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The House of Phantom Limbs Ralph opens the door at the top of the fourth chorus of knocks. The guy on the stoop stands with hands jammed into jean pockets, a ragged Cure t-shirt and an expensive haircut. “Hey, man. Remember me?” “Not yet.” Ralph strokes his tobacco-stained beard and grins through skewed yellow teeth. “Keep talking.” “Yeah. I sold you a guitar online, like, five years ago? Brought it over instead of hassling with UPS. The human touch.” “Headed to Afghanistan with a buzz cut and a new pair of boots. Good to see you back in one piece.” “No, that wasn’t me. I went to law school. Which really blew, by the way.” “Oh. Sorry.” Ralph furrows a set of eyebrows that would make a troll proud. The younger man clears his throat. “You can say ‘I told you so’ if you want.” “I wouldn’t do that. Did you graduate?” “Huh?” “Law school?” “Oh yeah. Stuck it out, passed the bar. Took a soul-sucking job in commercial real estate. Now I eat Advil and Tums for breakfast.” “Suffering builds character. Congratulations.” “I guess. I forgot about your hurkin’ huge house. Ralph, my friend, that guitar—still got it?” “Which one?” “Okay, sure, you own a lot of guitars. The beat-to-shit Gibson B-25 acoustic with the ding in the sound box and the irritating buzz at the twelfth fret.” “I’d have to check.” “Yeah. Thing is, I feel it in my hands when I wake up in the morning—sort of a phantom limb thing. You promised to take care of it like your own child. I’ll pay double.” “Well, I haven’t sold any of my kids recently. Is money the issue here?” “Money is always an issue. Look, we sat on these steps. You asked a bunch of questions, like you’d made the same mistakes. ‘Follow your bliss until she gets a restraining order,’ you said. Corny shit, but I laughed. Keep the customer satisfied, you know?” “I remember you now.” “Good. So I give you double, in cash, and you give me the guitar and we’re cool, right?” He withdraws a square of folded bills from his pocket and proffers it like a hesitant child with a graham cracker at a petting zoo. “Sorry, no.” “Man, you don’t understand. I can’t write without that guitar. It’s my flesh. My muse.” “You sold your museflesh to become a lawyer?” “Hah, good one. Same old Ralph. Look, it’s not like it belonged to Robert Johnson, whatever I might have said. I’ll give you triple. Three times what it’s worth. You paid waaay too much.” “Don’t we all?” “Definitely. Ralph, old buddy, I’m a lawyer now. Sell it to me or I will sue your ass off. So help me.” “Anything you say.” “C’mon, man. Your brakes will go out on a hill, I shit you not. Your house will burn to the foundations. Stop laughing.” “Okay, okay. Simmer down. You wouldn’t do any of that.” “Yeah, you’re right. Poetic license. But I will dedicate every song I ever write to you. I’ll name my band ‘The Ralphs’ and call everyone in it Ralph—even though the name has gone, shall we say, unfashionable? Just sell me back my guitar, man.” “Your real name is Ralph, huh?” “Irrelevant. I hate that fu—. Look, what do you want, my soul on an appetizer plate with a little toothpick? Please, man. Please.” “I’ll give it to you—if you really want it.” Ralph reaches inside the entryway and produces a honey-brown guitar. “You kept it next to the door for five years?” “Knew you’d be back.” The younger man grasps the instrument by the neck, cradles its butt in the crook of his right arm and strums once. Each string responds individually and in resonance. Six clear notes shadowed by an irritating buzz. Both men look up as if a small mechanical insect has arrived bearing a message. The younger man raises the instrument skyward, axing it against the fulcrum of a cement step. Sound and splinters refract in instant crescendo. The shattered sound box flops from strings like a mud shark hooked by six fishing lines. He dumps the mess on the stoop. “There. I am fed up with living poor, chewing speed to drive all night for the next gig in a van that smells like ass. One night stands with skanks I can’t look in the face the next morning. Rejection. I am totally fucking done with rejection. My phantom limb is hereby amputated. I am outta here.” He does not turn away. “No.” The older man sighs and wags his head, causing gold earrings to glint from behind a rag of white hair. The toe of his cowboy boot pokes the wreckage on the stoop. “You, my friend, are screwed. One way or the other.” The younger man squats to examine the smashed heap of string and wood. “You’re the devil, aren’t you?” “Shit no. Not even related.” Ralph brushes dandruff off his Black Sabbath t-shirt where his generous belly forms a sloping shelf. He inclines his head toward the open door. The younger man trudges across the threshold into a living room choked with musical instruments. Perhaps a hundred guitars, acoustic and electric, garrison the walls. Cellos, tubas, violas and saxophones huddle in piles. Several pianos park, gathering dust. Keyboards stack like lumberyard planks. Banjos, ukuleles, banjoleles and the chimera offspring of a Victrola and a violin jumble wooden bins. Two Theramins serve as end tables for a scratched leather couch. The older man rummages among the throng of guitars, causing them to complain in whimpers and hollow bumps. “Here.” He plucks out an ancient Gibson, beat to shit, and dangles it by the dusty neck. “Want to buy a guitar?” Ralph swallows hard. “How much?”
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