Walking in, I wing my arms and strum the strings that line the walls. Dan’s racked his guitars by resonance, tinny to golden. Discordant yet beautiful, jangles the hum, like a gateway to limbo. I’ve suggested he tune them to play a melody when stroked like this, but he smiled and said, “Couldn’t do it,” which means he doesn’t want to. Half a million dollars of vintage guitars sway on their racks when I reach the end of the hallway.
More halls, more guitars.
I follow the sound of Dan downstairs, chugging away at “Iron Man” in his basement. I set my briefcase against the den wall, beside an A/C vent. Mice nibble at the wiring in his walls. There’s a faint whiff of smoke mixed with the garlic of finger-crusted guitar strings.
I descend the door to the depths.
Dust dandruffs my suit as I take cautious steps down. Dan’s amp rumbles like some gutsick volcano. He’s moved on to a Van Halen finger-tapping solo and cracks a sour note, stops, and mutters, “Wait, shit,” to himself.
He sits on a rickety stool, hunched over a bubblegum pink Stratocaster, hair curtaining his face, his Megadeth t-shirt bunched over his gut and riding up his back. He’s always worn his hair long, if not quite caveman style like now.
Regardless, most teachers and classmates couldn’t tell us apart. That’s the thing about identical twins: only the invested learn the distinctions.
He fumbles the solo again, his nails yellowed, long and ogrish. His beard hangs nearly to his hands. A monster of Lovecraftian tangles.
“They need you to sign,” I say. “The label wants you to sign some—”
He bends a note, long and shrill, grins at me, bits of yellowing teeth peeking from beneath that beard. He’s put in red bulbs down here like a dark room, silhouettes of star-shaped guitars along the walls like a viking armory.
It smells like piss. There’s a two liter bottle with the top sawed off, half full of murky, golden broth. He’s sparing himself trips upstairs.
“Let’s go sign,” I say.
Annoyed, he sets his guitar on a stand and taps the pedal, altering the pitch of the amp’s hum even deeper. On the way up the stairs, he explains the difference between distortion and overdrive for the thousandth time while I “uh-huh” and brush dancing particles from my day-old haircut.
In the kitchen, which he’s named “Hard Rock Cafe,” he offers me a warm PBR, finds an Evan Williams bottle on top of the fridge. I decline the beer. It’s 10am.
“Contracts in my car,” I say, “let’s get your mail.”
His contract sits on my Mercedes passenger seat, enveloped. He tucks two UPS boxes under his armpits and I follow him back to the den. The contents of both his boxes are identical: Boss distortion pedals. Disinterested, he drops each with clunks, like discarding a coupon flier.
After his divorce—his high school girlfriend, Anna—every cent of his first two albums have gone to guitars and gear. More arrive daily.
“Let’s get pizza,” I say.
“Order it,” he says and lumbers toward the basement.
“You need to get out.”
He shrugs. I grab his arm and lead him back toward the front door, but in my hurry I trip over my briefcase.
“What’s that?”
“Tour dates. Bullshit. I’ll show you later,” I say and set it back upright. “C’mon. I’m hungry.”
***
Waiting to be sat at the pizzeria, I check my emails and text the burner in my briefcase.
***
We’re eating when he gets the phone call from “San Diego County Police.” He shows me on his phone screen, shaggy eyebrows raised.
I wave it off. “Probably Anna about money. Wait for a message.”
He ignores me and answers. He listens, hops up, and heads for the door, saying, “Fire.”
I chase. “What?”
“My house is on fire.”
I rush back to the table and throw down sixty dollars. “Hold up—we didn’t pay.”
“My fucking house is burning down.”
I catch up on the sidewalk, say, “I told you to have someone look at your wiring.”
Driving back, I take 15. There’s been major construction for weeks; traffic’s oozing.
His house is smoldering when we finally get back, a fire truck and two police cars on the street.
“Shit. Sorry man,” I say, stopping at the curb. “I’ve got to get this to the label or you’ll lose—”
He’s hopped out and rushes past the nearest cop, who’s talking on a phone and taken by surprise when Dan charges by him. I’m watching this in my rear view mirror. They scuffle on the lawn, Dan wailing.
I pull away.
***
I’m in the bathroom of the motel shaving my head. My phone rings and rings.
I use a washcloth to wipe away the last of the lather, dry my hands, and answer Dan’s next attempt.
“Hey.”
“What was in your briefcase,” he shouts.
“I tracked down some fireworks from that girl’s house in Tijuana,” I say, which is true. I’ve been driving down here a lot in the last few months.
The full answer would be: 800 pesos of fireworks, a burner phone, wiring, and a small detonator.
Did you know they call the lacquer on guitar finish “gun cotton?” It’s partly turpentine.
“Fireworks,” I repeat.
Silence from Dan’s end.
“The cops are looking for you,” he finally says. Nice of him to warn me.
“That house was a vampire,” I say, “You need to see a therapist.”
Heavy breathing from Dan’s end.
I hang up.
I look at Dan’s face in my mirror and tell us to snap out of it. I test about a dozen sunglasses on our face until I find one that suits me. Waiting on my ratty bed are lipsticks, wigs, prosthetics, IDs, passports, and pesos.
I’ll try going on tour. Wait for everyone to calm down. Finally get my brother back.
Travis Flatt (he/him) is a teacher and actor living in Cookeville, Tennessee. His stories appear in JMWW, Flash Frog, Mount Hope, Bending Genres, and other places. He is a Best Small Fictions nominee. He enjoys theater, dogs, and theatrical dogs.
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