Page 56 of Paint the Town, Dove
“It’s – it’s… Taylor.” She shook her head furiously. “I can’t – I can’t accept these.”
Scarlett rolled her eyes, pulling out two tickets of her own. “Either you take them from his manager or the kid’s idol himself.”
A tear escaped the corner of her eye as she tentatively took the tickets out of my hands. Scarlett placed her tickets in her new Prada bag.
“My brother is going to freak out,” she breathed in disbelief. “I’mfreaking out.”
“Well, freak out on Saturday night. It’s going to be one hell of a show, Taylor.” I took Scarlett’s Dior, slipping it in the Prada bag and moved away from the counter. “Come find me after the show.”
She stepped around the table, grabbing hold of Scarlett’s hands, then mine. “Thank you,” she wiped her face, “thank you so much. So, so much.”
On our way out, Scarlett pinched my wrist. “You’re good, you know that.”
She stated it as a fact, as she always did, so that I never had room to question if I was or wasn’t.
I grabbed hold of her hand. “I’m good,” I repeated. For the exact same reason.
***
“I should’ve known you’d take me here,” Scarlett scoffed, wiping the soles of her boots on the carpeted floor.
I shrugged, doing the same. “Can’t pass the area without stopping by Timb’s.”
Timbit Toray was a wack job, if you could even call him that. He was excentric at worst with a vile sense of humour that made you question all things right in this world. But goddamn was he a good musician, a friend of Tav’s from way back when.
He grew up in a small town in Ontario and sold out gigs left right and centre. Never said how he did it, of course. The guy was about as esoteric as they come. But when I say he loved music – treble clefs were cheerios, rifts were his national anthem – he lived and breathed all things rock n’ roll.
He rounded the corner before I could even ring the bell. “Junior! Glady to see ya again,” then nodded to Scarlett. “Lady love, how’s the ball and chain?”
Timbit believed that life was a ball and chain; yank it down enough times, the ball slips and you’re fucked. Hold it in balance, you’re good as gold.My chains were heavy.
Scar smiled, appeasing the old man. “Still upright, Timb.”
“Atty! Atty,” he shuffledalong the corridor. “What can I do for yous?”
I nodded to the back. “The guitar studio empty?”
He shooed me in the direction. “Even if it weren’t, I’d kick ‘em cobblers out. Go on ahead.”
I bumped his fist, leading Scarlett to the back of the music store. The strums of a guitar – Timbit’s playing – breezed through the space. “FUCK MY MUSIC WITH SOUND!!”
We burst out laughing.
“One day he’s going to have an actual customer and won’t know it,” Scarlett joked, glancing back at Timb seated at the register, bobbing his head to some techno house shit.
I simply smiled, knowing exactly the feeling. “You get lost in the music.”
She ran her fingers over the acoustics hanging from the ceiling. “See any you like?”
I picked up a black Fender, stepping into the studio. “Nothing compares to Harley.”
She followed me in, closing the door. “You’re cheating on her.”
“She knows it doesn’t mean anything.”
Scarlett snorted. “Which amp?”
“Vox one’s fine.”
