It takes a crooked man to play a crooked guitar

 

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. As I grabbed the strange instrument and started to play a few bar chords, I found that, once in your hands, the strings and neck would straighten out. 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.