Love Sick Blues

The sun shone with such blinding brightness that Tony Marlin feared it might incinerate him where he stood. Of course, his second fear was that his sister would be the only one to mourn his death, which brought with it the reminder that he was hopelessly alone. Boxes surrounded him on all sides, the windows devoid of any curtains to block out the harsh rays of a summer afternoon. And the comfort of a ten-year-old's affections was a small consolation weighed against the crushing loss he'd sustained.

Most of his possessions had been sold back in Joplin, and the constant moving since then had stopped him from buying more than a futon and a radio. The same collection of books had followed him from Joplin to Omaha; Omaha to Boise; and now, from Boise to San Francisco. His progressive trek westward followed the path of jobs until even the smell of dirt and the feel of a hard day's labor couldn't offer much for the twenty-six-year-old.

Tony turned his back to the window and sat on one of the boxes, a beer in hand which had already started turning warm. The last pennies of severance pay his boss in Idaho had offered now jingled in his pocket as an urgent reminder that the cans of beans and ramen noodles would only last for so long. 'Could always hunt a rabbit or two,' he mused as his eyes settled on an out-of-tune guitar he hadn't gotten around to learning how to play. The ghost of its previous owner still haunted him.

'Are there even rabbits in this god-forsaken place?'

There'd been rabbits in Joplin. Deer closer to Kansas. Areas where he ran, he'd still know like the back of his hand three years after leaving. The sound of a tornado siren still echoed in his dreams and the sight of Route 66 was still such a painful memory, he had headed north instead of south when he packed up and left. Evan had once said they should drive the entire length, from Chicago to Los Angeles, and Tony had started saving money behind Evan's back.

At least it paid the security deposit for his apartment in Omaha.

Tony sighed and stood, walking over to the short counter separating the kitchen from his new living room and placing the beer bottle down atop its lacquered surface. A copy of the San Francisco Chronicle laid spread out next to it, with circles drawn in blue pen around the few jobs which seemed promising. Nary a landscaping position could be found in the blocks of black ink, but Tony hadn't moved to the coast for the work experience. It seemed a far enough distance to finally put the past behind him.

"I should sell that damn guitar," Tony said, picking up the pen and twirling it around his fingers twice before setting it back down onto the counter. The threat had been levied with every new apartment, but each change of scenery had provided a place to land, and the need never became urgent before the first paycheck was cashed. Other possessions made the chopping block long before the guitar ever seemed to. The wristwatch given to him for his high school graduation. The rope chain that choked him whenever he forgot to take it off first before shifting into his wolf form. He could always rid himself of the radio, but music had been his one solace and when the music ended, so did the meaning to life.

It was either the radio or the guitar.

Tony frowned. Walking over to where he'd propped up the instrument, he lifted it into his hands and ran his fingers along the strings. The noise it produced could only be described as discordant, which symbolized quite a bit as far as Tony was concerned. The headstock boasted the name Taylor, and it had been a pretty penny when it was purchased. A solid months' pay, if Tony remembered correctly. Its fate, much like his own, had yet to be determined.

Sitting with it, he held the guitar by the frets, thinking of a song once sung to him when times were better.

"I got a feelin' called the blu-ues, oh Lawd, since my baby said goodbye..."