I don’t think you’re old enough to get into the places I play. Plus, you’re not going to turn into a stalker, are you?”
“No. Just curious. I was wondering what you were like in real life.”
“This is me.” He held his arm out. “Disappointed?”
“No. Can I ask you a question? What were your other band mates like? Did you like them? Do you still see them?”
“No.” Johnny’s mood suddenly turned sad. “I wish I could. But I can’t. Have you looked them up too?”
“No. Just you”
“Well thanks for dropping by. I wish I had a T-shirt or some merch to give you. But that was a long time ago.”
He started to walk me to the open garage door. He clearly wanted me out of there. He probably thought I was some sort of annoying fan that would turn into a stalker.
“Did you like them? Your other bandmates. Were they cool?”
“Why do you want to know? What difference does it make? Do I know you?”
“No. But I have something you might want to see.”
“What did you find an old show program or ticket stub with that album?”
“No. I have this. Would you like to look at it?” I reached down into my backpack and pulled out the old photo album. I opened it to the pages where there were pictures of him, my dad and his other band mates, all in their scout uniforms. Burnside went white. I couldn’t tell if he was happy or sad. He took the book and just started flipping thought the pages. Every once in a while, he would mutter under his breath
“Bear Mountain, Allegany. Where did you get these? This is someone’s private property. Where did you get this? Who are you?”
“Were they cool? Were they good guys? Did you meet in high school? How did you become friends? Do you remember all of these places? Were you and Eagle Scout?”
“Dude. Slow down. The rapid-fire questions aren’t going to get you anywhere. What’s with all the questions? Are you writing my biography for your school newspaper?”
“I just want to know what it was like. You’re having such a good time in these photos. That got me curious?
“Curious? About my friends? About some dudes I knew in high school? Dude, don’t be curious about my life. Be curious about your own. Get out there and make your own friends. Take you own pictures. Remember your own life. Not somebody else’s.”
“I want to. It’s just not that easy.”
“You’re right. It’s not. It’s not easy opening yourself up. The hard part is finding the right people that let you be you. That’s the hardest thing we ever face in this life. I get it. At your age, it’s hard to be vulnerable. But it’s that vulnerability that binds you to other true friends.”
“Was that how it was with these guys?” I pointed to the pictures in the album.
Burnside was silent for a while. Then he sighed. “Yeah.” Then he snapped out of his melancholy and snapped the book shut.
“Do you ever see these guys anymore? Do you still have that friendship? Or does it go away.”
“I think you know the answer to that. Yeah. Even though I don’t see them anymore. I still consider them my best friends. And you never told me where you got this book. Did you find it at a garage sale? A thrift store? Ebay?”
“No. The book is mine.”
Burnside started looking very serious. He didn’t like that answer.
“Who are you?”
I opened the photo album backup and found a picture of him, my dad and their friend group. I pointed to each kid on the picture.
“That’s you.”
“This is at Allegany State Park”
“That’s your drummer, Joey.”
“Yep”
“That’s your other guitar player Tommy”
“Yep. You’ve done your research.”
And then I pointed to the last guy in the picture.
“And that’s your bass player, Sean. He died a few years ago.”
“How do you know that? You’re starting to creep me out.”
“I’m Robbie. I pointed back to the picture. This is my father.”
Burnside started right at me. I couldn’t tell if he was shocked, pissed, angry, scared or whatever. But the stare he gave me was the most intense I’ve ever experienced in my life. And it scared the shit out of me.
“No!” he howled. “Luke, I am your father” he bellowed.
