Last Bandit: Book 1 in The Bandits Series

Good Things

Chapter 12: Good Things ~

Tonight the Rainbow Bar and Grill is packed, for it's a Friday. People have flocked from all around to see the headlining band, Pretty Boy Floyd, another group that wear red lipstick and too much eyeliner.

I didn't come here to see the band necessarily. I mean, live music is always great, and I like Pretty Boy Floyd. But I'm here for the environment. The dim lighting, all the pictures and memorabilia, the red booths and lights, the people.

Frankly, I'm quite tired of boarding myself up in that tiny apartment Jasper, Roxie and I call home. It's too damn small for the three of us, and when I'm there alone, I feel cramped and trapped. My head itself often feels that way too.

So I thought I'd go out tonight. Get some fresh air. Roxie and Jasper went to the Troubadour, I think, to see a different band. And I didn't want to be home alone. That's when I think too much that my anxiety resurfaces and punches me in the face.

Music, live music will get my mind off of things. In fact, that mixed together with the roar of a crowd will leave room in my head for only a few things to focus on.

I sit at a small table against the wall, closest to the door. There's a signed picture of Guns N' Roses above my head and many other musical artifacts surrounding it, like Cymbals hanging near the ceiling and framed platinum records and photographs of Paul McCartney and Alice Cooper, just to name a few.

Being surrounded by music and objects that coincide with it will surely help me write music. Well, lyrics. I can't just come up with the guitar's notes in my head. I have to play it, feel it with my fingers until the rhythm comes to me. Then I just memorize it, tweak it here and there and never write it down, never document the solo or main riff. And I let the other musicians handle their parts too. I let the drummer come up with a good beat as a backbone for the lyrics. I let the bass player do his thing and work with the drummer to create an even better rhythm for the song. And we all work with the singer who determines how he wants to sing.

Yeah. That's how it usually goes.

Jasper knows how to play bass, and he's not in a band now. He asks me from time to time if I want to put together a group with him. I want to, I truly do. Yet I never give him a solid answer for some reason.

The piece of white paper in front of me has creases running up and down, left to right from me folding it and shoving it into my pocket. There's a black pen in my hand, cocked and loaded for the shot. But my hand is hesitant. My head, rather, won't send the signal to pull the trigger.

I'm suddenly worried, for I've never had trouble with song writing. And I shouldn't have trouble now because there are sentences and phrases in my head that I could put together to make a nice tune. But I can't round them all up. I can't organize them.

I order my usual drink to help calm my nerves. One sip of it, and I'm already feeling better. I continue to drink as my brain finally sorts itself out and only centers itself on one thing: a song.

My hand moves across the paper in swift moves, my handwriting looking like a chicken's. All capital letters form words. The words form sentences. And the sentences form a song. I take an hour to perfect it, scratch out words and change them with new ones.

The rosary around my neck falls out of my shirt and lands on the paper in front of me. Jesus looks at me as he lays on the cross, his palms and feet nailed into the silver wood to keep him from escaping. I tuck him away, and he returns to his position against my chest and under my shirt.

I read the song once more in the way I picture it to be. I give it a quick rhythm for now, and I play some guitar chords in my mind that would go along with it nicely. To my surprise, I think it's the best song I've ever written.