At a little after four o’ clock, the June sun is still vibrant, flexing its solar flare biceps and drenching the asphalt with humidity. The Thunderchicken blasts down Clayton street like a smuggler’s ship through a blockade, as John looks anxiously from one side of the street to the other for a parking spot. Ian is turned halfway in the passenger seat, with a cigarette in his mouth discussing “business” with Travis who is lounging in the center of the backseat, mafia-style. The bluesy rock and roll sounds of John’s band—Simple Symbolism—blare through the speakers at Ian and Travis’s request.

“We’ll chill out tonight and tomorrow night, kick back, have some fun, until we get the information; and then get the shit out this weekend. We’ll have it done in two days.”

“Well…” Travis considers it for a moment. “Three,” he says, skeptically.

“Nah, dude, don’t worry about it. We’ll get it done.”

“Are you getting all twenty in a bunch?” Travis asks. What they needed were passport photos and index cards with information on height and weight and such. Plus, they usually demanded the money up front—a price which fluctuated wholly dependently on how well they knew who they were dealing with.

“I’ll get most of the stuff by tomorrow, I’m sure.”

“Right on.”

“Stop discussing your criminal deliquence in my vehicle!” John cries out as he pulls into a spot in front of Flannagan’s Irish Pub. They all get out of the car, fetch Travis’s amp and hit the sidewalk.

“I gotta’ run down to the bank—make a deposit. I’ll catch up with you guys at the store,” Ian says, darting off down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.

Travis and John head up the street toward the Musician’s Warehouse. “You know what kind of mixer you’re getting?”

“Yeah. I came down here a couple of of days ago to check them out. One of the guys said he’d cut me a good deal.”

“Very cool.”

“Yeah. I think it’s just because we’ve bought a lot of our shit from them.”

“The band?”

“Yeah.”

They open the door to the store and amble inside. “You’re playin’ this weekend, right?” Travis asks.

“At the Watt.”

Travis makes his way to the counter while John wanders aimlessly through stacks of amps and percussion equipment over to several racks of guitars. Lazily lifting a blue American Stratocaster from the rack, he sits down on a stool and unconsciously walks through a few blues riffs high on the fret board. A lot of guys came into the store and used the opportunity to test drive a guitar as a way to show off their stuff. John, on the other hand, just liked to hear the sound of a well made guitar. He quietly picks at the strings with his eyes closed and listens to the personality of the instrument—the subtle differences between one guitar and another that only those who played the instrument could hear.

Travis stands waiting at the counter until a store clerk approaches him. “Can I help you?”

“You certainly can,” replies Travis. “I think this little guy’s blown a fuse.”

“We’ll take a look at it,” the clerk offers. He is in his late thirties and sports a beard. Looking back up at Travis over reading glasses he says, “We won’t be able to get to it today, though.”

“That’s fine. Let me just leave my number and you guys can call me whenever. I’m in no rush.”

The clerk gets out a receipt form and copies down Travis’s name and number and address, and tapes it to the top of the amplifier. “No show this weekend?”

“Nope.” Travis thinks about it for a minute and then asks, “Are you just askin’ or have you seen me play before?”

“I saw you do a bit at Allen’s one weekend I think.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Good stuff.”

“Thanks. I was just wonderin’. I’m sure every other guy that comes in here is in a band.”

“Yeah, that’s true. If it’s just the fuse, we’ll have it ready by tomorrow.”

“Very cool,” Travis replies nonchalantly.

“Just in case you get a gig.” The clerk winks.

Smiling genuinely, Travis replies, “That’d be nice.”

The clerk hauls the amp off the counter and began his way to the back of the store. Looking around, Travis spots John dealing with another clerk at the other side of the store, out across a small hill of amplifiers and percussion equipment. They are handling a couple of small plastic boxes with levers and buttons all over them, comparing. Travis makes his way over to them, and catches the last of something the store clerk is saying: “—gonna’ do well.”

John turns to Travis. “All done?”

“Square as Pythagoras.”

“Nerd.”

“Jackass.”

John turns back to the clerk, “Yeah. I’ll go with this one,” he says politely.

“Let me get one out of the back for ya’,” the clerk says, laughing at the pair as he heads back to the storeroom.

Turning to Travis excitedly, John holds the board up again. “New toy!” He puts the floor model back on the shelf, and he and Travis make there way back over to the register to meet the second clerk at the counter.

“How nice,” Travis says as they reach the counter. “Now you’ll have some incentive to become a decent guitarist.”

“You bet,” John agrees.

“Provided you ever get to a point where you can carry a melody.”

John pauses, looks at Travis angrily. “Do you want me to beat you?”

Travis cocks his hand up by his face and speaks with a lisp, “Mmm, would you please, Honey?”

“Bitch.”

The clerk comes from the storeroom with John’s mixer. “I think you’ll find that this unit is very good for the price—good quality of recording and its got a real warm ambience.”

John nods as he gets out his checkbook, and starts filling it out. He finishes with a signature that Picasso would have thought was sloppy, hands the check over with his ID, gets his receipt and the box, and heads for the door with Travis in tow. They get back out in the heat on the sidewalk and start heading in the direction of the car. “Goody!” John bounces up and down.

“You’re gonna’ have some fun with that,” Travis says enviously, though he knew John would let him use it if he was so inclined.

John nods enthusiastically as they make there way down the street where Ian is coming at them at his usual cheetah’s pace.

“Can I play?” asks Travis.

Hugging the box to his chest, John just yells, “Mine!”

“Le’me see! Le’me see!” Travis yells in reply, dancing around John.

They get to Ian and stop. “What’d’ya get?” Ian asks John.

Travis jumps in first though, “He got a new toy and he won’t let me play!”

“You always break all my stuff!”

Suddenly twenty again, Travis replies, “I do not.”

“I know.”

Read the whole thread: Carousel Cowboy