Freedom Road by William Lashner

Author:William Lashner [Lashner, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-01-21T16:00:00+00:00

“Act natural,” says Oliver as he and the girl walk toward the store. “And don’t go blabbing about all nervously, or more nervously than you normally blab about.”

“Why would I be nervous?” says Ayana.

“That’s it exactly. You shouldn’t be. So play it just like that. We’re thinking of buying a guitar. You’re going to try some out, strum a little. I’ll look on like the loving grandfather.”

“You’re not that good an actor, Oliver.”

“I’ll look on like the angry grandfather bitter about having to fork over his hard-earned cash to buy a piece-of-crap guitar for the talentless child of his worthless son.”

“Better,” says Ayana, laughing. “That you can pull off.”

“And then you’ll slip the question.”

“I got it. Jesus, chill. I can play a scene with the best of them.”

“I just want to be sure.”

“I got your number, didn’t I?”

“When?”

“Outside Frank’s apartment. I played that smooth enough, didn’t I?”

Oliver thinks for a moment. “Yeah, you did. And it got the hell beat out of me.”

“But even after that, I got you to take me west, didn’t I?”

“As a matter of fact.”

“And after this you’re going to buy me a hot dog, right?”

“Shut up.”

“So if I’m playing you like a violin, Oliver, maybe I can handle a guitar-store jockey. But it’s probs better if you just keep your own mouth shut.”

“It usually is,” says Oliver.

Oliver got the name and address of the music store from his GPS. A number of hits came up, but he was looking for a place on the north side, where, from his memory of the city, he figured someone like Frank Cormack, white and scheming, would have lived and sung his bullshit songs. This store, southwest of Wrigley on Lincoln Avenue, seemed to be at the epicenter of that scene.

“Any idea what kind of guitar you’re looking for?” asks the woman at the front desk. They have entered some sort of fancy guitar emporium with dark wooden shelves behind the counter and what look to be thousands of guitars hanging from its whitewashed walls.

“Just something I can play anywhere,” says Ayana.

“What kind of music do you play?”

“I’m just learning. But like folk and stuff?”

“And not too expensive,” adds Oliver. Ayana gives him the stink eye. Nice touch, that, Oliver thinks. Like a happy fucking family.

“Why don’t you check out the acoustic room. Let me know your name and I’ll set you up with Karl. He’s our resident folkie.”

“Perfect,” says Ayana. “I’m Ayana.”

The acoustic room, behind a glass door, is long and white with a pile of guitars in the center like some deranged Christmas tree and three rows of guitars dripping off the high walls like tinsel. Ayana walks along one of the rows, brushing each guitar she passes with her fingertips, leaving marks on the buffed wood. Oliver takes one off the wall, big and dark brown. He presses down on the fretboard and flicks the strings with his thumb; the sound is rich and deep.

“Do you actually play, Oliver?”

“I used to,” he says. “Just happy little love songs, you know.

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