"Blinding Light"

Short fiction; character study.

          He’s got crooked fingers. He says he doesn’t like the way they look but that’s a lie. He secretly loves them. It’s a conversation starter for sure. As he chats up girls about them, they of course grab at his long, bent digits.

“Were they always like this?” a young brunette asks.
          “No, it started when I was a teenager,” replied Joe. “That’s when I learned to play the guitar.”

          Eyes flash and the brunette coos. Inevitably this leads to a discussion of Joe’s band, his musical style and where he’ll be playing this weekend. Numbers are exchanged and Joe gives details about how to get backstage. He tells her to bring her friends too.

          The tactic was successful. Another throwaway girl with a pretty face and an eye for rising stardom, Joe didn’t care if she came or not. Without the crooked fingers, Joe still looked like he was in a band. Washed out, tight black denim jeans and a tattered flannel shirt was his uniform, on and off stage. His long dirty blonde hair was prematurely turning white in sections giving him an old time old soul spirit in a young body. The long pointed nose on his face may have made a lesser man self-conscious, but not Joe. He was hardly perfect, by anyone’s standards but, “hey, look at Mick Jagger,” he’d often say to himself. In Joe’s mind the musical ability made up for any shortcoming or flaw.

           The crooked fingers were forged from buckle and strain as a result of learning to play the guitar. Joe had a harem of electric and acoustic guitars. His favorite was a Fender Stratocaster. It had an Alpine White finish, not an Alpine White color. Only amateurs say color. From the white body outstretched a long, lean maple neck to the left. Joe was a south paw which meant quality guitars usually meant customization. Special-order pickups were installed and the neck was topped with mirror finish, extra-large tuning screws. Even from the worst seat in the house, you could see the flash of the headpiece.

Jutting out from the pickups was the white tipped whammy bar. The thin stainless steel element dangled off the body, slightly crooked. It was expertly placed for Joe’s unique fingers to grab so he can bend crude notes into wailing lyrical tones.

          As he takes the stage, Joe is blinded by stage light. Looking out he cannot see the audience. He doesn’t have to. He can feel what must be there, just past his sight.

          A hush comes over the innumerable women who want him and men who would kill to play like him. As he flips his pick from crooked finger to crooked finger in his right hand, it is painfully silent. Striking the C-minor chord, he feels the eruption of sexual, sonic energy pulsating out towards the masses and reverberating back, hitting his chest with blunt force. He is emotionally deaf at this point, as Joe focuses only on his Strat and his crooked fingers. They work the fret board and the whammy bar to pump out lead after lead through the speaker system. Everything moves in slow motion as Joe felt alone, but not lonely. It was him, his fingers, his guitar and nothing else.

          Suddenly the stage lights go out as he ends his set. He can look out upon his fandom. Three middle aged women talking at a high-top table and a bar fly regular who is teetering on the verge of vomiting are the only people in the room. Looking to the left to the small bar with the linoleum counter, he sees the bartender looking down, fixated on his phone. He spots the brunette who has brought along a chubby friend. They laugh to each other, and leave the bar. The white light was castingcasted an odd shadow upwards onto his face. He felt alone in the spot light.

          It had almostfelt real. He could feel it in his fingers. It was almost a dream come true.

          Grasping all ten digits around his gear, the would-be juke-box hero loads his guitar, pedal boards and other gear into his car. Joe pesters the bar owner for his $40. He’s not leaving until he gets the money. Not this time. Tearing out of the parking lot, the white sedan rode low from the weight of his equipment. He turns the stereo even louder and fumbles for his lighter.

          Approaching the highway for the journey home, Joe’s over extended arm searches searched for the lighter. Finally his crooked fingers feel the cold, smooth metal top of his Bic. He grabs grabbed a cigarette from his front flannel pocket and looks looked down to light it. But he looks looked in time up and slams slammed on the brakes. The guitar case lurches lurched forward and hits hit his seat so hard it causes him to he drops the lighter, leaving the unlit menthol hanging off his lip.

          Blinded in the light of Joe’s headlamps, there stood a young buck with just buds that were not big enough to be antlers yet. Just a step away from the grill of the car, the deer missed certain death by inches. With his eyes off of the road for aA second or two more, and Joe would have killed him.

          Joe sat motionless with his unlit cigarette. His right leg was still stiff as stone, depressing the brake to the floor. His grey- blue eyes were widely opened, causing multiple ripples on his forehead. He opened his mouth to gasp in air and his cigarette tumbled down his shirt to find a resting place between the seats. The buck was blinded in light, confused and mislead. No longer in the forest, he was completely out of his element.

          Joe flashed the head lights, and then turned them off. Reset, the deer walked off, back towards his domain. Joe reached for another menthol cigarette and lit it while the car was still stopped. The smooth smoke filled him with warmth and then left his body with a cooling sensation. Finally he took his heavy foot off of the brake as he slowly entered the highway.