This piece uses very course language and indecent, obscene, imagery.

If you are easily offended, please stop now.

I’ve had this person in my head for a couple days. I’ve never known this person, but I’ve known parts of her, personalities like hers, many times over.

It is sorta true.

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On a breezy fall day I took a glass of white and my guitar out on the front steps. I didnt know anything but the beginnings of 1000 songs and your standard C, F, and G, but I enjoyed the sun on my face and imagining the speculation of drivers-by that I might be a fairly decent musician.

This early afternoon found me alone and as close to profoundly hung over as one could be without being profoundly hungover. That cusp of giving up the day versus having a glass in an attempt to mellow the guilt trip of losing a precious afternoon.

So there I sat on the knoll in front of Breezy Place apartments. Cheap guitar, cheap white wine in a thrift store wine goblet.

I had my head down on the shoulder of the Alvarez, ear suction-cupped to the cool varnished wood, listening to the overtones echoing through the sound chamber and vibrating through the solid top when Anne-Marie opened her door.

It was a warm day. I could already smell the mustiness of the wooden stairwell, but opening and shutting the door to her apartment ushered the smell of cigarettes and skunky weed out the hallway, over the stoop, and onto the knoll upon which I strummed “Night Moves.” The only song I knew almost all the way through.

She sat on the stoop. I didnt turn all the way to her, just turned a quarter way, and kept strumming. She knew I was there, I knew she was there. Was there really any point in acknowledging the obvious?

I changed chord progression, exploring E minor, or so I assumed, as I have the music theory knowledge of a third grader.

But I like the noise.

I could smell her cigarette.

“‘Sup?” I said, fingering a B minor seventh, the stupidest chord of all beginner chords.

With her cigarette between her index and middle finger, she absentmindedly scratched the inside of her arm. Wearing a spaghetti string halter gloriously displayed the tattoos, bruises and needle tracks up and down. Her ass on the landing, her feet on the first step, she wore panda endowed pink pajama bottoms. Her bare feet were gnarly with scars and bruises between her toes, but her toenails glowed candy apple red, brightly reflecting the lazy early Sunday afternoon sun.

“Nothin’,” she responded, looking off to the west.

Honestly I dont know if it was west or east or Christmas, but she wasnt thinking of me when she answered.

I kept playing.

“Had a good night?” I asked.

She took a drag, held it, replied, “Sucked some dick, made rent, met some friends with good blow, and Jerry didnt beat me. So, yeah, all in all, not a bad night.”

I nodded in acknowledgement of the information received, not approval. I understood she didnt care one way or the other.

“You know,” she said, “you have no idea what you’re doing, right?”

“I know I’m not Jimmy Page. But I’m not out here to impress anyone.”

I strummed for a few minutes more. She crushed out her smoke and took a joint from her pajama waistband. Skunk, like wet rope.

She stood and wandered the small lawn, sang a few lines from whatever tune I was struggling through. Picked daisies with her toes.

I finished my glass. I put down my guitar and marched the walkway inside to refill my glass. Part of me felt leaving my guitar alone with her was symbolic of trust, another part of me was relieved to see it still there when I returned and not sold for a rock. Or a bump. Or a hit.

She was arguing with someone in a brown car. Well, not really arguing, more like having an emphatic conversation, with much hand waving and eyerolling, “mother fucker” this and “pussy” that.

Something was handed to her in aluminum foil, then the brown car coasted away. She raised her arm with a middle finger “fuck you” salute. In doing so her silhouette betrayed what she may have looked like if she had taken care of herself. Slim, taught, with perked breasts and firm thighs.

I feigned tuning the whole time.

She came and sat next to me on the knoll.

Fumbling with the foil she asked me, “Want some?”

Honestly I had no idea what was in that foil. Honestly my senses were reeling from the warmth of her body next to mine. She smelled of cigarettes and weed. Of patchouli and mildew. A muskiness of sex with a hint of alcohol.

“Um. No.”

She laughed and called me a narc.

“Play ‘Night Moves’ for me.”

Easy enough.

“How was your night, Dougy-doo?”

She bumped her shoulder against mine.

She was high.

I took a sip. Dry, slightly sweet, smooth.

“An ex invited me to a party. I was ambushed and asked to leave.”

“Why on earth would you think that was a good idea? Did you take a date?”

“Yeah.”

She started giggling, said, “Youre a dumbass!” then laughed loud and hard.

“I gotta pee,” she said, and with that disappeared into the hallway behind me.

It was getting warm. I could feel sweat rolling from my armpit down my ribs.

I went inside and grabbed the whole bottle from the fridge.

Outside I sat, guitar in the grass. I stared into trees. That kind of hungover stare when there are no thoughts, your mind in limbo, the gap between comprehension and consciousness, the only sensations being a headache like an extremely over tight helmet and a longing from deep inside your body for water – or more alcohol. The angry cousin of morning stares, I guess.

I dont recall how long it was from when she went inside to when she came back out. It was almost like she magically appeared on the stoop behind me.

I remember her arms were stuck out behind her, like two spalted maple sticks. A single, tiny drop of blood had just started its way down her left arm. Still in her halter top and pajama bottoms, she had big dark tortoise shell sunglasses on.

She was really high now.

I turned back and took a long pull from my wine bottle.

She slurred, quietly, “That shit’ll kill ya”

I was nearing the end of my bottle when she appeared next to me. I wanted more wine but I didnt want to go get more. I was pissed off at my car. Headliner drooping, door panel missing, and power steering whined like someone was choking a goose. More wine or nap? I liked naps. I liked wine. Hated my car.

“You wanna walk with me down to Merino’s? I need smokes.”

◄ to be continued ►