Page 174 of Paint the Town, Dove
And I played.
And played.
Until I forgot where I was, why I was there.
Pain, right.
Yeah.
That was always the reason.
***
It was well into the night.
The store was dim already.
Did they close? Where was Fat Man? Where was –
“You’re talented, boy, you know.”
Happy Man. He was still here. Behind the wall.
Right. Right. I didn’t close the door.
“My tracks have autotune, like, they were polished.” Why the fuck was I downplaying myself?
Why the fuck did I hate myself?
“Nah,” he stepped into the booth. “You’ve got raw skill. Who taught you to play?”
I swallowed, thinking about the secret lessons my mom had paid from under Corban’s nose. A music teacher down the block, Ricky Rodney. Told me my hands were made for playing, a phantom gift.
He died of cancer nine months after I started.
All the good things always got taken from me.
“Mostly self taught.” I put the Fender aside. “Tutorials go a long way now if you want to learn –”
“I don’t want no lessons, kid, I’m here to give you another shot.”
I raised a brow. “Another shot? I’m on top of the fucking world right now.”
He looked me up and down, a pool of pity swimming in his eyes. A knot twisted in my stomach.
I wanted to swat his fucking face.
“Right,” he nodded. “Well, lemme at least give you this.” He held out a cream business card. Numbers, names, XYZ, yeah, yeah – and in gold script in the centre:
Arc & Sheild Records
“Band manager?” I read.
He stepped back, all cowboy leather and rugged charm. That was the damn truth. And maybe he was being honest.
Maybe I could trust again.
Scarlett would know what to do.
