Six

SIX

When Dad came to my room that night, I was doing as always before bed: strumming a few unplugged chords on my fender. The feel of strings vibrating under my fingers always helped me relax. Plus, it was my daily ritual. I was going to be a star someday, a shredder the likes of Slash or Mick Mars or Nikki Six.

Of course, I didn’t have much talent. Very little separated me from thousands of other young metal heads across the country. Best I ever managed on the guitar was adequate. The biggest venue I ever played was in a Motley Crue cover band named Dr. Feelgood in the Utica bars a few years later. But still, every kid has his dream. Big-time lead guitarist of a platinum-album rock band was mine.

Anyway, that night I was strumming a classic Eagles tune—“Hotel California” —when Dad nudged my bedroom door open, leaned back against the door jamb and asked quietly, “What’d you think of Reverend Alistair’s message tonight? We’re awful blessed to have someone of his stature preaching for