“The Movement of Horses” by Adam Cushman
--page 6

         After changing clothes we take the guitar inside where Dane says it would be better if he handled the sale since he gives lessons at Guitar Planet a few times a week and has some pull with the manager, and for me to just hang back for a few. Then he goes up to some older red-haired dude at the front of the store and shows him what we’ve got. Meanwhile, this is a good opportunity to compose a little composition while Dane deals with the dirty work. My instrument of choosing is a Gibson Flying V. After plugging it into the Peavey and cranking the volume, my fingers start doing the stroking and the sounds of my soul fill the air as people stop and stare in an amazed stupor at the one they will tell their grandkids about. My hand starts moving faster, up and down, as hard as it can go as my eyes close, my head falls back and my natural rhythmicality builds toward explosion. All around me grown men are weeping. Women are gyrating. Some little kid takes a whizz where he stands. Just short of my solo, someone who must be attempting suicide grabs my arm in mid-pick and the only reason that person continues to breathe is because it’s Dane and he tells me, “You are scaring people. It’s best we go.”
         This is sound advice. What my companion is saying is that it’s not nice to throw your talent in these poor people’s faces. The intrusion aside, you have to admit the guy has a point. When we get outside Dane lights a cigarette. “You were going to try finger-tapping next weren’t you?” He says, “Please join the Key Club or something. It is cheaper and less disturbing to people who think of music as more than a fun hobby.”
         “How much did you get?”
         He slaps a hundred dollars in my hand, “The manager was so amazed with you, he threw in a box of picks.”
         “But that Gibson cost three-thousand dollars!”
         He touches my arm, “Why do you worry. You must have lots of money to own such things.”
         “My mom bought me that for my birthday.”
         “I told you, where we’re going, you can have all the three-thousand-dollar guitars you want.”
         Just the thought of such a paradise makes my eyes water.
         “You are going to cry. You do not trust me. Maybe we should not be friends.”
         This is when he goes and gets in the car and it dawns on me that the great Dane is more vulnerable than he seemed. Maybe you can follow my thinking: Here’s a kid whose dad is someone special and clearly has no time for his son. In order to compensate for that missing male-role-model, he agrees to leave everything behind, including a full scholarship to pursue his dream, in exchange for the company of the coolest person he can think of. That same person lets him come along and is now questioning that decision. The guy’s got to keep his guard up. If sacrificing some guitar that kind of sucked anyway will make him feel more secure, then maybe this is how is has to be. It’s not easy to say, “I just want you to like me,” and not hear a reply. Even a true jackoff knows this.

~

         The thing is, tattoos are an extension of the self. Not only an expression of a person’s beliefs, but a physical extension too. Getting one is the obvious choice, not only because of me having so much to say, but to fulfill the need of others to have more of me to go around. Dane talked me into this while we were at Denny’s eating breakfast. He said that because we are starting a band, not getting one would bring us bad luck. Then Dane picked up the menu and said not getting a tattoo of “Moons Over My Hammy” in the center of my chest would make me a punk bitch and he wouldn’t want to be friends with me anymore.
         “What are you going to get?” I asked him.
         “I am allergic to ink.”
         At first the way he was trying not to smile made me think he thought getting a “Moons Over My Hammy” tattoo would be the move of a real jackoff, but soon I realized that he too wanted there to be more of me for himself, and that smile he was hiding, was a mask for tears, the shame of his mutant allergies to anything ink related.
         We find a parlor in Orlando called Buena Vista Tattoos and Piercing. The bald shirtless guy who works there is named Needles. Needles has giant orange flames covering both arms. The plate of “Moons Over My Hammy” takes two hours. Dane laughs for the first twenty minutes but says he’s laughing because of how awesome it looks. Needles and Dane seem to be old friends too, it is obvious by the way they look at each other and keep smiling, like they’re remembering fun stuff they did together. This makes me feel better(13). Before too long Dane says he’s going to go walk around for a while and bails. My guess is he is almost ready to open up to me, but doesn’t want to cry in front of Needles.

~

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