Last Bandit: Book 1 in The Bandits Series

High N' Dry

Chapter 3: High N' Dry ~

Indiana. That's where I am.

I think I walked for twenty-some hours and now I'm in Indianapolis. I don't know. I left that other place just after dusk, walked all night, took a small nap in the morning, and walked until I got here just before dusk.

Indianapolis is a lovely city.

I'm tired. But there's a guitar shop just down the road. I wonder if they'll let me plug in. I need to play.

I walk inside, a bell signalizing my entrance. The people inside look at me, and then at the guitar case in my hand. Then they smile.

"Can I use an amp for a little while?" I ask a few people who are standing in front of me. "I've been on the road, and she hasn't been played."

The one with long, brown hair and a beard steps forward. There's a picture of Jesus above the wall of strings. And this dude looks quite like him.

"Sure thing, man. Plug her in right over here." He directs me to a Marshall amp, which is good. Marshall's are my favorite even though they're very popular and standard.

I set down my pillow case and take out my guitar. Everyone in the store watches me, so I smile. I can see they're anticipating something.

"What year is that, man? A sixty-nine?" one of them asks.

"Sixty-eight." I throw the strap over my shoulder and hold tight to my cream Fender Strat. The others look at me with sparkles in their eyes.

After I plug her in and start up the amp, I play a song by a band none of these guys know. So they ask me if it's an original piece.

"No. It's by a band called The Dogs D'Amour."

And so I continue to play Medicine Man by The Dogs. And the guitar enthusiasts whisper amongst each other, saying they need to check out the band.

I tell them they're missing out if they haven't heard them yet. "They're my favorite band. They're my influences."

I leave the guitar shop after three hours of much needed playing and conversation. A conversation about music is always the best. I can talk about one song or one instrument or one band for days.

A black man approaches me as I continue my journey through Indianapolis. He says he'll give me something for cheap. I ask him how cheap.

"Ten bucks for one."

I take five dollars of my own money and five from the money donated to me. And I hand him it. And in exchange, he drops a small white pill into my hands. Then he's gone. He disappears into the shadows.

It's late now. I stayed in the guitar shop past their closing time, but they didn't seem to mind one bit. Now I've got this drug in my pocket and I need to find a safe place where I can take it.

I curl up behind a dumpster in an alleyway. This way, hopefully, no one finds me while I'm comatose or strung out and decides to steal my stuff. I don't even know what this pill is and what it's capable of. But I'm gonna take it anyway. Won't be any different from all the other shit I've taken.

I swallow it without a drink to help wash it down. And now, I'm in a different world.

A better world.