I was in a house with a wide open floor plan that had been upgraded at some point from a gazebo/carport to a church with a mini kitchenette where the pulpit would be. It would have been suitable for teaching a cooking class or doing one of those live TV cooking shows.
Well, maybe. It needed a makeover. I found myself standing on the counter by the sink attempting to straighten out some wall decorations. One of them included a vintage tin sign that had been fashioned into a clock. I put the pieces together and hung it as the centerpiece over the sink.
"Aren't you clever," Diane said, noting that I was able to hang a clock while balanced on the somewhat precarious perch, all the while leaning this way and that like a surfer to keep from falling.
"Yes. Yes, I am," I said in my most unruffled James Bond.
People came and went in the congregation space, and after a while I noticed that someone had left a rather odd looking musical instrument case on the floor. It was guitar shaped, sorta. I opened it up and looked upon the strangest stringed instrument I'd ever seen.
The neck and body were contorted, Dali-esque, snakelike, like someone had fashioned a regular guitar, and then put their hands in the middle and gave it a 1/4 twist while the guitar putty was still soft. It reminded me of a stick man depicted in the running mode, a swastika made of human arms and legs.
I was curious how it would play, so I took it out of the case. Once in your hands, the strings and neck would straighten out, I found, as I grabbed the strange instrument and started to play a few bar chords. It seemed like it needed amplification because I could barely hear anything coming from the instrument.
Diane gravitated toward me, somehow drawn by the barely perceptible notes. I tried to ham it up by playing a few rock licks, but I still felt it was too quiet.
"It doesn't seem to be working," I said at last, putting the crooked guitar back in its crooked case. "Besides, I don't know who it belongs to." I guess I didn't want to be the crooked guy accused of stealing a crooked guitar. Let that moniker hang on someone else.
I decided to get out of there, and next I found myself at the racetrack. Diane was there seated in a very low folding chair. I breezed on by like I didn't notice her.
"Are ya just gonna leave me here or what?" she said, teasing.
"Oh, I don't mind sitting a spell," I said casually, grabbing a folding chair and sidling up next to her.
I didn't quite stick the landing, though, and I wound up almost crushing her with the chair, at one point, placing it directly on her lap. I remedied the situation eventually, and we sat there a few minutes before I realized that I had to get to an open mic.
I guess Diane and I were together at this point because, when I got up to go, she started packing as well. We crossed the street, and I put my arm around her to shield her from traffic.
"Oh, thank you!" she said, snuggling closer.
We arrived at the open mic sans guitar. I thought about the crooked one I'd left at the gazebo/kitchen/church, and remembered that I had also left my own guitar there. I told Diane that I'd be right back, and I went off to get it, hoping it hadn't been stolen, or perhaps traded for the twisty one.
That's all I recall, and it's not very accurate. There was a whole vibe and meaning that I'm missing, but I had to get the frame built just in case I recall more later on.
No comments:
Post a Comment
I've changed my comments settings to allow for anyone to comment. All comments are welcome, even spineless potshots from anonymous posters. Please, by all means, give me the tongue lashing I so richly deserve. I promise not to hunt you down and melt your keyboard with my plasma cannon. I won't, however, promise not to pout and make that face you can't stand.