Four men in expensive suits knocked on the door of a studio apartment in Billings, Montana. The man who answered was 71, wearing a janitor’s uniform. Then the first man spoke, “Do you remember us? November 1983, South Dakota. You fixed our van.” Walter Briggs stared at them. 25 years dissolved in an instant. He’d stopped when everyone else had driven by. They’d promised to come back. He’d never believed them. But here they were, and they had something with his name on it.
25 years earlier, Walter Briggs was locking up his garage for the last time, November 1983. The bank had foreclosed 2 days ago. 23 years of running Briggs Auto Repair in a town of 1,200 people, and it had all come apart in the past 3 years. the divorce, his ex-wife taking their daughter Natalie to California, the legal fees that ate through his savings, the loans he couldn’t repay. Walt was 46 years old, broke, alone, and leaving town in the morning.
His brother had a construction job waiting for him in Montana, manual labor, starting over with nothing. He was packing the last of his tools into boxes when he heard it, the sound he’d been listening for his entire adult life. A guitar, muffled, coming from somewhere down the highway. Then it stopped. Walt stepped outside. Cold November night. Temperature dropping fast. Snow starting to fall. The two-lane highway that ran through town was empty except for a van. Pulled over about half a mile out.
Hazard lights blinking. He stood in the garage doorway. Keys in his hand. Not your problem anymore, he thought. You’re leaving in 6 hours. You don’t owe these people anything. But that guitar sound, that desperate edge in the cold air. He’d heard that sound before. Not just the notes, but the feeling behind them. Someone playing to pass time while their dream slipped away. He’d made that same sound 23 years ago in this very garage. The night he’d put his guitar in its case for what he’d thought was the last time.
Walt had been a musician once. Long time ago, before Natalie was born, before the garage, before life got in the way. He’d played guitar in a band that almost made it. They’d gotten close to a record deal in Chicago. Then his girlfriend got pregnant. He did the right thing. Got married, opened the garage, put away the guitar. He’d told himself it was the responsible choice, the grown-up choice. And maybe it had been. But standing there hearing that guitar from the highway, Walt realized something.
He’d spent 23 years wondering what would have happened if he’d gone to Chicago, if he’d taken the shot, if he’d believed in himself enough to try. Those people in that van, they were probably trying, probably believing, probably on their way to their own Chicago. One last good deed, he thought. Then I’ll go. Walt grabbed his toolbox and drove out to the van. Four young men were standing around the open hood, breath visible in the cold air, early 20s, long hair, denim jackets, the smell of cigarettes, and desperation.
One of them was holding an acoustic guitar like he’d been playing to pass the time. You boys broke down? The one with the guitar looked up. Dark hair, thin face, eyes that looked older than his ears. Yeah. Engine died about an hour ago. Won’t start. Walt looked at the engine. Old Dodge van. Probably 1975. The engine was held together with duct tape and prayers. You try calling a toe? No money for a tow. We’ve got $32 between the four of us.
Walt pulled out a flashlight, checked the engine. Fuel pump’s gone and you’ve got a radiator leak. You’re not driving this anywhere tonight. The guitar player’s face went white. We have to We have a meeting in Chicago, 8:00 a.m. tomorrow. It’s We have to be there. Something in his voice, the desperation, the way he said have to, like his life depended on it. Walt had heard that tone before in his own voice 23 years ago when he’d been trying to make it in music and running out of time.
What kind of meeting? Record label ANR guy from Atlantic Records. He heard our demo tape. This is our shot. Our only shot. Walt did the math. It was midnight. Chicago was 280 mi east. Even if he could fix this van right now, they’d never make an 8:00 a.m. meeting. Where are you coming from? Seattle. We’ve been touring for 3 years, playing dive bars, sleeping in this van. We recorded a demo 6 months ago, sent it to every label we could find.
This guy is the only one who responded. The drummer, a stocky kid with a beard, spoke up. If we don’t make this meeting, we’re done. We’re 50,000 in debt. Borrowed money from the wrong people to record that demo. They want it back in 30 days, or He didn’t finish the sentence. Walt looked at the four of them, saw himself at 23, saw the band he’d been in, saw the shot he’d never taken because he’d chosen safety over risk.
I can’t fix this here. No parts, no light, but I can tow you to my garage. How much? Let’s get you there first. We’ll worry about money later. Walt towed them back to Briggs Auto Repair, the garage that wouldn’t be his by morning. He pulled the van into the bay, turned on the lights, started assessing the damage. The four band members stood in the garage, cold and exhausted. The guitar player introduced himself. I’m Danny. This is Rick, Mike, and Joey.
He didn’t mention the band’s name. Didn’t need to. They were four kids with a dream and $32 between them. Walter Briggs. People call me Walt. You play? Danny was looking at the old Gibson guitar hanging on the wall. Dusty strings probably rusted. Used to long time ago. What happened? Life happened. Got married. Had a kid. Needed steady money. Music doesn’t pay bills. Did you regret it? Walt didn’t answer right away. He was pulling parts, checking the fuel pump, calculating what he’d need.
Finally, every single day. Danny nodded. didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. Walt worked through the night. He couldn’t get parts until the auto supply opened at 7:00 a.m., but he could prep everything else. By 2:00 in the morning, he had the radiator patched and the fuel pump access ready. The van would roll once he got the new pump installed, but the math didn’t work. 7 a.m. parts run. 2 hours to install. The band would be lucky to leave by 9:30.
6-hour drive to Chicago in good weather. in snow, maybe seven hours. They’d roll into Chicago around 4:30 in the afternoon, eight hours late for the meeting. That would save their lives. Danny was sitting on the garage floor, guitar in his lap, not playing, just holding it. We’re not going to make it. No, Walt said. Not in this van. Can we rent a car? Is there a rental place in town? Nearest one is 50 mi away, and you said you have $32.
Then we’re done. 3 years. Everything we worked for gone because of a fuel pump. Walt looked at this kid, 23 years old, same age Walt had been when he’d walked away from music. The same crushed look in his eyes that Walt had seen in his own mirror for two decades. I have an idea. My brother lives in Minnesota. He’s driving through Chicago tomorrow morning on his way to a job site. If I call him right now, he might pick you up and get you there.
I’ll fix your van while you’re gone. You can get it on your way back. Rick the basist spoke up. Why would you do that? You don’t even know us. Walt looked at the guitar on the wall, at the dreams he’d packed away. At the life he’d chosen instead of the life he’d wanted. Because 23 years ago, I had a shot at Chicago, too. Had a meeting with a guy at Columbia Records, but my girlfriend was pregnant and my dad was sick and I had bills to pay.
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