A Conversation

We went out for a date. Her choice of where to go. The smoke in the place was a second atmosphere. She seemed, 'nice.

"Where do you live?" She started with that one.

I live between the high notes and the low notes, between the big and little slinky strings, between the worn frets and the ones rubbed flat.

"On the west side." I answered, somewhat disinterested in this topic.

"Oh, I like the west side. Its cooler, more laid back. Our side of the lake is more uptight."

I took a pull on my Turkish smoke. She really was good looking, in a burned out sort of way. Her hair was put up well but had the dry look of over 50. She was trying really hard.

"The east side is ok. Uptight makes more money you know." Feeling her out. Burned out on money or burned by some other guy. Hard to tell. But money was in the mix for sure.

"Money." she ventured, tapping her drink glass with her fingernail. The question must have hit home. Or apartment, now, in her case. "Want some cliches to go with that?"

"Nope." I had seen money and I had seen none. Been at both ends, been to both places. Some of the places were clean, none of the women were. Dirt was relative. The music was absolute, the high and low notes. E flat was forever blue. I doubt she cared about that. I doubt she had a radio. Music was background to this one.

"I've heard lots of cliches. Some good, some bad. Most of them useful at times. How bout you?"

She smiled. "What kind of work do you do?' she asked, staring at my hands. I put down the cigarette and slid them under the table. I didn't want her to know.

"I work in the sewers. Our crew runs a machine down the trunk lines for inspection. It's horrid. The smell is not so bad, but the darkness is horrid. It pays so damn well for the shitty work. We get our time off and good pay. I never have to think off the job. It never follows me home." It was my standard. She knew I was lying. I could hear the high notes crying in my head, the howl of the feedback. My hands were too soft. She could tell it was a scam.

"You don't have to lie. Lots of guys lie. I'm used to it though."

"Pretty lies trump ugly truths. My truths are boring and safe. My lies are much more fun. Pretty lies never hurt no one." It was as close as I would let her get.

She sat there and stared coldly. The math was being done. Balance sheets. The guitars were howling now, the feedback, the shrieking, the groaning. It was a blur of notes running down the neck of the Strat.

"So, not a one trick pony?" she asked.

"We usually aren't. I won't disabuse you however."

She stared some more, leaned over and put out her cigarette, dropping it into the ashtray without grinding the butt down. "Lets leave." she said.