“‘Freedom Rock.’ Like you always taught us. ‘Go for life. Go for love. Don’t sell your soul for money.’”
“Nice work if you can get it,” Steve said.
Boyd went on playing.
“Steve’s got a point,” Charlie said.
Boyd stopped. “That’s not what you used to say.”
“Never was able to live up to my own philosophy. Always wanted you boys to have things better than I did.”
Boyd strummed an A, then damped the strings with his palm. “I never understood why you settled for so little after Mom left. Why didn’t you just say ‘fuck it,’ play music, and have a ball?”
“And let you boys starve?”
Boyd started playing again. Same three-chord pattern.
“What’re the words?” Charlie asked.
Boyd strummed an intro of eight bars, four-four, then began the refrain.
When you’ve had it up to your neck with the nine-to-five, And you can’t see your way out of the tunnel, When you wake up at dawn not sure you’re alive, And your life’s being forced into the corporate funnel, The time has come, my friend, to run free. It’s none too soon, my friend, to run free. ’Fore death comes ’long, my friend, run free.
Boyd played the three chords twice more and stopped. He looked at Charlie.
“Nice,” Charlie said, stirring the spaghetti.
Boyd cleared his throat and stood. “I’ll set the table.” He put the guitar back in the pickup and laid plastic forks and paper napkins on the camp table. Charlie spooned the spaghetti onto paper plates.
As they sat down, Steve smiled. “Spaghetti.”
TOM'S TALES