Pictures And Some Memories

Twenty Three: Old Haunts.

***************************************************************************************

He drove with his left hand resting lazily on the bottom of the steering wheel, his right resting on the gear shift. He didn't seem to have a destination in mind, instead cruising around Huntington Beach and venturing out to surrounding suburbs. The only stop we made so far was to fill up the tank and to grab something to drink.

He initiated most of the conversation, to which I was grateful. At first, it was just small talk, filling each other in on studio time and casual happenings. We pointed out old haunts and reminisced over stories of illicit and illegal activities-- Tony James's widespread property just outside of town, where many parties were thrown when we were seniors; the time we came out to the bluffs and jumped off, scaring the shit out of Cara as we plunged into the water several feet below.

I took advantage of our time together, too. I stole glances his way, no longer feeling guilty whenever his laugh sent shivers down my spine, or when his smile made his eyes crinkle in the corners, genuine and a stark difference from the brooding man I'd picked up earlier tonight.

We reproached Huntington Beach around 10, the sun well below the horizon at this point. As we took the back way into town, my favorite music store came into view. Markie's Music Warehouse had gotten new neon signs, the only source of light on an otherwise dark road. They were bright pink and purple and orange, akin to the sunset that I'd clung to earlier today. He parked on the gravelly driveway and jumped out, and I followed suit.

Immediately upon crossing the threshold, the familiar clean smell filled my nostrils, and I was suddenly 17 years old again, following him into his favorite hiding spot. The warehouse once housed a corporate bakery, but closed in the 70's after the financial crisis. It was then transformed into a music store, only a few hundred square feet used. The other thousands of square feet was set to become a music venue, complete with the record store being it's main mode of advertisement. By the time I'd been let in on the town greatest secret, it was instead a record store on the first floor, and the second was dedicated to gear, guitars, and everything in between.

"I missed this place so much while I was in New York," I whispered, approaching the "A" section of vinyl. "There are amazing little record stores in the city--around the world, even--but none of them ever felt like home like Markie's does."

"Browsed the deepest collections in London, Leeds, Italy even... And somehow, this warehouse always has exactly what I'm looking for," he agreed, pulling out one of the sleeves for closer inspection.

I faintly heard the strumming of an acoustic from upstairs and felt myself smile. "I'll be back," I told him quickly, taking the stairs two at a time.

"They close in an hour," he reminded me, staying put.

Keeping that in mind, I browsed through the guitars they had on display, smiling when I found one of his signature customs for sale. I pressed on until I came across a classic Fender Mustang, the finish smokey grey with black knobs and a worn white pick guard. It was almost identical to the one my grandfather used to play, but his was fire engine red and without a guard. I first learned how to change the strings on that guitar, and he left the instrument to me in his will, nearly ten years ago. It mysteriously disappeared, though, without a trace, as my mother moved my grandmother from her ranch in south Texas to her expansive home in Austin.

I should call her, I thought as I picked up the beautiful instrument. After I play this, though.

I connected the guitar to the amp and adjusted the knobs, then began to tune the guitar quietly before I started to idly pick at the cool strings. Only the melody that had driven me nearly insane came to mind, and since I hadn't soundproofed the attic yet, I had yet to sit down and try to write an arrangement for it.