Chapter Three
A couple of days have gone by. Doctors come and go. My mind is still foggy even though I am no longer taking a narcotic pain killer. I play guitar during the day and watch television at night. A couple of people complained about the noise, so I'm not able to play my electric guitar as much. I found an outside patio with picnic tables where I can play as loud and as long as I want. Dr. Winters found me out there and made me come back inside to discuss my treatment plans and finally, a release date. I can't understand half of the doctor-speak he spewed at me and get bored easily when he is talking anyway. But a release date is exactly what I want to hear.
"So I can finally go home on Wednesday?" I asked excitedly.
"Yes, Mr. Jacobs," he said. "Finally I get your attention."
"Hell yeah," I exclaimed. "Oops, sorry," I mumbled when he gave me a stern look.
"You will need to keep your physical therapy schedule in order to gain back some of the muscle loss. That will be important so that you can continue playing guitar efficiently," he told me. I nodded, knowing that he told me that so I would go to physical therapy. If it affects my guitar playing, then it is important to me.
"You will need to see the cognitive therapist regularly in order to keep your brain strong. Again, important for your guitar playing. I don't want to see your playing degrade because you aren't caring for your brain properly," he continued. I nodded again, less enthusiastically. I don't care for the cognitive therapy or the person performing it. Plus, my brain feels its strongest when I play guitar. Maybe I can take guitar lessons in lieu of going to the cognitive therapist.
"I highly recommend Dr. Khan as a psychiatrist," he went on. I audibly groaned. A psychiatrist? Really? I don't want to see a shrink. All that digging in my brain will lead to them outing me, I am certain. "You've experienced a trauma most people will never endure. Between that and the brain injury and resulting changes that have ensued, you will greatly benefit from seeing a psychiatrist," he said in a firm tone. I rolled my eyes and nodded some more. Whatever.
"And finally, I want to continue seeing you weekly in order to monitor your progress. Neurologically speaking, you are a freak," he said, his eyes twinkling and his lips twitching as if he were about to laugh.
"Funny," I said sarcastically and he started laughing. "Is that your professional medical diagnosis?" I asked and then started laughing, too. I'm not even sure why it's funny that I'm a freak, but his laughter is contagious.
"Seriously, though," he said after a few moments. "I want to follow your case closely. There are maybe two dozen confirmed cases of Sudden Savant Syndrome in the world and I would love to document your case," he told me. Wow. Maybe I am a freak.
"And the notoriety probably doesn't hurt," I said and started laughing at him this time. He smiled at me.
"Right," he said. "I will have all of this information presented to you in writing before you're released, as I know that your memory isn't especially reliable yet," he said, standing up and gathering his paperwork. At least he said, `yet,' in relation to my memory. I guess all that therapy he talked about may help me get my brain right again. Or at least righter.
I tried my best to keep from annoying the various doctors, therapists, and nurses who frequent my room so that I will be released on time. I already feel stronger from the physical therapy and I've more or less gotten my appetite back, although I forget to eat if I am playing guitar. I forget everything when I am playing.
Finally, Wednesday rolled around and Tony arrived with a wheelchair to take me down to my parents' car. I guess I didn't know exactly how I was getting home because I forgot to call them to pick me up until early Wednesday morning. My mother handed the phone to my father and he agreed to be there to pick me up at noon. He didn't actually show up until about 12:25, grumbling about having to come on his lunch break. I guess I could have taken the bus? I can't wait to get out of the hospital, though, so I didn't pick a fight with my dad.
My two favorite nurses followed me down carrying my guitars and a bag full of cards and stuffed animals and the other junk people had brought by. Drago never came to pick up his share of the gifts and other assorted mementos so I ended up with all of it. I had an urge to toss it all in the garbage but don't have the heart to do it in front of the nurses. They both hugged me and gushed about my guitar playing.
My dad sat behind the steering wheel and tapped his hands against it. He actually honked the horn and glared at me while I said goodbye. The nurses hugged me one more time and I got in the passenger seat. He peeled out as we drove away.
"I have to get back to work, you know," he said angrily.
"Sorry," I mumbled, wishing my I had my acoustic up front with me instead of stowing it in the trunk.
We sat in silence until he pulled up in the driveway. I hopped out and started pulling my stuff out of the trunk. He just sat in the driver's seat until I'd gotten all of my gear. I stacked it up on the driveway. I went to lean in the passenger side window to thank him, but he was already backing down the driveway. I had to hop out of the way to avoid getting hit by the car.
"Got to get back to work," he called out. No apology for almost running me down, and he was speeding down our street a few seconds later.
"Bye," I said to no one, since he was already gone. I picked up my guitar cases and headed inside.
"Hi, Mom," I called out. But no one was home. I got the rest of my gear and stacked it inside the door and then headed to the kitchen. There was a note on the fridge.
Dear Alvin,
I've gone to church to help clean. It is very important work and the Pastor and his wife rely on me. There's money in the attached envelope for your dinner. Your father has to work late tonight.
God's Blessings, Mom
There was no attached envelope. Apparently, she forgot to leave money. So, no welcome home, no help bringing my crap in, and no dinner. Wow. I guess it isn't all that different from how my parents treated me before--like I was invisible--but after being released from the hospital I thought that maybe they would make some effort. I knew that their act right after I regained consciousness was phony. I wonder how much of my mother's newfound religion has to do with all of the attention she got from having a son in the hospital. Now that I've been released, she will have to come up with something else to get attention.
I put all of my things away. I decided to keep the cards and stuff. I stashed them in a box in the rafters of the garage. I found a box of music up there and dragged that out. It was sheet music and notes from when I took lessons. I spread it all out around my room and began playing all of the songs and practice pieces. After going through the box I discovered that I could play everything with little to no effort. Frustrated by the lack of a challenge, I pulled up guitar playing demos on YouTube. There were a ton of introductory lessons and early technique presentations, but not as much for the advanced player. So I just watched concert footage of a variety of players. I watched Jason Becker, Marty Friedman, and Tosin Abasi and tried to copy their finger work. I found that I could close my eyes and play along if I heard the song once. Some songs I'd never heard before but could play along to regardless.
Around 9:30 my mom started banging on the door to my room. She opened it before I could give her permission--I should have locked the door.
"Alvin!" she shrieked as she looked at the mess my room had become. "You need to respond when I call your name, first of all," she started lecturing. "Second of all, you've made a terrible mess in here and I expect it to be cleaned up immediately," she yelled, her voice getting more and more shrill. My head ached and my ears rang. I covered my ears and cringed.
"Okay, Mom, just stop yelling," I hadn't even heard her call my name. I guess I was really into my music. But I can hear her loud and clear now.
"Don't you cover your ears and try to ignore me, young man," she continued to shriek. I recoiled away from her trying to make the sound stop hurting my head.
"Head injury, here!" I called out, hoping she would come to her senses and stop yelling at her brain injured son.
"Oh, please, stop making excuses," she yelled, clearly not interested in making me feel any better. "You've been playing that God-forsaken guitar as loudly as possible all afternoon so you can't tell me that you are injured somehow by my voice," she said. It's s true. I can play my guitar earsplittingly loud and it never gives me a headache. But her shrill voice sent my pain receptors into overdrive.
"Whatever, Mom. I'll clean up and put my guitar away," I said. I would have said anything just to get her to shut up.
"That's right, you will do those things. And then you will come down and clean the kitchen. Just because you've been gone doesn't mean that you will shirk your responsibilities," she announced in a huff. Seriously? Clean the kitchen? Maybe being in the hospital wasn't so bad after all.
I tossed the sheet music and notes back in the box and put my guitars away. I carried the box back to the garage and then went to the kitchen. Just my luck, my father had polished off whatever dinner there was and there were no leftovers. I started digging around in the fridge, hoping to find something to microwave.
"Get out of the refrigerator!" My mother's shrill voice broke the silence and I could feel the pain in my head again. "I gave you money for dinner, now get out of there," she said, pulling me back and shutting the door.
"No, you didn't give me any money. You said you were going to, but there was no envelope and no money," I retorted. I knew I shouldn't pick a fight with her because her voice is sending me over the top, but I couldn't let that one slide.
"Are you calling me a liar?" she shouted. I flinched but stood my ground.
"I think you just forgot to leave the money, that's all," I said angrily.
"I think you forgot your manners, young man. Do not challenge your mother and father!" she spouted off. Then she started on that same lecture about respecting your elders, especially your parents, and how Aldon, my brother, had always respected them. With a whole lot of religious bullshit sprinkled in and making sure to rub my nose in the fact that my brother could do no wrong in her eyes, she went on for about fifteen minutes. I did my best to shut out her voice and tried to clean the kitchen as fast as I could. My head was pounding by the time she finished.
"Whatever you say, Mom," I replied when she had finally stopped yelling.
"You're an ingrate! That's all you are. We give you everything and you're nothing but an ingrate!" she shouted. I stood there with an angry look on my face, astonished at her gall. I was in the hospital for two and a half weeks. I had brain surgery. And I am an ingrate because I agreed with her rant? She kept going, too. All about how I never carried my weight around here and how I was going to attend church services and youth group as long as I live under her roof. I finally just walked away. That seemed to infuriate her. I walked into the living room and looked at my father pleadingly.
"Beth, leave the boy be. He just got out of the hospital," my father yelled over her. My head was really booming now. I can't stand to hear either one of them yell anymore. I turned and ran upstairs. I shut my door and locked it and pulled out my acoustic. It took a few minutes of playing, but I finally started to calm down and my head stopped hurting quite so much.
I woke up with a stiff neck and a mild headache the next morning. I fell asleep on the floor next to my bed with my acoustic in my hands. I stretched out and strummed out a few strains. The song in my head is upbeat and I can't wait to hear it. I need to buy some blank sheet music so I can begin recording my original songs. Sometimes I wonder if they are truly original or if I am simply repeating songs I've heard in the past. If I write them down I can compare them to existing pieces.
By the time I got myself together and went downstairs it was already 9:30. There was no note today, just an empty house and a nearly empty refrigerator. I found some fruit and pulled out my therapy schedule. Since I don't have a car, and probably wouldn't be cleared to drive even if I did, I have to figure out the bus schedules to get to my various appointments. It turns out that the doctors, four in all, are all within a few minutes walk of the hospital. The number 20 bus picks up down the street from my house and drops off in front of the hospital, so that is good. I figure I'll need a bus pass. I dug into my savings envelope that I hid under my bed and pulled out the money for a bus pass.
I also found the music store closest to the hospital so I can get some blank sheet music and maybe some new strings and picks. I did some work at the local community college in their theater department after school and earned a small stipend for my efforts. I did it more for the experience, but stashed away some money, too.
My first appointment was with the psychiatrist. I brought my guitar. I have a feeling that I won't be going anywhere without it. I am already thinking about saving up for a 12-string Takamine. My Yamaha 6-string is incredible and I love playing it, but I've always wanted a 12-string. Takamine is a super cool Japanese guitar maker. There are always used guitars on Craigslist so I just need to bide my time and the right one will pop up.
I sat in the waiting room playing quietly, mostly practicing finger placement without actually playing. As it turns out, not everyone is eager to hear me play. I guess I knew that already, but I'd been nearly kicked off the bus and then told by the receptionist at the doctor's office to knock it off because she couldn't hear on the phone. It is really hard to resist playing, especially with my guitar in hand. I did my best to practice fingering without actually playing although I'd get caught up in a song and strum loudly every so often. I got more than one dirty look from the receptionist. Fuck her. I'm brain damaged. I have an excuse. Alright, I shouldn't throw that in people's faces, no matter how much I want to tell people so that they feel bad and leave me alone.
"Mr. Jacobs, please come in," a man appeared in the doorway to one of the offices and called me inside. I grabbed my stuff and checked him out while I walked in. He is Asian, probably 5'10" and has a medium build. He has a short beard, and dark brown hair with a bit of gray sprinkled in. He is possibly in his early 40s. Everything about him is medium--his build, his height, his looks. A non-descript man if I've ever seen one. He'd make a great spy. He could blend into the background and no one would notice him.
We shook hands and he invited me to sit down. There is a couch and a chair. I took the couch so that I can have my guitar out. He looked at my guitar curiously, but didn't say anything. I set it in my lap so that I would be ready to play when I was ready to tune him out. I don't necessarily mean to be disrespectful; I am merely protective of my secrets. Especially the gay one. Okay, that's pretty much my only secret.
"I'm Dr. Khan, or Omar," he introduced himself. "Dr. Winters spoke to me about your case and I am here to help you in your healing process," he said as he settled into a black desk chair across from me.
"Uh, hi, I'm Alvin. I'm not really sure what to say," I managed to mumble after he looked at me for a minute or so. I squinted at him as if I could read his mind. What are his intentions? I am already distrustful of him and all he's done is introduce himself.
"Well, Alvin, what's on your mind? Anything that stands out that you would like to bounce off a neutral wall, so to speak?" he said. He had a pen and paper in his lap. He is going to write everything I say down and hold it against me later, isn't he?
"Hmmm..." I said, staring at the pad of paper in his lap.
"Oh, this is just for my notes. I'll review them from time to time before we meet so that I can ensure we're making progress," he said. Likely story.
"Who sees those?" I asked.
"Just me. You know that HIPAA protects your privacy and I will never discuss you or your case with anyone else without your permission. No one will be privy to anything we talk about in this office," he leaned forward in his chair and smiled at me. I shrugged and leaned back against the couch.
"Ok," I said. I looked around the office. His diploma from the University of Nebraska is framed above his desk. There is a small window overlooking the parking lot behind him. Bookshelves line one wall. All of the books are about psychology, psychiatry, self-help. Without really thinking about it, I started playing the song running through my mind. I kept looking around at anything but him while I played.
"How long have you played?" he asked when I paused between songs.
"Since I was three, I guess about fifteen years," I answered, already starting the next song.
"Do you always bring your guitar with you?" he kept up his questioning. I guess it's his job, but I just want this hour to end. Why can't he do some paperwork while I play and then we can be done with this?
"No. Only since the accident," I flinched. I hadn't meant to mention the accident. I've already said too much.
"Ahhh. You play beautifully," he said and he closed his eyes while I played. Well, at least he appreciates my playing. I started a Segovia piece that I'd come across in the box from the garage. I transitioned into a Barrios piece.
"Segovia was always so expressive when he played. I saw him when I was a child and my parents took me to Spain," Dr. Khan told me. That was surprising, but I didn't answer. How cool to have seen Segovia actually play. He died before I was even born.
"Barrios was heavily influenced by South American folklore, wouldn't you say?" Dr. Khan tried again to get me to start talking. I merely nodded and then just stopped playing altogether. I didn't feel like playing all of the sudden. It was like his knowledge of Spanish guitar and his appreciation of my playing really rubbed me the wrong way. I don't want his admiration. I stared at him. Maybe I can make him uncomfortable enough that he will end the appointment early and I can go to the music store.
"Why does talking to me make you uncomfortable?" he asked finally.
"I just don't have much to say," I told him. I rested my hands on top of my guitar and stared at him some more.
"I can't help you unless you talk to me," he said quietly, not breaking my stare. I rolled my eyes. He laughed.
"What?" I asked defensively.
"You are defiant. But I can tell that it's a struggle because you don't want to be rude," he said. Probably true. I tilted my head to the side and continued to stare.
"Yeah," I finally muttered, confirming his observation that I couldn't be rude forever.
"What are you afraid of me finding out?" he asked. Geez. He got to the point quickly.
"I don't know what you mean," I replied. I finally broke off my stare and looked at my hands folded on my guitar.
"It seems as if there's something that you are hiding. Not just from me. Something that prevents you from being yourself," he said, still looking at me.
"See, there it is. You are just so eager to find out some juicy tidbit, what's really wrong with me, so you can hurry up and tell the world," I blurted out. Why was I even indulging in his interrogation?
"You know that HIPAA..." he began telling me.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, but as soon as I tell you something that you think my parents should know or that will make a great journal article you will blab all about me and claim I gave you permission," I interrupted him.
"I wouldn't do that," he said quietly. Great, I'd offended his sense of honor.
"That's what you say now, but I don't know you well enough to trust you," I replied.
"Do you have difficulties trusting people?" he asked. More prying questions.
"Yes," I answered and then shut up. I've already said enough.
"Why do you think that is?" Dr. Khan shifted and crossed his legs in the other direction. My eyes wandered to below his belt and I wondered what he had in his pants. I shook my head and looked out the window trying to clear my head. Why the fuck would I want to know whether this guy was hung or not? I still haven't cum since before the accident. I'd intended to take care of that last night but fell asleep with my guitar in hand, instead of my cock in hand. Fuck, all these thoughts about cocks was getting me to chub up. Ugh. I need to get out of here. I looked at the clock and noticed that it had been about twenty minutes. Geez, that meant another forty minutes before my appointment ended.
"Umm, no one in my life has given me a reason to trust them?" I posed my answer like a question. I sound like a smart ass, but I don't really like this line of questioning.
"So you feel like people you've encountered aren't trustworthy?" he said, basically saying the same thing I'd said back to me.
"Yeah, except for Shel, and maybe Tinsley and Emma, but they're dead now, so it doesn't matter," I said. Oh Jesus, what is wrong with me? I just keep blabbing stuff to this guy.
"Your friends who died in the accident?" he asked. I nodded. He paused. "What about your parents?" he asked a few moments later.
"Trust them? No," I said louder than I intended.
"Any siblings?" he asked, leaving the comment about my parents for later apparently.
"A brother," I answered.
"What's he like?" Dr. Khan shifted again. I did my best not to check him out again but my eyes lingered on his crotch for a second too long. I shook my head. Maybe I was better off talking to him.
"Uh, Aldon, that's his name. He's older. Two years older. He's at the University of Pennsylvania studying engineering. Our father went there for undergrad," I sputtered out.
"Do you trust Aldon?"
"Yeah, I guess. He's alright. My parents adore him. He can do no wrong in their eyes. We've always gotten along, so I don't really have anything against him," I said and decided to put my guitar down and cross my own legs. I really needed to move my junk because it was still chubbed up from before.
"Okay, so you aren't close with your parents?" Dr. Khan asked. I need to be careful not to give away my desires because I can't keep my eyes above his waist.
"Not really. No, not at all," I said staring out the window again. "My mom has always been distant and my dad is just sort of uninterested in me," I said.
"Do you date?" he asked. Here it was, the question du jour--are you a faggot? Do your parents know you want to fuck guys? Do you want to suck my cock right now, cocksucker? Alright, he just asked if I date. But I noticed he didn't ask if I date girls or if I have a girlfriend.
"Not really," I answered.
"Why?" he asked. That surprised me. Why? I can't, that's why. If I go out with a girl it will be fake and I don't want to lead on some stupid girl who will probably figure out that I'm gay because I won't kiss her and then she'd tell everyone. And I can't go out with a guy because he's a guy and my parents would make my life miserable if they thought I was gay.
"Just haven't met the right person?" again I framed it like a question. I looked over to the bookshelf and tried to read the titles of the books closest to me. I started zoning out. I could hear Dr. Khan talking to me but I couldn't focus on what he was saying.
"Alvin? Are you okay, Alvin?" Dr. Khan stood up and approached me. I snapped back to attention.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm okay," I said quickly, hoping he wasn't going to touch me.
"Do you have these episodes often?" he asked, backing off and sitting back down.
"What episodes?" I asked stupidly. I wasn't quite back all the way. My mind felt foggy, confused.
"Where were you just now?" he changed his question.
"I was trying to read the names of the books," I answered looking back to the bookshelf. I couldn't remember the titles I'd just read.
"Is this something that's happened since the accident or is it something you've always done?" he said. He had that pen and paper out again and was beginning to write something down.
"Since the accident," I answered. He kept writing, but I couldn't read it from where I sat.
"You have trouble focusing?" he asked. I nodded. "And what about remembering things?"
"If it's not written down, I can't remember most things. The only time I am focused and have enhanced recall is when I play my guitar," I said. He kept scribbling on the pad. Apparently I'd finally said something interesting. At least we weren't dancing around my sexuality anymore.
"Talk to me about your guitar playing since the accident," he said after he finally stopped writing. He looked at me again and I looked down at my hands. I told him about my experience--my compulsion to play, my enhanced abilities. He took some more notes.
"Well, I think we have a lot to talk about, Alvin. We will meet twice a week for now. Dr. Winters' office scheduled these appointments for you. You have that schedule?" I nodded my head and looked at the clock. The past forty minutes blew by. Maybe I was unfocused for longer than I realized. God, how long had I been out of it? Crap, what if I'd said a bunch of stuff while having an episode?
"What did I say while I was having my episode?" I asked instead of answering his question.
"Nothing really," he said. "You whispered the names of the books, mostly. Some of it seemed to be judgments about the titles. I don't think you cared for several of them," he grinned at me. I sighed in relief. I hope he is being honest with me.
"Oh, uh, yeah, I have a schedule of appointments from Dr. Winters and I figured out how to take the bus to get here," I said, now answering his initial question.
"Great. I will see you on Monday, then," he stood up and reached out to shake my hand. I shook it with a tight grip. I don't want anyone making assumptions based on a limp handshake.
"Monday, yeah," I said, still clearing my head from my episode. I walked out of the office and sat in the waiting room for a few minutes before I felt clear enough to walk to the music store. I hope that these episodes don't happen while I am out somewhere and I get mugged or walk in front of a truck.
The music store was such a glorious departure from Dr. Khan's office. I spun in a circle to get my bearings with a big, dumb grin on my face. Music is the center of my life now. It has always been important, but now it is the only thing. I haven't even thought about theater and that was my focus for most of high school. Shel and I talked about starting a band and moving to LA and all that, but it was just talk. He'd been accepted to the University of Denver for their pre-law program. I stopped for a moment and pulled out my other companion--besides my guitar--a spiral notebook. I had to write things down when I thought of them or the thought was gone forever. I wrote down to check on my admission to CU. Oh, and whatever scholarship money Drago had been talking about that day at the hospital.
"Hey, Alvin, whassup?" a voice broke into my thoughts. I looked up to see Landry approach. I reached out to fist bump him.
"Nada, man, whassup?" I replied. I hadn't seen Landry since before the accident. His name seemed familiar to me for some reason. I just couldn't place where I'd heard it recently. I didn't know he worked at the music store.
"Just working for the summer. How about you, you gotta job?" he asked. I checked him out a little while trying to look like I wasn't checking him out. I'd pretty much mastered not obviously checking out guys, or at least I thought so since no one had ever called me on it. Fuck. Landry was one of Drago's friends from the football team. He was the kicker. Tall, long legs, nice looking bulge. Damn, he is handsome and nicely built. Not all jacked like Drago, but not an ounce of fat on him. His nearly black hair is longer than I remembered, hanging in his piercing blue eyes. Now this is a guy worth chubbing up over.
"Uh, um, no, just doing physical therapy and stuff," I cleared my throat and thought about licking a garbage can so I wouldn't get hard and embarrass myself.
"Yeah, I've been talking to Drago and he's doing PT, too. How are things since the accident?" Landry grasped my arm comfortingly and rubbed it up and down a little. Wow, he has strong hands. I had to distract myself--licking the trash can wasn't cutting it. Let's see, Donald Trump making out with Melania? Eww. Still not really doing it but gross nonetheless.
"Well, pretty fucking lame, actually, except for my guitar," I said and smiled. "I can't seem to put it down," I told him as I adjusted the strap and shifted it to the front. I started playing along with the song on the radio. Landry grinned.
"Nice," he said as the song came to an end. "So what can I help you with today?" he said suddenly backing up a couple of steps when another person walked into the room from the back.
"Oh, uh, I need some blank sheet music and an extra set of strings," I said glancing at the other person moving toward us.
"Great, follow me and I can show you where to find those things," Landry turned and nearly bumped into the man behind him. "Oh, hey Dad," he said, blushing slightly. If I didn't know better, I would think that Landry just got caught flirting with me. But that is impossible. For so many reasons. "You remember Alvin Jacobs, right?" he asked nervously.
"Alvin, good to see you," his dad boomed out. He is fairly similar to his son--tall, thin, not quite as muscular. Kind of a `dad bod'. Same hair, but with gray sprinkled in. Brown eyes instead of blue. Similar bulge. Fuck, Alvin, eyes above the waist. It is like every guy I encounter gets a perfunctory crotch exam these days.
"Hi, Mr. Jensen," I said, shaking his hand.
"I trust you're doing well since the accident?" he asked, looking me over from head to toe.
"Yeah, getting better every day," I gave him the grown-up answer that didn't instigate further questioning.
"Great!" he said enthusiastically. "I see you have your guitar there. Is Landry helping you with what you need?" he asked, giving Landry a distrustful look. I had a feeling that Landry might be a bit of a slacker in his dad's eyes.
"Definitely," I answered. "We were just heading back to the sheet music I'd asked about," I told him.
"Carry on, then. Good to see you, Alvin," he said, shaking my hand again.
"Thanks, sir, good to see you, too," I said and Landry and I walked quickly up the stairs.
"Sorry about my dad," Landry leaned in and whispered in my ear.
"It's okay, he's better than my dad," I whispered back. Our faces were really close and I could smell his cologne. And a little of his natural scent. Fuck me, he smells so good. Baseball, seventh inning stretch, the pitcher just balked...I had to think of something to keep from jumping his bones.
"Show Alvin the new 80/20 bronze guitar strings," Mr. Jensen called up to us. Landry rolled his eyes and our moment passed.
"Sure, Dad," he called out and he walked over to the guitar strings. "Here's the strings we just got in stock," he said loudly so that his dad would hear him. Under his breath he whispered, "He wanted me to work here but he doesn't trust me for shit," and rolled his eyes again. I giggled and then turned to the strings.
Landry showed me around the store and I picked out the things I wanted--some new strings, some picks, sheet music. He gave me a ten percent discount for being a loyal customer. I was all smiles by the time I paid for everything. I just couldn't figure out if he was flirting with me, or what. There just isn't any way that he is gay. And wanted me, of all people. I have to be reading this wrong. I was never really good at reading people to begin with and since the accident I felt foggy half the time anyway, so it is quite possible that I am reading into his friendliness a bit too much. Plus, I really need to get off because I am seeing sex everywhere and it is quite possible that my horniness is coloring my interactions.
"It was really cool to see you, man," he said, walking me to the front of the store. "You're coming to my party on Saturday, right?" he asked.
"Oh, yeah. Drago told me about that," I said, finally remembering where I'd heard Landry's name. Fuck. I hadn't planned on going. Drago kind of freaked me out when he asked me to go. I wasn't sure I wanted to be in a big group like that anyway. I am prone to headaches now and big groups aren't really my thing.
"Sure, uh, yeah, I'll be there," were the words that came out of my mouth, though. Why did I say that? I was almost in a panic. But Landry smiled huge and started shaking my hand. His hand was hard and callused but warm. I didn't want to let go.
"Sweet!" he said, pumping my hand. It seemed like he didn't want to let go, either. "Look for me when you get there and I'll make sure you're taken care of, okay?" he said and reluctantly pulled his hand away.
"Sure, uh, see you then," I said, turning to open the door. He quickly brushed past me and opened the door for me.
"Yeah, see you then," he said and I walked out the door. I couldn't help taking one more look at his crotch. He looked bigger than before. Was he boning up, too? I shook my head to clear it and started walking to the bus. I looked back and saw that he was watching me walk away. I smiled and waved a little. He blushed and waved back and then closed the door. I could hear his dad's thunderous voice in the background asking him if I'd bought anything. I started walking again amazed that I'd just had a moment with Landry Jensen. ### Don't forget to donate to Nifty! Tax deductions rock!