He was putting it off. He was being a pussy and he knew it.
But still, as he drove along the secluded road that winded lethargically along the arid terrain somewhere near the Oklahoma state line, knowing that he could just pull over and do it, do it now, just fucking get it over with already, it couldn't take more than an hour or so if he didn't fuck around - still, the excuses squirmed anxiously around his mind, fat little worms of doubt that burrowed through the squidgy mounds of brain matter and made his head pound.
What if a cop sees me. What if the smell attracts some animal. What if someone drives by. I saw another car like half an hour ago, another one could be coming up behind me right now.
A quick glance in the rearview mirror confirmed that there was in fact no car, no vehicle of any kind anywhere within sight, and you're just a pussy, admit that you're a fucking pussyhis eyes skimmed over the tank of gasoline in the backseat and he gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white and the little cuts lining the back of his hands threatened to split open.
This is bullshit.
We've established that. Pussy.
He sighed it wasn't a whimper it was fucking sigh I was just breathing Christ would you climb down out of my ass, and his head lolled slightly to the side. As he sat and sighed and flexed his shoulders to ease the stiffness, he marvelled at just how spectacularly stupid he was. Smart people did not vacate their nice cosy piece of shit apartments on the nice vibrant piece of shit side of Hollywood Boulevard and drag the rational side of themselves kicking and screaming on a merry cross-country go-round from hell.
The rational side, huh? Is that the same side that made you leave Lafayette without waiting for him because, shit, it was the rational thing to do?
If he'd listened to the
selfish
rational side of himself and kept his pasty ass in the red-light district, he could be working yeah dealing smack to hookers and burnouts what a respectable vocation God bless the American dream, he could be lying on the couch with not a care in the world and a needle poking out of your arm you fucking junkie junkie junkie piece of shit loser, he could be writing music, playing his guitar -
Right, his guitar. Izzy relaxed slightly, the thought of the smooth white Gibson with the faded gloss and the rounded, wooden body bringing him a fraternal brand of comfort, and he cruised along the sand-edged highway in relative peace for a while, thoughts of his guitar keeping all the other bullshit at bay.
It was a beautiful instrument, the golden pickups and bridge gently reflecting the obnoxious blare of L.A lighting. The black knobs were perfect circles that yielded to a lazy flick of his wrist. A tiny, half-moon dent hid shyly behind the pick guard, an invisible blemish that his fingers sought and stroked, in those instances when he wasn't playing the guitar but holding it, just cradling it in his lap, needing something familiar to cling to.
He remembered, a few days after he'd arrived in California, walking into the Guitar Centre, an ostentatious department store on Hollywood Boulevard. He remembered telling the gum-chewing punk with the sweep-to-the-side fringe manning the counter that he was just looking, thanks, and no, I don't need you to show me around, I can actually walk and use my eyes at the same time. He remembered the dazed feeling of disbelief as he stared around the polished showrooms, at the dozens of instruments twinkling glossily, almost imperiously, back at him, thinking of the cramped thrift shop back in Lafayette where he'd brought his first guitar - a battered, unbranded acoustic gizmo with blotchy fingerprints all over the body.
