Page 173 of Paint the Town, Dove
What did a smile really look –
“Hey, kid.” The Happy Man said. He had bracelets all over his wrists. Whacky. Cool. “You alright in the head?”
I laughed out loud. “Nope. What guitars we’ve got?”
“You know where you are?”
A fatter, weirder looking man with a shirt that looked spraypainted by mustard wabbled closer. “That’s the kid! Tav, the kid with the song I kept singing –”
He hummed Drags and Smoke.
My blood boiled.
“Turn that shit off,” I waved, moving towards a red Fender. Never would I ever cheat on Harley, no. But I could stare at the pretty girlshanging off the line.
Always red guitars.
Always red curls.
Always red doves.
“HA! He wants me to turn my mouth off, Tavy! What a sport!” Fat Man followed me (why was he following me?) and pointed to the Fender. “This one will run you ‘bout eh, uh, thirteen-fifty? Say that’s right, Tav?”
But Happy Man didn’t say anything, just stared at me with hawk eyes. Tav, Fat Man said? Was it Tav?
“You lost a bet with Avenue Records, I read about you.” Tav leaned back against one of the wood beams. There were posters of Van Halen stamped up and down like pock marks.
Reminded me of my old room.
Reminded me of mom.
“No bet,” I muttered, swiping up some sheet music. It yellowed at the corners. “The label dropped me.”
“Yasmine Ryve –”
“Don’t say her fucking name,” I spat, throwing down the papers.
Who the fuck did I become? Vandalizing a store, acting like a wasted fool in front of strangers?
I guess I did that every day. Just not on stage, no. On stage I was free.
On stage I was san eagle.
“Listen, I’m fucking beat and I just need to…” I glanced up at the red Fender. “Can I give her a round?”
No questions asked, Fat Man swiped a step stool from beneath a drum set and took down the guitar. “Good choice,” he’d said to me, pointing at the soundproof booth by the acoustics.
I nodded in thanks and made my way over, sat on a side stool and fit the Fender in my hands. She wasn’t tough like Harley, no battle wounds or scrapes. She was shiny, new, stiff.
Like Yasmine.
Not like Scarlett.
I pulled out my purple Dove pick (she was always in my pocket) and played her all the same. Cause what kind of crazy fuck was I comparing the women in my life to guitars?
Snap the fuck out of it, Spectre.
So I did.
