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organs. And over there—the big thing that looks like a wooden fridge? That’s a genuine Leslie 122 speaker.”
    Houston bends over the organ and starts playing. And let me tell you. I think my life changed from that point on.
    This thing sounded…well, indescribable. The sound filled the room, a giant swirling thing. Almost like a gigantic human voice. Houston cranked it up so loud, you could see dust rise from the mantel over the fireplace. He kept pulling little switches in and out, here and there. Sometimes it sounded glassy and smooth, sometimes it sounded down-and-dirty greasy. Sometimes it whispered, sometimes it shrieked and moaned like a crazy witch or a monster. It was something else.
    And this guy is crazy good on the keyboards. His sound is so funky and just plain fantastic. Let me tell you, I went from thinking he was a doofus in a dirty undershirt to believing Houston was the coolest dude on planet Earth.
    “Holy crap,” I say when he’s finished.
    “Duncan!” says Terry.
    “That’s okay. This young brother’s just responding righteously to the sound o’ the mighty B-3,” says Houston, pretending to sound like a black guy. Then he bends over and coughs. “Wanna try?”
    Did I? Yes! But I’m a little nervous too. I mean, I took piano lessons when I was a kid. For six years, in fact. But the organ was a whole new deal.
    I sit beside Houston on the bench. He shows me the on/off lever that makes the horn speakers in the Leslie speaker whirl around. He shows me how those switches—they’re called drawbars— push in and out to change the sound. After about thirty minutes or so, I’m sort of getting the hang of it. Houston shows me how to play a few blues licks that sound really amazing.
    “Know this one?” he says. And then he starts to play “Green Onions.” Only when Houston plays it, it sounds different. Of course there’s no drums, no band. But the sound is just, well…huge. Massive. I’m so excited I could jump up and do some kind of crazy leprechaun dance around the living room. But I don’t, because that would make me look like a complete numbnut.
    We goof around on that organ for a couple of hours. Or more. The time just flies by. In fact, I don’t notice Terry has even left until there is a knock on the door. It’s Terry. She’s brought a whole load of Chinese food. I eat like a starving man. Two and half platefuls.
    “How did you like that?” Terry asks me in her car on the way home.
    “Terrific. I love Chinese food.”
    “No, silly. I mean playing the organ,” she says.
    “I loved it,” I say. “Houston’s great. He’s cool, you know.”
    Terry looks ahead, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. “He’s had a tough time of it,” she says.
    “What do you mean?” I ask.
    “Well, I told you how he got all caught up in his band before. It was too much for him. I think he had a nervous breakdown.”
    “You mean he went nuts or something?” I ask.
    “It’s like when the world gets too much for a person. They sort of go off the deep end, maybe shut down,” she says. “Houston gave up. He hasn’t tried to get back into music ever since then. It’s been a couple of years. And he’s sort of a recluse.”
    “He doesn’t leave the house and all that?”
    “Yeah. Well, he’ll go out for groceries. That’s about it. His friends used to come around, but that dried up. I’m worried about him.”
    I look over at Terry. She looks like she’s going to cry. I don’t know what to say, so I just stare out the window, keeping quiet. It starts to rain a little. Just spatters. And then it begins to come down hard.

Chapter Eight
    I’m trying a little harder in school, catching up on overdue assignments and stuff. You know why? Houston. It’s weird, but I keep thinking about the guy. He’s a great musician and all, but if Terry’s right, it seems like he’s burned himself out. I’ve got it in my mind, that could happen to me too. You know, becoming a lonely old