Streetlights Like Fireworks Read Online Free PDF Page A

I
quite pull it off.
    “Okay, then.” Gary does his best not to grin but, after
all, he’s just made an unbelievable trade. He closes the case on my Les Paul
and seals the clasps with a click that, to me, sounds profoundly final.
    Gary goes out back and comes back a minute later carrying
a case I know at a glance belongs to the Telecaster. A worn, black rectangle,
stripped bare in spots, torn in others where tiny threads dangle like loose
sutures. Gary sets the case on the counter next to my Gibson’s and opens it to
reveal a flattened tan interior, any cushion long beaten down. He takes the
Telecaster from me, lowers it into its case and snaps it closed. I lift that
case off the counter and take on the burden.
    I’m just about to leave when I turn to face Gary again
“Where did it come from?”
    “Just a trade-in, why?”
    I understand. Why would it matter as long as I like it?
From his perspective, obviously I do—enough, in fact, to trade an amazing Les
Paul for a worn out piece of crap.
    “Just curious who might have owned it before. Does she
live around here?”
    “She?”
    Right, Gary can’t possibly know what I’ve experienced. “I
don’t know,” I say. “I just thought it might have been a woman for some
reason.”
    “Nope. Just some guy.”
    “You sure?”
    Gary stares at me blankly.
    “Never mind. What was his name?”
    He shrugs. “Okay, whatever.” Gary reaches over the
counter, opens a drawer and withdraws a spiral notebook. He thumbs through a
few pages. “Angelo Delvechio.”
    Actually, the name rings a bell but I don’t know why.
    “He said he was the janitor at the elementary school.
Something like that.”
    That’s why I know the name. Even back then, I couldn’t
help feel bad for Old Anthony. If there’s a hell, it probably involves cleaning
up after a bunch of kids too young to anticipate when they might barf or pee
their pants. Lots of ugly messes in those first years of elementary school.
Still, Old Anthony was a musician? Never would have guessed that one. Either
way, what could he possibly have to do with the woman from the flash?
    I remain silent long enough that Gary says, “Look, I
understand. It’s fine if you want to change your mind. We can just forget about
it.”
    The Gibson’s case still rests on Gary’s counter, within
it my beautiful Les Paul. The frayed handle of the case I now hold digs into my
palm. In my mind, I see the woman playing with her band, her on the phone
crying, the glowing guy who could not possibly have been standing in my room.
    Just bail on this mistake , I tell myself. This
is stupid . I think of the old song, Reverse This Curse . Even more
ironically, by Escape the Fate. Fitting, definitely. Still, something tells me
that all these experiences suddenly stacking up aren’t random—that they’re
pointing toward something I need to know. Something that runs way deeper than
any of my flashes in the past. Whatever that is, I can’t ignore it.
     “I guess I’m good,” I tell Gary. “Thanks.”
    I leave a few minutes later carrying a guitar full of
stories, wondering what those stories have to do with me.
     

 
5
    The Demon and the
Compass
     
    I take the demon guitar out of its case in Doug’s garage,
bracing myself to see if it attacks my brain again. Even though that last flash
was pretty tame, I’ve still avoided playing the Telecaster since taking it home
the day before. Partly because I don’t want my parents to find out about the trade
(that promises to be unpleasant, to say the least) and partly because I won’t
be seeing Lauren until tonight. It just seemed to make sense taking a break
from wondering who that woman could be, not to mention the guy who visited my
bedroom in the middle of the night. Now, I have no choice but to see if it
happens again.
    Thankfully, the guitar must be in a good mood since I’m
not assaulted by any visions. Meanwhile, Doug and Justin stare, wondering
what’s going on.
    “Please explain,”