Page 301 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

Like a brain-dead fool.

As the door swings open, the writing room’s more graveyard than studio.

Room smells of coffee,

of clove cigarettes,

of vanilla perfume.

Candles are melted down to glass rims across the piano. Notebooks are stacked crooked next to an ashtray. Ashtray is full of pens that are out of ink.

The scarred brick wall vibrates with ghosts of songs I never finished. Guitars lean in a corner, slumped in stands, strings dusty. A few are mounted on the wall like trophies. A rug sprawls under it all, worn where I pace,

where I sit,

where I spill wine,

coffee,

mascara-black tears.

Andrew stands statue,

eyes locked on the wall,

where three guitars line up like gods.

“You’re fuckin’ shittin’ me.”

He steps in closer, glancing from me, back to the wall. “That’s the holy grail right there.” Then he stands in front of a—“‘59 Les Paul Standard. Less than a hundred left in this condition floating around in the world.”

His voice cracks mid-sentence,

and he clears his throat, embarrassed.

“Fuck—this is it. Page, Clapton, Slash—every riff you ever loved started right here.”

His fingers twitch against his pants, itching for strings as his eyes climb left to the next guitar.

“A Pre-CBS.” A short laugh jumps out of him. “Strat like that’s worth more than my moms’ house.” He turns fast to face me. “An’ Hendrix? Burned one just to prove a point.” His eyes are back on it, gaze following the lines of its silhouette. “Fuck. You could play rain or fire through her, she’ll give you both.”

Then the last guitar,

pitch black, gleaming under the lamp.

“ES-335.” He exhales it with a slow head shake. “Chuck Berry duck-walked this whole family of sound into history.”

He has Dad’s same fever

when it comes to six strings.

“Allison, angel,” he stammers in disbelief. “You even know what you got on this wall?”

Another laugh breaks out of him,

palm lifting in surrender.

“Yeah. Course you fuckin’ do.”