Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.
The lobby clock showed two a.m. when I walked to the elevators, now feeling a little itchy for a shower. When I got up to the suite I heard people laughing inside and I knocked instead of opening the door with the key.
Bart opened it. “Here you are!”
I stepped past him and saw sitting on the couch Carynne, Chris, and Remo. Remo stood up and came toward me. “Jeezus, where you been?”
Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.
If in other towns I’d had trouble because there was nowhere to go, in San Francisco I almost had the opposite problem. It was hard to decide where to go for all the choices. In the end I took a cab to Castro Street where, even with the night chill in the air, there were people on the street, spilling out of late night bookstores and cafes, and sauntering to the disco-techno beat leaking out of bars.
In another city or in another neighborhood the same break beats and remixes might have poured forth from a venue with limousined and fur-coated women waiting at the door, or club kids with torn jeans and Crayon-hair. But with evidence of neither in sight, and men in T-shirts one size too small all around, the incessant beat was a siren song for me.
I had no doubt in my mind what I would find through those doors.
Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.
We were still sitting there on the couch some half hour later, Ziggy telling a long involved story about where he got the idea for “Cross to Bear,” most of which I was pretty sure was fiction, when there was a thumping knock on the door. Carynne must have left the room entirely since she didn’t answer it. I got up and opened it.
“Hey, kiddo!” Digger stood there with the strap to a rolling Samsonite suitcase in one hand and a briefcase in the other. I pulled the door wide and he rolled in. He was overdressed in a three piece suit, dangerously shined shoes, and an overcoat. His tie was askew. “How’s it hangin’?”
Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.
(Today is the last day to donate to the art campaign! Click for more details.)
–
Susan Walsh set a tape recorder on the coffee table and cleared her throat. “Oh, yeah, ” she said brightly, as if she was picking up a piece of earlier conversation, even though we hadn’t had any conversation yet, “Michael said to apologize for him.”
Blank stares from our side. “Who?” I said.
Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.
(Please consider donating to this month’s artist campaign! All donations received this month will be passed through to graphic artists we support, to commission art of Daron & crew. Click for more details.)
–
When the wakeup call came I was lying face down on top of my left hand and my thumb was numb. Bart picked the receiver up and then lay back groaning. Sunlight lined the blackout curtains like white fire. I sat up and shook my hand. “Shit.”
“Wha’d you do?” Bart said, standing up and yawning. He had a severe case of bed head.
“I think I slept on my hand.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
timeasmymeasure
