Relative Beginnings 1: Big Bang

Chapter 1 - Alternate

"What the H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks happened last night?" Doug was rubbing his temples with the ferocity of a Thai masseuse. He slowly rose from my sofa, hugged his blanket around his shoulders, and staggered like Frankenstein after a fresh jolt of lightning. All one point twenty one-giga watts.

"Christ, Doug. You blacked out again on stage last night, didn't you?" An authentic belly laugh broke free and I shook my head.

"Fuck you, Choir Boy. You were probably in bed by ten o'clock, curled up with your blankie and sucking your silver-spooned thumb!" He stumbled backward, hit the edge of the couch and fell headfirst onto an armrest. "Mother.... God!" He rubbed more vigorously at the back of his head.

"What's the matter, Dougy-pooh? Hangover turn our little gentleman into a salty sailor again?"

"Ugh. This is one bad ass hangover. Even for me." He looked up sheepishly and then smiled. "Where were you last night anyway? I pretty much remember channeling the guitar gods and I'm pretty sure I lit my guitar on fire."

"Again? Doug, that's the fourth one this year! Now you know why I won't give you one of mine, right?"

"Ethan, you're so uptight. You know I wouldn't do that to one of your precious composite guitars." He looked around for one of the guitars I manufacture. "Can they light on fire?"

"Oh God, Doug. Only you!" I walked over and gave him a rough tussle of his long hair in hopes it would make his headache just a notch worse. "You're in an alt country band. What need do you have for blaring guitar solos and lighting guitars on fire?"

"Ow," he said while brushing my tussle aside. "Hey, there's no one out there writing kick ass alt country music and blending it with a little Hendrix, now is there?" He squinted signaling his annoyance with my constant judgment of his stage presence.

"I suppose you have a point, Dougy." I laughed and turned back toward the kitchen. "In the mood for some Cookie Crisp?"

"Sweet Mary and Joseph. I thought you'd never ask."

I snorted at the last hints of Doug's Catholic upbringing leaking out through his cheery response.

Breakfast was a cacophony of grunts, groans, and some explanation about Doug's on-stage antics. Apparently in the middle of his guitar solo during the second to last song of the night, Doug had smuggled some Everclear in his gig bag and during his blackout decided it would be a great idea to become a human flame thrower. During his second attempt to blow flames from his mouth while soloing, he inadvertently caught his guitar on fire. Between the flames, smoke and screeching feedback while his guitar melted down he and his band, Aunt Wichita (a not-so-subtle rip off of Uncle Tupelo) were invited to never return again. Plus legal action to pay for smoke and equipment damages.

It always amazed me that Doug was still alive and playing music. But apparently great songwriting and musical talent counts for something in Seattle. Doug was also a charmer when it came down to it and he had several club owners in his back-pocket who seemed to overlook his many on-stage indiscretions.

Doug finished his third bowl of cereal, wobbled to his feet and then plopped back onto the couch, beltched, and began snoring almost instantly.

I took that as my cue to shower and get ready for the day. I already had a plan formulated in my head for today's guitar runs. The reason why I went to bed so early was due to the fact that not only did I have my own business, but it involved fabricating high-end graphite composite guitars (electric and acoustic). I was fortunate enough to have had a background designing and building composite Formula 1 racing parts and a love for music. I loved playing the guitar but did not have a natural gift like Doug did.