Zippo

Andrew was people-watching. He clenched a parcel in his right hand and a cigarette in the other. “A young man....” he thought, “I'm looking for a young man.” He wished he could remember, but there was no time to stop and stare at every passing face for a trace of a figment of a memory of recognition.

• Hey, you got a light?
• Yeah, here.
• Hey man... That's super nice of you but I just need a light.
• … pardon?
  He'd absentmindedly given the stranger his whole pack.

• Fucking... sorry.

• If you don't have a light that's alright. Have a good one.
• No no no, I have one. I have several, just give me a minute.

He rummaged his coat pockets while his eyes adjusted to the sudden proximity of another person. Just a kid, with frumpy crust punk clothes and the most worn-out pair of chucks Andrew had ever seen. Save for the stubble and tired blue eyes, he had a young and feminine face. On the breast pocket of his denim vest, a sigil of a bloody rat chewing at chains.

Andrew poked a zippo at the boy's chest.

• Local band?
• Best band in all of SoCal, man. Shacklerat.

Andrew made no attempt to hide his bemusement.

• Sounds... um... You guys play classic punk, hardcore? Reggae, even?

• Avant-garde, man.
• Nice, nice...

He liked this kid. He was the earnest kind of stupid he could appreciate for comedic value.

• You doing anything later? We've got a show tonight at Odour. It's gonna be pretty fucking sick.
• I'd love to, dude, but I'm a busy man. Haven't had time for that since I was a kid like you.
• A kid like me? You don't even look that old. How old are you?
• Doesn't matter.

It really didn't. Andrew smirked fondly.

• Hey, I know Odour, though. Used to live a few blocks away from that venue, worked as a mixer in the studio. Had to skip town and give the job to my little brother.
• No fucking shit?! I thought you looked familiar, man, you're Andrew's brother?
• That's me.
• You guys look fucking IDENTICAL, man.
• Yeah. We get that a lot.
• Name's Dean, by the way. I play bass.
• Right on, right on. Andrew plays piano, you should jam with him some time. The kid's a genius.
• Will do.
  
  
  Their cigarettes were burning out. All or nothing.

• Hey, do me a favor, will you?
• Depends on the favor.
• Can you give this to Andrew?
• … can't give it to him yourself?
• Like I said, I'm a busy man. I have to leave in an hour and I've got shit to handle.

• Alright. I ain't got shit else to do before the show.
• Thank you, Dean. I mean it.
• No problem.
  They put their cigarettes out and clenched hands, tapped fists.
• Alright man, you have an awesome show tonight.
• I fucking will, dude. Have a good one.

Andrew watched the boy walk off with his parcel and sighed mightily. If this wasn't him, the stars were playing a goddamned cruel trick. 

 

ANDREW

Andrew was sick of all these shitty little high school bands. The studio was usually empty on the weekdays, but one of the local bands decided to have a charity show. Every goddamned day he came in to work with these kids, these puddles of recessive genes, these know-nothings, perfecting all their takes that were absolutely shit to begin with. For two years he'd been working at Odour, two years since he'd decided college wasn't his dig, two years since his ma decided she couldn't love anymore and his daddy broke in two. Daddy sent Andrew pictures of the desert every once in a while, along with a cheque for top ramen and weed and hoodies and whatever it was twenty year-old boys needed to survive. Andrew took the pictures and put them in a box in his closet, put the cheques into a savings account along with his paychecks and windfalls. 

He had a plan to take all the money and buy himself the mahogany Imperial Bosendofer he'd tuned for a local antique shop a few months back. When he was done tuning all ninety-seven keys, Andrew struck a yellow-toothed chord with arrogant fingers. Crooked coffee grins turned to clumsy jungle-jangles, turned to chuckles and smoky, sobbing blues. He'd never fallen in love before, not like that. He asked Chuck how much he wanted for her. Chuck mumbled something about antique, something about estate sale, something about a hundred and seventy grand. Andrew chose to show Chuck just how many synonyms he knew for stupid, fat mother fucker. Chuck just stood there and took it all in, waiting for Andrew to cool off before handing him a cheque for $209; a dollar tip for keys eighty-eight through ninety-seven. He walked the four blocks home feeling sick to his stomach.