Not biting

I'm going to get off my ass and play my guitar, I thought. I dug through the closet at my parents' house until I finally found it underneath a good half-inch of drywall dust. One of the cats had left cute little paw prints down the side of the case.

I set off into the rain. For whatever reason the bus ride to my apartment took more than twice as long as it usually does. Bus drivers, bus riders, all bitchy. Things are behind schedule. Not enough busses. Rain. People expect normal all the time and get frustrated when they don't have it. Me? I'm just calm. Sedated would be a better word, I guess.

A guy sat down beside me and began talking to a gangsta wannabe looking guy feeding a baby. Those standard baby-related conversations. Months. Weight. First word. How much does he eat? I don't know why people are interested in these things.

"Electric or acoustic?" he asked. Caught me a little off guard.

"Acoustic," I replied.

"Looks pretty small for an acoustic," he said. Long curly hair, thick beard. A button from the Canada pavilion at Expo '86 on his jacket, shopping bags of who knows what, warm brown eyes.

"I have pretty small fingers," I replied, holding up my hand, "and I've had this guitar since I was 12."

"Do you write songs?"

"No."

"You play other peoples' songs?"

"Not really. I haven't really played in a long time."

"I ask because I'm a producer," he said, "have my own little studio and I'm always looking for talent. You sure you don't write songs?"

"Yeah, I'm really not all that good," I replied.

I got home finally to find that one of my strings is broken. Figures.