was and how famous Tony was and how he had all these great hits lined up to record at some point as soon as he found time in his busy schedule. Didn’t give a rat’s ass about any of that. Just wanted to know if Tony wanted to slap down a few hundred for a new piece.
Tony only went there to browse in case the old man’s ticker had blown a gasket and maybe there was somebody new running the shop.
No such luck. The old man was there and crankier than ever. Tony pretended to admire a couple of second-hand Arias. He strummed a few bars from Summer Drive on one of them and the sound was rich and solid.
“Jesus, not you again,” yelled the old man. He walked back to where Tony was picking and said, “I know you’re not serious. Why are you wasting my time?”
“I’m not bothering you, asshole.”
“Christ on a stick! Who do you think you are? Get out of my store or I’ll call the cops to throw you out.”
Tony felt his blood rise and he wanted nothing more than to beat the living crap right out of the old man. Instead, though, he forced a smile, the used-car salesman smile he knew so well.
“Sure, I’ll leave. Fuck you very much.”
He held the guitar above his head and let it crash to the floor. The old man knelt down to pick it up and Tony knocked him with his hip as he pushed by him to get to the door.
“Have a nice day,” he said. He glanced back to see the owner lying on the floor rubbing his knee.
* * *
Guitars First was one of the smallest music stores in the Seattle area. It was twenty years old and had a steady clientele, mostly of students from the University of Washington and a smaller group of former hippies who were now in their sixties and seventies and who still longed for the golden age of music.
Deb Stewart played guitar herself and was one of the students who gravitated to the store. She’d never been able to buy her own, since she was well aware of how much debt she’d already run up in her first two years of university. At night, she’d lie awake at night and occasionally have panic attacks, wondering how in God’s name she could ever pay back the money she owed, even when she graduated. What did a degree in Literature allow somebody to do these days?
So, she’d sometimes wander over to Guitars First after class and strum a few chords and play a game of What If?
What if I’d chosen a more practical major?
What if I’d listened to my parents and just got a job after high school?
What if Lawrence had been the kind of boyfriend I hoped he would be, rather than the kind who dumped me when he found out my finances?
What if I wasn’t the loneliest girl I’ve ever known?
What if I wasn’t always afraid?
Her heart hurt whenever she asked herself these questions. Sometimes, strumming on a nice Hanson guitar would help ease her mind, and sometimes it took her away completely as she allowed Katy Perry and Lady Gaga to flow through her fingers. She never suggested to anybody that she was any good, but she was okay. The chords worked magic to relax her.
Three weeks ago, the lady who ran the shop asked if she wanted a part-time job.
All Deb could think about was the small bit of easing of her budget a job would bring, and she couldn’t help giving the owner a spontaneous hug.
It was only later, walking home, that she wondered how she ever thought she could pull it off.
Fortunately, the store had few customers, and most of the ones that came in knew where things were and didn’t need her help except to make sure there was fresh coffee in the back and to ring up the sale. The coffee sometimes brought in people who had no intention of buying, but it was a nice touch. She didn’t know of any other store that offered free coffee just for browsing.
Tonight, the store had been empty since she started work an hour ago. She was reading a new horror novel by Brian W. Matthews on her iPad, loving the hell out of it, when the small bell over the door tinkled.
Her heart
Tony only went there to browse in case the old man’s ticker had blown a gasket and maybe there was somebody new running the shop.
No such luck. The old man was there and crankier than ever. Tony pretended to admire a couple of second-hand Arias. He strummed a few bars from Summer Drive on one of them and the sound was rich and solid.
“Jesus, not you again,” yelled the old man. He walked back to where Tony was picking and said, “I know you’re not serious. Why are you wasting my time?”
“I’m not bothering you, asshole.”
“Christ on a stick! Who do you think you are? Get out of my store or I’ll call the cops to throw you out.”
Tony felt his blood rise and he wanted nothing more than to beat the living crap right out of the old man. Instead, though, he forced a smile, the used-car salesman smile he knew so well.
“Sure, I’ll leave. Fuck you very much.”
He held the guitar above his head and let it crash to the floor. The old man knelt down to pick it up and Tony knocked him with his hip as he pushed by him to get to the door.
“Have a nice day,” he said. He glanced back to see the owner lying on the floor rubbing his knee.
* * *
Guitars First was one of the smallest music stores in the Seattle area. It was twenty years old and had a steady clientele, mostly of students from the University of Washington and a smaller group of former hippies who were now in their sixties and seventies and who still longed for the golden age of music.
Deb Stewart played guitar herself and was one of the students who gravitated to the store. She’d never been able to buy her own, since she was well aware of how much debt she’d already run up in her first two years of university. At night, she’d lie awake at night and occasionally have panic attacks, wondering how in God’s name she could ever pay back the money she owed, even when she graduated. What did a degree in Literature allow somebody to do these days?
So, she’d sometimes wander over to Guitars First after class and strum a few chords and play a game of What If?
What if I’d chosen a more practical major?
What if I’d listened to my parents and just got a job after high school?
What if Lawrence had been the kind of boyfriend I hoped he would be, rather than the kind who dumped me when he found out my finances?
What if I wasn’t the loneliest girl I’ve ever known?
What if I wasn’t always afraid?
Her heart hurt whenever she asked herself these questions. Sometimes, strumming on a nice Hanson guitar would help ease her mind, and sometimes it took her away completely as she allowed Katy Perry and Lady Gaga to flow through her fingers. She never suggested to anybody that she was any good, but she was okay. The chords worked magic to relax her.
Three weeks ago, the lady who ran the shop asked if she wanted a part-time job.
All Deb could think about was the small bit of easing of her budget a job would bring, and she couldn’t help giving the owner a spontaneous hug.
It was only later, walking home, that she wondered how she ever thought she could pull it off.
Fortunately, the store had few customers, and most of the ones that came in knew where things were and didn’t need her help except to make sure there was fresh coffee in the back and to ring up the sale. The coffee sometimes brought in people who had no intention of buying, but it was a nice touch. She didn’t know of any other store that offered free coffee just for browsing.
Tonight, the store had been empty since she started work an hour ago. She was reading a new horror novel by Brian W. Matthews on her iPad, loving the hell out of it, when the small bell over the door tinkled.
Her heart
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