Category: Fiction Factor

The old dude was absolutely shredding it.

Sitting on a stool, legs crossed and staring straight down, his fingers flew across the Fender Stratocaster, playing so effortlessly it was as though man and instrument were one.

Billed simply as “Music,” he looked like B.B. King in a cowboy hat and played like Jimi Hendrix in a frenzy, with a heavy emphasis on guitar solos.

The sparse crowd at the Reverie Lounge enjoyed it all the same, especially Baxter Layton. He had wandered in a bit after 10 p.m., almost by accident.

Baxter had just finished up having far, far too many drinks with friends at Mike’s Bar & Grill and was in the process of calling an Uber when the hot pink flashing sign at the Reverie caught his eye.

He had never been there before. Hell – he’d never even noticed it before. But it was the hypnotic, psychedelic sounds of Steve Vai’s “For The Love of God” that brought him inside, and he was mesmerized by the old man’s note-for-note replication of the tune.

Enthusiastic applause followed each song, and the performer would take a big swig from his bottle of water before nodding and smiling at the crowd. Depending on the number, he’d reach over and grab another guitar he had laying on the floor next to him. Moments after Baxter entered the club, however, Music eyed him and waved.

The newest patron looked around to see if someone was behind him before sheepishly waving back at the guitarist.

“Hey everybody,” Music said. “Ya’ll welcome the new guy. I’m gonna play his song … or at least the best part of his song.”

Music then proceeded to jump straight to the guitar solo from My Sharona.

Baxter was taken aback.

He wasn’t a huge fan of the 1979 song in its entirety, but he loved the guitar solo – so much so that often during his morning run he’d pop in his earbuds and play it on a continuous loop. There was something about the sound that made him forget about everything and feel a real sense of joy.

And now he was hearing it live, but why?

How did this old man know him? Perhaps the bigger question, though, was how did he know what to play?

Baxter listened intently until Music finished the song with a flourish – standing up at the end, taking a bow, and then slowly walking off the small stage and toward the table where Baxter was sitting.

“Baxter Layton,” he said, smiling broadly. “It’s about time you showed up.”

Now, he was freaking out. Music knows his song, and his name.

“I’m sorry,” Baxter said. “Have we met?”

Music reached over and gave him a gentle pat on the cheek, then plopped into a chair.

“We have now,” he said. “And I’ve known you for a long, long time. Kept an eye on you, too. You’re what … 60? You gotta good life and a good wife, but you’re still too afraid to live the solo.”

Baxter raised his eyebrows.

“Live the solo?” he asked. “What does that mean?”

Music leaned back and placed his hands behind his head.

“OK, that song, My Sharona, … it’s kinda repetitive, ain’t it?” Music said. “You got that hook and those tom-tom drum sounds. It’s fine, but it doesn’t really move you. But then – then that solo starts and you get happy … you get movin’ … you get inspired. You start to live a little! Nothing can stop you while that solo plays, just bouncing around in your head. But then it ends, and things start to repeat, and you just feel like that’s the way things are.

“Son, your life is a song, and everybody has a different one. But the livin’ part – the livin’ part has to be the part of the song you love. You got to live your life like it’s the guitar solo from My Sharona. You’ve got to find your beat … find your jam.”

Baxter looked at Music and could tell the man was speaking with complete sincerity. And truthfully, those words were wise. He had spent much of life sweating the details, and his moments of joy seemed to be growing further and further apart. He had worried about, well, everything, for so long that it had become his default mode.

“Thanks for the advice, Music,” Baxter said. “Live like the guitar solo from My Sharona, huh? I’m not sure I know how to do that.”

Music clasped Baxter’s hand and gave it a firm shake.

“You’ll figure it out … your daddy figured it out when he listened to me play All Along The Watchtower and your grandaddy decided the best part of Johnny B. Goode was the best way to live. Shoot, you’re great-grandpappy couldn’t get enough of my version of Big Joe Turner’s song, Wee Baby Blues, and he got along just fine in the big, bad world.”

Baxter gave Music a side-eye.

“Come on, Music,” he said. “You couldn’t have known my great-grandfather. You’re, uh, chronologically challenged, but you can’t be that ancient.”

The old man cackled.

“Son, I’m Music,” he said. “Music lives forever, and like my old friend Beethoven said, ‘Music can change the world.’ I just try to help people find their beat.”

Baxter watched Music head back to the stage, grab his guitars, and move toward the club’s rear exit. Surely this was all some sort of dream; when he woke up the next morning, he’d have a vague memory of an old man giving him a life lesson, along with a raging hangover.

It all seemed real, though, right up until the lights on the hot pink flashing sign went dim and the Reverie Lounge suddenly resembled nothing more than a brick wall.

“Too much to drink,” Baxter muttered to himself as he glanced at the empty street. “And too much to think.”

The Uber pulled up to the corner in short order, and Baxter climbed in the back of the Honda Accord.

He had to laugh, because the timing was perfect; the song on the radio was My Sharona, and it was 2:41 in … just in time for the guitar solo.

“Hey,” Baxter said to the driver, “would you mind cranking that up? That’s my jam.”

It had become something of a cruel ritual.

Each afternoon the kids would walk past the rusty, baby blue dumpster, taunting the odd man lurking behind it.

“Look everybody … it’s Creepy Dumpster Guy,” yelled Randy. “Hey … Creepy, you found any tasty chicken bones in there? It sure stinks in there, Creepy Dumpster Guy. Is it you, or the trash we’re smellin’? Maybe you’re the trash.”

The man – dressed in an army jacket, blue jeans and green trucker’s cap – never responded. Still, the boys would laugh, staring him down as they continued on their way home from school. Sometimes they’d even empty the remnants of their lunch boxes on the pavement, occasionally wadding up napkins and throwing them at him.

“Come and get it,” they’d chant.

Jada had watched this go on for weeks, following the same path as the boys but staying well behind. She was quiet – had been for most of her 12 years – and said nothing to the young men who seemed to take great pleasure in making fun of the unfortunate fellow.

The first few times, she simply waited until the loudmouths had moved on, then she’d scurry quickly past the dumpster herself, trying not to make eye contact. One day, however, her pace slowed.

At first, she just gave him a quick glance, and then a smile.

Later, she’d wave – and Creepy Dumpster Guy waved back.

They didn’t speak – Jada didn’t really know what to say to him, anyway – but she wondered if hers was the only friendly face he’d see during the course of the day. That thought made her sad, but at least she was making an effort to be kind. Hopefully, she thought to herself, others were making the effort, too.

She had even started provided food for him. She and her family didn’t have a lot, but she was usually able to sneak an extra apple or banana into her paper bag while preparing her lunch each morning.

She’d place them a couple of feet away from the dumpster and scurry off, hoping Creepy Dumpster Guy would enjoy the fresh food, even if it was just a piece of fruit.

Fridays, unfortunately, were always especially rough for him. It was the end of the school week and a time when Randy and his minions saved their worst for Creepy Dumpster Guy.

The taunts were longer and more vicious, and at times it became physical. Often, they’d throw pennies at him.

“Hey, Creepy Dumpster Guy,” Randy would yell. “Why don’t you save these and go buy a new dumpster!”

But on this particular day the gang brought rocks, and thought it’d be funny to use the man for target practice.

Jada could hear the projectiles pinging against the dumpster, and the more she heard, the angrier she became. Although she had never confronted the boys and felt her mouth go completely dry as she began trotting toward them, it was time to put an end to this senseless barbarism.

“Stop it, Randy!” she bellowed – her voice shaking. “Leave him alone! You could hurt him.”

Randy gave Jada a bemused look.

“What do you care?” he said. “It’s none of your business. He’s just some bum.”

Jada stepped off the sidewalk and walked toward the man, who was still crouched behind the dumpster. She then looked toward Randy with fire in her eyes.

“We don’t who he is,” she said. “But I know who you are. You’re a jerk. And a coward. And if you’re going to throw rocks, throw ‘em at both of us. Show how tough you are to your little buddies.”

Randy turned red, looked at his crew, and then looked back toward Jada and Creepy Dumpster Guy.

“You’re the … jerk one,” he mumbled, dropping the medium-sized rock he held in his right hand. “Let’s go, guys.”

Jada made her way back to the sidewalk and noticed something different about Randy and his posse. For the first time they didn’t look like bullies, they simply looked embarrassed – maybe even defeated.

Jada smiled.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said. “They won’t bother you anymore … I’m gonna make sure of it. Oh, and I’ll come by in the morning and bring you something to eat. Bye.”

As Jada disappeared into the distance, the man stood up – although he wasn’t like any man anyone had ever seen before.

Humanoid in form, he was mostly translucent, with a slight amber tint. And the dumpster was simply an optical illusion – a clever disguise for his spacecraft, which he entered by phasing through the side after shedding his disguise.

“Report,” boomed the voice from the electroacoustic transducer in the roof of the craft.

“The microcosm test was a success; we would be wise to allow their species to evolve,” said the being. “As we observed there is much cruelty, but there is also kindness … and strength. Precognition signals that the young female human, Jada Abernathy, will become President of the United States in 30 Earth years. She – and a coalition of others like her – will formulate a workable plan to guide this planet on a path to peace. My recommendation is to postpone the invasion and give them an opportunity to succeed.

“Ashtar Sheran signing off … and plotting a course for Proxima Centauri B.”

Bright red hair, alabaster skin, ruby red lipstick, magenta sun dress, silver pumps – Lucy was a whirlwind of style as she made her way into the upscale Ultron Café. She wanted to look good, of course, but she also needed to make sure her date recognized her.

It was her first dip into a new online dating service, and although Richard had seen photos on her profile, she specifically told him to look for the “carrot top rocking hot colors.”

For her part, she’d be keeping an eye out for a thin, dark-skinned man with a buzz cut, baby blue shirt and khaki pants.

The minute he walked through the door she recognized him and gave him a wave.

“Hi, Richard,” she said as he moved in for a hug. “So nice to finally meet you in the flesh. I hope you don’t mind … I’ve already got a table for us.”

The couple sat down and Richard ordered a bottle of red wine as soon as the waiter appeared.

“Wow,” Richard said. “You look even prettier in person, but I had no doubt you would. I’m so glad we’re finally making this happen.”

Lucy smiled and adjusted her bangs.

“Me, too,” she said. “It’s funny … I’ve tried so many of those other services but, as you might imagine, I wasn’t going to find the right fit. I mean, I couldn’t exactly be honest with any potential suitors.”

Richard laughed.

“No, honesty is definitely not the best policy with those others, is it?” he said. “But I was able to use them to my advantage, if you know what I mean.”

She did indeed, and felt relaxed enough to open up. Before she could, however, the waiter returned with a bottle of Pinot Noir and asked if they’d like an appetizer.

“I’m ready to order if you are,” Lucy said to Richard.

Both settled on the filet with baked potato and salad, and waited until the waiter was out of ear shot before resuming their conversation.

“OK,” she said. “Tell me about your first.”

Richard cleared his throat.

“Geez, you don’t waste any time, do you?” he said. “I like that in a woman. Well, it was at a rest stop off of I-85 in South Carolina. I had thought about doing it for years but as you know there’s a big difference between thinking about it and actually doing it. So, that was the beginning … and that was about 15 years ago.”

Lucy nodded.

“Fifteen years ago, huh?” she said. “And how many since then – and don’t give me an estimate, you know very well the exact number … guys like you keep track.”

Richard grinned.

“Twenty-three, and the last one was two weeks ago,” he said. “I was hoping to make it 25 by the end of the year. But that’s enough about me – time for you to dish. When and where was your first?”

Lucy looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping.

“Believe it or not, it was my senior year in high school … at a drive-in in St. Louis,” she said. “But here’s the weird part – it was almost five years later before I did it again.”

“At the same drive-in or a different one?” Richard wondered.

“No, no,” she said. “Drive-ins are kinda hard to come by unless you want to travel. I like staying within a 50-mile radius, places like Mount Olive, Illinois, and De Soto, Missouri. it’s just kind of a rule I made up for myself a while back. Now it’s usually hotels. Cliché, I know, but effective.”

After the food came, Lucy and Richard dug in, chatting as though they had known each other for years. And considering how quickly they devoured their meal, it was obvious they wanted to continue the evening in a more intimate setting.

Richard flagged down the waiter, put cash on the table as soon as the check arrived, and reached for Lucy’s hand.

“I’m staying across the street,” he said. “Would like to come back to my hotel with me and – I don’t know – maybe compare notes?”

Lucy grabbed her purse, glanced at the vial of sodium cyanide resting near her keys, and winked.

As they made their way out of the restaurant and began to distance themselves from the other patrons, Lucy gave Richard a quick peck on the cheek.

“I’m so glad we found a dating site for serial killers on the dark web,” she said. “I’m having such a great time!”