# A Surprise Visit Chapter 8

8 - FACE THE MUSIC
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The temperature dropped as September rolled into October and eventually into November. Things had continued between Trish and I well enough, albeit sporadically. She assures me that her mom has calmed down over the entire situation, but the fact that I haven’t stepped foot in her house since then wasn’t exactly a vote of confidence.
Reed warmed up to us fairly quickly after that second meeting. There were still some times where he seemed distant, but he promised it was because of him quitting carfe cold turkey, at least in part. He still had some...interesting...ideas about spots to relax at. I still have no idea why we agreed to meet up at an abandoned factory, or why we stayed for as long as we did.
A response from the government had come in at some point, expressing their ‘interest in helping’, while outlining a laundry list of requirements and detailing a long and arduous process about how to confirm eligibility. The legalese and in-depth bureaucrat-speak made my eyes glaze over, but what I did glean was that it would take months to actually get everything squared away, and I didn’t exactly have months to spend on a chance of something going right.
That only left one half-way decent idea, which was to get a job. Almost certainly minimum wage, or close enough to it. Desires of spontaneous and violent laminectomy aside, it was the only real way to secure a relative amount of independence and cash flow while I worked to unfuck my increasingly desperate financial situation. At the very least, I had convinced Trish to join me in the job hunting. It wasn’t exactly ideal, but it would help more than it hurt.
I had applied to a large swathe of businesses, straying from food service and call centers except for a last resort, and ended up accepting a job at some sort of thrift-slash-curio-slash-pawn shop called ‘Red Sun, Blue Moon’. It was run by an aging male triceratops who could flip between cool and charming to argumentative and stubborn as all hell at a moments notice, and he seemed to thoroughly enjoy employing both attitudes towards prospective buyers and sellers alike.
The store itself was cramped, with barely enough space for two people (or one tyrannosaurus) in each walkway. Most of the floor and wall space reserved for shelves and stands that sat filled with all sorts of random items: Jewelry; old toys; book; low-end tech; hobbyist supplies; crap that looked like it came from a gift shop on another continent; some things that were just plain offensive, and some that looked like they might have been illegal. Not that I bothered to ask questions anymore. Asking the owner - Mr. B - things as simple as what the ‘B’ stood for, or what the name of the store meant, were only answered with a chuckle and nothing more.
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Most days in the shop were slow, as was this one. A slow trickle of various dinos and occasional humans came through, sometimes even buying something, although most were here to sell whatever random stuff they could come up with. Mr. B handled these requests with ease, a veritable master of salesdinoship - at least from what I could tell - while I handled the register for the odd customer looking to buy.
The bell above the front door dings as someone walks into the store. I lean forward and sit up in the little chair behind the cash register, knowing full well who had just arrived. Trish became an assistant for a hairdresser place not too far from mine, and we would occasionally visit each other during breaks and walk together after our shifts ended.
“Hey Anon. Hope you aren’t busy,” Trish says, putting her arms on the counter and smirking. I take a quick look around the shop. Completely empty, outside of Mr. B and some middle-aged pteranodon discussing the quality of the wood finish on some random knick-knack.
“Pretty fast today. Might only get a couple minutes.”
“Oh well, I guess we’ll have to make them count.” I walk out from around the counter and take Trish’s hand, walking down one of the aisles and glancing at all the random items neatly placed along the shelves. Trish flicks a bobblehead that dances the line between cute and grotesque.
“I swear most of this stuff wasn’t here last time I visited,” Trish comments.
“It was only a couple days ago. Mr. B might be weird but I don’t think he can pull an entire shop’s worth of stock out of nowhere.”
“I dunno...like, what the hell is this? Surely I would remember seeing something like this.” She picks up a small watercolor painting of what appears to be two human men wrestling. Naked.
“Alright, alright. I really don’t need to see that. There’s probably weirder shit in here anyway.”
“Ah, well now I have to buy this,” Trish giggles at my groan, only slightly exaggerated.
“Atta’ boy, Mous! Make some sales!” Mr. B raises his voice at us before turning back to his bartering opponent.
We continue down the aisle, gawking at all the assorted gibberish taken physical form. Trish kind of had a point; a lot of this stuff I have never seen before. Then again, it could just be confirmation bias.
We round a corner and Trish gasps, something apparently catching her eye, and she rushes over to get a closer look. Something different catches my eye, on the opposite corner of the shop. Trish’s words fade away into the background as all my focus centers on an unassuming instrument in front of me. A lightly worn, light-brown wood, six-string guitar silently rests on a simple black stand in the corner.
My heart and mind fall prey to fear and anxiety, but something within me perseveres. My legs move me forward. My fingers calmly trace the taut strings from the neck and down the body. A tentative strum shows that the strings are tuned well enough. My heart and mind are a complete frenzy of emotions and thoughts as the strings return to their rest. They beg me to let go, to move on, to leave and never look back. Their cries are ignored as I take the guitar into my hands and sit cross-legged.
A thousand moments and memories flash in the background of my mind, but only one is strong enough to stand out. It’s the only one I need. It’s what guides my hands to those familiar positions. It’s what guides my fingers to press those familiar strings, and to make that familiar strumming motion. It’s what recognizes that familiar sound. It’s what takes me from one chord to the next. It’s what turns that familiar sound into a familiar tune. It’s what wets my face as it continues.
I miss a note, and it falters. In an instant, the moment is shattered, and I’m painfully aware of everything. My racing heart, my unsteady breath, my blurry eyes, the deafening silence, and the eyes on me. I lurch over, hiding my face behind the guitar and blocking the world out. A gasp and a shudder preclude a quiet sob. Quiet sobs preclude louder ones. Within moments I’m bawling into my lap. I had it. And now it’s gone.
A hand rests on my back, fingers soothingly tracing across me.
You are not alone.
I glance over and see Trish, gripped with concern but offering a smile of comfort. I turn back inwards, but my lips curve upward.
“What was that, Anon?” Trish whispers. I sigh in relief and pain, gain and loss, and so much more.
“Fang’s song.”
I’m not sure how long we sit in silence. My breath steadies and my heart slows. I eventually manage to pull my head out from behind the guitar, returning to reality. I slowly stand up and look at the guitar in my hand. Inspiration. Motivation. Progress.
I walk over to Mr. B at the checkout desk, and gently place the guitar on it. He rings up the total, and I reach for my wallet, not even bothering to check the display.
“Don’t worry ‘bout it, Mous. We’ll do a...a weekly thing, y’know?”
“Yeah...thanks, Mr. B.”
“Think I’ll close up early, too. Doubt anyone will notice.”
“Thanks, Mr. B.”
“Also I’ll throw in that…’painting’ your girlfriend wanted.”
“No thanks, Mr. B.”
“Too late, already sold.” I hear a ‘Yes!’ from Trish behind me, and I can’t help but chuckle.
“See ya, Mous. Have a good weekend. Don’t forget the stand, that’s part of the package.”
“Thanks, Mr. B. You too.”
Trish follows me out the front door, guitar stand and painting in hand.
No longer did I hear the cries of anxiety and the pleadings of fear from a time past. I feel my mind, body and soul unite, dedicated towards a single purpose. A purpose I now held in my very hands.
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-- End --