means ‘white flower’ in French,” my mother said.
“Sure, sure,” Ed said. He was looking around my room like an idiot savant, like one of those people who’d be able to re-create an exact replica later. Still letting his eyes surf across my walls, he said to my mother, “Diane, you’re a true romantic.”
“Well, I wasn’t the only one. Her father loved that story, too. We saw the play together at some artsy playhouse in Hollywood. That’s how it started.”
“You guys probably want to have a longer discussion about this somewhere. Nice to meet you, Ed.”
“Oh, honey, Ed is here for a reason. He opened up a guitar store down the street from Biscuit.” Biscuit, if you’ll recall, was the curiously named clothing store that Mom and Louise ran together. They named it that because it was Louise’s cat’s name. You could not come up with a worse marketing strategy if you tried, but somehow it was working.
Biscuit was for women who were tired of wearing clothes. Long flowy skirts and silk pants with elastic waists and scarves and hats to disguise the fact that you were really wearing pajamas. Neither my mother nor Louise dressed like that. Mom still had some rock-and-roll girlfriend in her and Louise wore anything tight to show off the body that she constantly starved and the boobs that had suddenly appeared last Christmas.
People in the program were not hard on themselves about anything other than substance abuse. They felt thatwas the only test they needed to pass, so that’s why Louise gave herself permission to be anorexic and my mother didn’t wear makeup and dressed too young and ate a lot of sugar.
“Really,” I said. “What kind of guitar shop?”
“Small,” he said.
“What kind of guitars do you have?” I asked.
“Little bit of everything.”
“Do you play?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“He went to Berklee,” my mother explained. “It’s a music college.”
“I was in some bands when I was young but the weird thing is, I always liked the tools more than the trade, you know, so eventually I just started selling guitars and now I have my own shop.”
He said all this as if he were answering some question he was always asked, like from the press, so he was prepared.
“What’s it called?” I asked.
“Ed’s Guitars,” Ed said.
“Well, that’s very precise.”
I could see my mother getting nervous about my tone so she started talking fast: “I asked Ed if he’d take a look at your guitar. You know, it has that crack in the top.”
“You mean Dad’s guitar?”
“Yes,” she said. “You know what I mean.”
“I like the crack,” I said.
“Well, let me just take a look,” Ed said.
I pulled the guitar out from under my bed and he studied it. He twirled it around in his big hands, looked inside the sound hole, looked at the back of the neck, and held itup to eye level, never losing his grin. What was he grinning at? What was just randomly and consistently pleasing to him?
“My dad was kind of famous,” I said.
“I know who he is. The crack’s not too bad.”
“Ed and I have talked about that,” my mother said, narrowing her eyes at me.
“I’d leave it alone unless it bugs you,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“The crack. I wouldn’t bother trying to do anything with it. Replacing the top would change the guitar. I don’t think you want to do that.”
“No, I don’t.”
“I could give it a setup,” he said. “Get rid of the buzz on the low E. I’d do it for free, no problem.”
“Maybe,” I said. I didn’t want to admit the low E string had a buzz but it did.
They stood there for a long uncomfortable minute and then it was Ed who said to my mother, “Let’s go to the Urth Café and get a coffee or something. Blanche looks busy.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“You in the program, Ed?”
“What?”
“AA. That how you guys met?”
“No, we met at my store. Your mom came by to check it out.”
“Awesome.”
Mom touched his arm and
“Sure, sure,” Ed said. He was looking around my room like an idiot savant, like one of those people who’d be able to re-create an exact replica later. Still letting his eyes surf across my walls, he said to my mother, “Diane, you’re a true romantic.”
“Well, I wasn’t the only one. Her father loved that story, too. We saw the play together at some artsy playhouse in Hollywood. That’s how it started.”
“You guys probably want to have a longer discussion about this somewhere. Nice to meet you, Ed.”
“Oh, honey, Ed is here for a reason. He opened up a guitar store down the street from Biscuit.” Biscuit, if you’ll recall, was the curiously named clothing store that Mom and Louise ran together. They named it that because it was Louise’s cat’s name. You could not come up with a worse marketing strategy if you tried, but somehow it was working.
Biscuit was for women who were tired of wearing clothes. Long flowy skirts and silk pants with elastic waists and scarves and hats to disguise the fact that you were really wearing pajamas. Neither my mother nor Louise dressed like that. Mom still had some rock-and-roll girlfriend in her and Louise wore anything tight to show off the body that she constantly starved and the boobs that had suddenly appeared last Christmas.
People in the program were not hard on themselves about anything other than substance abuse. They felt thatwas the only test they needed to pass, so that’s why Louise gave herself permission to be anorexic and my mother didn’t wear makeup and dressed too young and ate a lot of sugar.
“Really,” I said. “What kind of guitar shop?”
“Small,” he said.
“What kind of guitars do you have?” I asked.
“Little bit of everything.”
“Do you play?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“He went to Berklee,” my mother explained. “It’s a music college.”
“I was in some bands when I was young but the weird thing is, I always liked the tools more than the trade, you know, so eventually I just started selling guitars and now I have my own shop.”
He said all this as if he were answering some question he was always asked, like from the press, so he was prepared.
“What’s it called?” I asked.
“Ed’s Guitars,” Ed said.
“Well, that’s very precise.”
I could see my mother getting nervous about my tone so she started talking fast: “I asked Ed if he’d take a look at your guitar. You know, it has that crack in the top.”
“You mean Dad’s guitar?”
“Yes,” she said. “You know what I mean.”
“I like the crack,” I said.
“Well, let me just take a look,” Ed said.
I pulled the guitar out from under my bed and he studied it. He twirled it around in his big hands, looked inside the sound hole, looked at the back of the neck, and held itup to eye level, never losing his grin. What was he grinning at? What was just randomly and consistently pleasing to him?
“My dad was kind of famous,” I said.
“I know who he is. The crack’s not too bad.”
“Ed and I have talked about that,” my mother said, narrowing her eyes at me.
“I’d leave it alone unless it bugs you,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“The crack. I wouldn’t bother trying to do anything with it. Replacing the top would change the guitar. I don’t think you want to do that.”
“No, I don’t.”
“I could give it a setup,” he said. “Get rid of the buzz on the low E. I’d do it for free, no problem.”
“Maybe,” I said. I didn’t want to admit the low E string had a buzz but it did.
They stood there for a long uncomfortable minute and then it was Ed who said to my mother, “Let’s go to the Urth Café and get a coffee or something. Blanche looks busy.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“You in the program, Ed?”
“What?”
“AA. That how you guys met?”
“No, we met at my store. Your mom came by to check it out.”
“Awesome.”
Mom touched his arm and
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