Pandora's Vault

A music store vault hides dark secrets and hidden powers

I don’t know why Uncle Jerry left his music shop to me, the least talented musician in the history of mankind. The only time I ever played an instrument was the assigned lessons of playing standards like “Hot Cross Buns” on the white plastic recorder in fifth grade or learning a few chords on the guitar in the required General Music course for middle school students who weren’t inclined to join the chorus or band. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy music, how it sounds and how it makes listeners feel. But my attempts at handling an instrument could be compared to a two-hundred-pound man on point doing ballet.
         
Uncle Jerry, however, was a virtuoso. He could pick up a guitar or finger the keys of a piano and intuitively know how to play any tune. As talented of a musician as he was, he remained a bachelor, operating the Crossroads music store—he was a huge Eric Clapton fan—with renting and selling used and new instruments.

I didn’t even want to go into running a business. My passion was writing, and I had dreams of writing the great American novel, as writers do. I took a part-time job working at the store while attending community college after one of Uncle Jerry’s employees, Gus, had up and left on a whim, without notice. Rumors circulated that Gus had gotten a concert gig, but I think something personal went down between him and Uncle Jerry.

“Be careful trusting anyone,” he told me one shift, in which a collector tried to sell him a Stratocaster claimed to have been owned and played by Buddy Guy. The counterfeit model had been left behind by the seller and disappeared with no word from my uncle or the other employees. He used to be a generous and trusting person, but over time his suspicion of others became more prominent.

“Why did he leave the store to me?” I asked my mother upon being called to the reading of the will after his sudden death. “I thought it would go to someone who was more into the music business, not just someone working there to help pay the bills.” That was a half-lie. While I did work at Crossroads for the paycheck, I did enjoy working with my uncle and helping out the family.

“I never understood Jerry’s motives at times, especially when we were kids. But he did have a keen insight when it came to some things. If he wasn’t such a big fan of music, I think he would have become a business lawyer.” Mom was right. Uncle Jerry got the store in a shrewd bargain and made the business more profitable.

So that left my question unanswered. I was not a businessman or even a musician. I went to the shop to look over my new business, and headed to the office as I had normally done to clock in.

Upon entering the office, it stood before me. The door to the private back room was always off limits to anyone other than Uncle Jerry. I had begged him many times to allow me even a peek inside, even if just to see what he locked away there, like some Holy Grail of music instruments.

“Dom,” he told me once not long before he passed away. “You must stay out of there if you can. Nothing can leave that room, at all costs.” The ominous tone in his voice was disturbing to me, but I shrugged it off as one of his attempts to scare me out of even wanting to go inside.

Now my curiosity was aroused, and I searched every drawer and compartment in the office for the key that would unlock the secret back room. But Uncle Jerry was smart. He wouldn’t leave the key hiding around for any searching eyes or fingers to find. But then I remembered the safe, where he kept the till overnight for the next day’s register. I never had to open it in my time there, so I didn’t know the combination to the padlock on the safe.

An idea popped into my head. I spun each digit wheel to the fist number that came to me: 027. It was a long shot, but hearing the click of the safe opening confirmed my suspicion.

“Have you ever heard of the twenty-seven club?” Uncle Jerry asked me once.

“No. What is that?” At that time, I was ignorant to the mysteries of the music world.

“Back in the 1930s, there was a blues guitarist down in Mississippi named Robert Johnson, who was rumored to have made a bargain with the devil. He sold his soul in return for musical talent and became famous. He lived fast, and died suddenly at the age of twenty-seven, presumably by poisoning.” This was, of course, one of several rumors about his death. No official cause of death was reported.

“Did he start this club?”

Uncle Jerry burst out laughing and shook his head. “No, but think of these artists and what they all have in common. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison, and in more modern times, Kurt Cobain and Amy Winehouse all died at the same age. Hence, the twenty-seven club. Strange coincidence, huh?”

I had never put any more thought into my uncle’s obsession with that number, other than playing the numbers zero, two, and seven in the lottery, straight and boxed, in the chances that he might win. No such luck. But oddly enough, it was the number he used to the safe, which would soon reveal its contents to me.

Inside the safe, in addition to the till contents tucked into a padded envelope, was a keyring with a single key on it. I felt like I was in a video game from back in the day, finding the secret key that would unlock the door to the next stage of the game. But I couldn’t experience the moment alone. I called my girlfriend to share in my excitement.

“You called me over here just for you to open a door?” The enthusiasm on her face dripped like moldy Jello sliding off a table. “There better be something cool in there.”

“Who knows? There could be some awesome artifact in there that could put the store on the map!” I sounded, and felt, like a kid talking about the potential of a Christmas gift awaiting being unwrapped.

“Why me, though? Today’s my day off work.”

I could have gone on about how I wanted to share my joy with the most special person in my life, but I knew she would have heard none of it. She watched, arms folded across her chest, glowing with impatience, as I inserted the key into the lock and turned it with a gratifying click. I would have been pissed if the key didn’t work, and I know Sarah would have been even more so.

The door grunted as I pulled it open, revealing the darkness beyond like an Indiana Jones scene. I pawed for the light switch, but the flip only resulted in a buzz and sudden flash as the bulb went out. Of course.

“Was that a piano?” Sarah turned the flashlight on her phone. Surely enough, a grand piano dominated the center of the dark room.

“This is crazy. Uncle Jerry must have kept a stash of things in here he didn’t want to sell. Want to explore with me?” I knew that was a stupid question, but I thought I’d ask anyway.

“I wanted to hang out with the girls today, so you can go ahead and knock yourself out.”

After escorting Sarah to the front door and exchanging our routine goodbye hugs and kisses, I returned to the office with a new light bulb so I could continue my exploration of the secret room.

It was a twenty-five-foot square, larger than my apartment living room. The piano had stood in the immediate center, but I had to move it to get to the light directly overhead. A few instrument racks lined the walls, but they hung mostly empty. There was an old viola, a tenor saxophone, and a few guitars. One of them looked really cool: a black six-string with a blue flame design on its body. If I was a guitarist, I definitely would claim that as my axe, but I was more likely to break the strings accidentally while attempting to tune the thing.

For some reason, the piano caught my attention most of all. It looked to be a Steinway, which I immediately knew from how my uncle would talk about the gold standard of pianos. However, it lacked the golden lettering with the harp-shaped logo. There were no identifying markings on it whatsoever, and that was only part of what attracted me to this beauty of an instrument. Despite being locked away, no dust or residue touched her surfaces. The keys gleamed, as if newly made.

I sat on the bench and wiggled my fingers like an excited kid about to play with a new toy. Just for fun, I placed my pointer fingers on the keys. I proceeded to play the “Chopsticks” tune that even a novice could play. As the notes chimed, something stirred within me, and I felt like I could suddenly pull off the popular Henry Mancini riff with a cartoon beagle dancing across the piano top. I laughed in spite of myself and stopped playing.

“Try something more complicated.”

I looked behind me to see if someone had come in, even though I knew I had locked the door after Sarah left. “What’s that? Come out where I can see you.”

“Play something better than ‘Chopsticks.’ You can do it.”

Had I left my phone on and someone was talking over the speakerphone? I checked the screen, but I was not in the middle of a call. I set the phone on the seat next to me and looked down at the keys again. Whoever was talking to me, probably playing some clever prank, was daring me to make a laughingstock of myself by trying to play the piano.

I would show them.

The first piano tune that came to mind was Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” I had always enjoyed listening to the song while studying for my college exams, so it felt like the perfect choice. I placed my hands on the keys again, somehow knowing where they belonged.

And then I played. As the hammers struck the strings, the resulting sound was not the clattering cacophony I had expected, but sonorous, vibrant tones that nearly lifted me from my seat. My fingers cascaded across the ivories like water over stones in a brook, organic and natural to me. Where did the ability come from?

Maybe the piano was responsible, like one of those player pianos controlled by some inner mechanism. Instead of something classical, I would try something more modern and fool it. Fool a piano? I was clearly not thinking properly.

What song would I pick? Maybe something by the Piano Man himself. With the title in mind, I thought of the opening notes, before the harmonica begins. I played it, note by note. I went on to play the entire song, singing the lyrics in my head, even though no one was around to laugh at my dissonant singing ability.

Had I really possessed the skill in playing the piano all along and didn’t know it? Maybe the guitar would be more challenging. I approached the axe that had caught my eye before and lifted it from its place on the wall, like freeing the sword from the stone. I plucked each string, hearing the unamplified but still solid tones of E, A, D, G, B, and E, all perfectly tuned. Uncle Jerry had left it in immaculate condition.

I flung the black strap across my shoulder and let the guitar hang in front of me. “Okay, Eddie, eat your heart out.” My fingers danced synchronously across the frets as I plucked the iconic riffs to Van Halen’s “Eruption,” which sounded different without distortion or an amp, but I didn’t miss a single note.

The ringing of the store phone shook me from my reverie. I returned the guitar to its place on the wall and locked up Uncle Jerry’s secret vault. My interrupter was a customer asking when the store would be open. I kept my thoughts of why the idiot could look up the phone number online but not look up the hours as well. Things like that didn’t bother me before, only making me laugh. At that moment I felt an actual disdain for the man who had taken time out of my musical expression because he wanted to come in a get a new reed for his son’s clarinet.

After handling a few customers, including the grateful father and son who got the reed, I was surprised by Sarah bringing two of her friends into the store. Her closest friend since middle school, Lisa, kept her head down at her phone, focusing more on Instagram photos than anything anyone else had to say. Sarah spoke up. “So, this is the music store my boyfriend now owns.”

“What do you have for sale?” Erica’s inquiry reeked of sarcasm.

“Let me show you how this classy saxophone sounds!” I rushed to the brass section and picked up a shiny new tenor sax.

“Dom, please, no. You don’t want to scare the hell out of my friends, do you?”

I knew why Sarah was worried. She knew about how much I sucked at playing an instrument. I laughed like I was prolonging my joke, but when my lips touched the mouthpiece, I saw Sarah and Erica wince in dread. Lisa remained transfixed on her phone.

As I started playing Wham’s “Careless Whisper,” their jaws gaped, and their eyes bulged. Even Lisa looked up from her phone, sharing the same expression.

“Where the hell did that come from?” Sarah stared at me like I had been cheating on her with a musical trainer.

“Better hold on to him, girl. He’s pretty damn good.” Lisa pointed her phone camera at me with the saxophone and snapped a picture.

Sarah laughed and shook her head as she gave me a goodbye hug and kiss before escorting her friends out of the store. “Have fun, rock star.”

The thought hadn’t come to my mind up to that point, but after what I pulled off in the back room, I started to consider what I could do with my newfound talent. My first plan was to get the piano to my apartment. I began the slow, tedious process of disassembling it, as I had seen done when pianos were shipped from the store. I would have had the company we normally use do it, but there was no way I was letting anyone else come into the room. Once the piano was into more manageable sections, I called the piano movers and arranged for them to take it home for me.

I tipped them a little extra. It was worth it.

The piano made a nice addition to my living room, after having to move the loveseat and coffee table to the side wall to make more open floor space. The overhead lighting basked her in a diva-like glow. I already couldn’t wait to have guests over and put on a little show for everyone.

I began spending less time at Crossroads and more at home in front of the piano, composing my own work. I felt a special solace when caressing the keys and making the piano climax in musical expression. When I did have to be at the store, I’d be more hands-on with the instruments before sales, giving demonstrations and impressing customers with my musicianship. It helped the business quite a bit, and Crossroads became a popular location.

Uncle Jerry would be proud.

Sarah, on the other hand, was not. She called me often, more often than usual, claiming that I was spending less time with her. “You’re always doing your music thing,” she’d say. “I know you’re good. You are really good, but it’s like you don’t love me anymore.”

Such is the life of a musician, I guess. Not being understood, that is. I considered myself a musician at that point. I started charging for my performances, whether it was reunion gigs at the VFW over on Filbert Avenue or the county or state fair. My stage name was Dom Perignon and the Champ-Pain Trio, even though I was a solo act.

My latest show was a night gig at Tito’s Bar and Grill, a popular dive that had a funny reputation for its neon sign with the O not lighting up. After my first set, I sat at the bar nursing a rum and Coke when I was tapped on the shoulder and greeted with a familiar “Howdy doody!”

“It’s been a long time, Gus. What brings you back to town?”

“I heard about this musician from the Crossroads gaining popularity, and I remember a young local boy who couldn’t play to save his life.”

“Had a few lessons.” I took a swig of my drink to add the period onto my lie.

“How long did it take you to find out about the back room?”

I thought I was going to choke.

“I know all about it. Despite your uncle’s insistence that no one goes inside, I borrowed his key and went in one weekend when I covered a shift for him. He didn’t know I had found the key. I found a nice guitar inside, and I kept it so I could start my band: Natural Gus.”

I understood why Uncle Jerry let him go. “Why did you come back?”

“I couldn’t let a newcomer impede upon my popularity. Just stick to your uncle’s instrument store and leave the music stuff to me.” Good old Gus, playing tough as he always did. I was not about to initiate one of those stupid battle-of-the-bands events that popularized movies and TV shows during the 1980s.

After completing the second set, I switched to drinking bottled water. Seeing Gus lurking in the crowd during my performance had me thinking that he had something planned. I recalled Uncle Jerry’s advice about not trusting anyone. Even though I know the legend of Robert Johnson was a lot of speculation, I had fallen victim to the poisoning story, that he was poisoned by a jealous husband. I wouldn’t have put it past Gus, a jealous rival, to attempt to put something in my drink, or even to scare me into that thought.

I returned to the comfort of sitting at my own piano, not the ordinary, generic one at Tito’s. I played “Moonlight Sonata” and it relaxed me to a near-sleepy level.

“He’s going to bring you down. You better do something about it to him before he comes after you.” I hadn’t heard the voice since I first found the piano. As I finished the masterpiece, I composed my own plan for Gus.

I didn’t even remember falling asleep, but I woke up on the loveseat late the next morning. I went to Crossroads after making some posts across Facebook and Instagram that Dom Perignon and the Champ Pain Trio would be doing a special live performance at the store. I knew Gus wouldn’t pass up the chance. While I hadn’t originally wanted to have a musical duel with Gus, I needed him to come to Crossroads.

A line of customers and spectators extended down two blocks and around the corner, past the Starbucks. I waited to open the front doors, heading straight to the office, and unlocking the secret room. I would use the blue-flame guitar for the performance.

Surely enough, Gus took the bait. As I began playing Johnson’s “Me and the Devil Blues,” I watched my rival come into the store, without his own guitar. He watched me with gleaming green eyes and a green tint on his face.

“Everyone, I’d like to welcome a longtime friend of mine back to the Crossroads! Come up here, Gus. I’d like to invite you to a musical showdown with yours truly.”

Gus joined me in the performance area I had set up in the middle of the store. “I don’t have my guitar with me for this challenge, but I’ll make a deal with you. Let me use one of yours, and I’ll buy it if I lose.”

I wished Uncle Jerry was there with me to help me bargain, even though I knew that he would not have been happy with my choices since finding his room. “Agreed. You play first.”

Gus selected a red and white Fender Stratocaster and plugged it into an amp. His song of choice was “Wild Thing” by the Troggs, and won a swath of applause through the store. He grinned as he bowed and leaned against the back wall, behind which was the office.

For my turn, I chose “Stairway to Heaven,” and I intended to intentionally mess up, to give Gus a false sense of victory. But as I played, my fingers ignored every attempt to slip. My expertise with the guitar enthralled the audience. While I enjoyed the acclaim, my plan was backfiring, so I had to improvise. I invited Gus to stay after the store closed to receive a consolation prize from our backstock.

“I must admit, I have missed seeing that old room again.”

“When Uncle Jerry died, I was told that if I were to find it, to make amends with you and let you come back.” I opened the unlocked door and flipped the light switch on.

“The piano is gone.” Of all the things he could have said, Gus mentioned the piano.

“You took a guitar for yourself. I claimed the piano. It’s back home in my apartment.”

Gus scratched his bearded chin as he examined the other instruments, but he didn’t seem impressed by anything left. “The piano would have been nice, or maybe the guitar you played out there.”

“Let me get it for you.” I quickly retreated from the room and locked the door with Gus trapped inside, Edgar Allan Poe style.

I locked up the store and drove home. Sarah’s spruce-green Hyundai Sonata was parked out front, next to where I usually parked. While we didn’t live together, I had given her a key so she could hang out when I was at work.

Sarah stood in the living room, staring at the piano brandishing an aluminum baseball bat. “So, you’re finally home! I couldn’t reach you all day!”

“I think my phone died. I’m sorry.”

“So, this is why you’ve been spending so much time away from me. What the hell, Dom?” Sarah kept her back to me but raised the bat over her head and smashed the piano with it.

An intense wave of pain wafted through me. It was an emotional pain, not so much anger, but dread and fear. In a moment, though, it was gone, and I felt an odd sense of clarity. “Sarah, forgive me. I don’t know what happened since this thing came into my life.”

“Let’s take this broken piece of crap back to that room, lock it up and never speak of it again.” Sarah had the best ideas at times.

Together we stuffed the fragments of the piano into black trash bags and drove them back to the store. As we stood at the door to Pandora’s vault, unlocked and ready to reveal my secret, I remembered what I had done to Gus. “Before I open this door, I have to explain something.”

“Let’s get rid of this junk, and you can explain later.” Sarah pushed the door open, and Gus was gone. The room was just as it was when I opened it to let him inside. We tossed the bags into the room and flipped off the light. “What did you want to explain?”

“We need to put the flaming guitar back in there too. It was another of Uncle Jerry’s hidden items. It shouldn’t be left out here.” I brought the guitar back to the secret room and hung it at its former spot on the wall.

After locking the door, I turned to Sarah. “I don’t want to own this place anymore. I think I should sell it.”

I got a good deal with selling the store, to a businessman looking to make an investment. more than I expected to get. When the new owner asked about the locked door in the office, I told him that the key had been lost, but in secret I had it melted down. I used some of the profits to continue my education. My first project was to compose this story.