Streetlights Like Fireworks Read Online Free PDF

Justin says. “Did the Gibson break down
or something?”
    “Oh, cool, got it,” Doug says. “That’s a loaner. You had
me sort of freaked out there for a minute.”
    “Nope, this is me now.” I plug the Telecaster into my
tuner.
    Silence follows but I don’t look up as I continue to
watch the needle swing between swing between sharp
and flat. I know Justin and Doug well enough to sense them shooting WTF
glances at each other. Once I’m done tuning, I walk over to my amp, plug in
there and click it on. I have serious doubts but I do my best to sound
confident when I suggest we test run the Telecaster on one of our originals.
    “How about ‘Don’t See Me?’” I say.
    While we play mostly covers, we’ve also been writing some
songs of our own. “How You (Don’t) See Me” is about being judged for what you
look like rather than who you are. The way adults peg you for being a total
loser if you don’t look like you just strolled out of an Abercrombie &
Fitch catalog. If you dress in black or do anything suggesting “goth” everyone
assumes you’re mainlining heroin while bent on suicide. It doesn’t ever occur to
them that maybe it’s the football team and cheerleaders sucking back beers,
smoking weed and hooking up while the “freaky” kids are home on Friday night
reading a book or checking out stuff on Tumblr.
     “Sure, let’s give it a shot,” Doug says, kicking his
bass drum a few times.
    Justin runs a few riffs on his bass, adjusts the volume,
then nods.
    We rip into the song’s intro and at first it feels
strange to have this new guitar in my hands. I’m used to the Gibson and now my
fingers have to find their way around this unfamiliar neck. I keep adjusting
the tone knobs and toggling between pickups, trying to get things right. But
once I approach the microphone and start singing, the Telecaster becomes part
of me. It fits my body perfectly, hanging at my hip, a solid workhorse. I’m not
once concerned with scratching the finish as I slam at it. Definitely not an
issue. And while the Les Paul always delivered a chunky sound I thought worked
for me, the Telecaster sounds raw and tough. It has a voice of its own, and my
voice—not always the best, unfortunately—rises to the moment, connecting with
both the energy and lyrics like never before.
    Dress in black, you tune me out
    Must be a loser, down and out
    You see what you want to
    And this is how you don’t see me!
    We must have shit grades, drink, do drugs
    While you smile at well-dressed shiny thugs
    Fooling you so perfectly
    And this is how you don’t see me!
    We finish in a squeal of feedback, crashing cymbals and
bass flourishes. We check in on each other, sweating, eyes wide. Something just
happened there that’s never happened before.
    Doug keeps kicking at his bass drum so hard I think he
might punch through it. “Holy shit, that was awesome!”
    Justin nods like fifteen times, hair swinging over his
face, then says, “Keep the loaner, dude.”
    I stand there stunned. That was
the best we’ve ever played and I’m thinking maybe the Telecaster might simply
be just a guitar. A very cool guitar at that. Maybe I haven’t made the worst
mistake of my life. Doug hits his snare and Justin slaps out a riff. Without
even talking about it, we kick off another song. The rest of the session kills
too and we nail all the songs we’ve been working on. Even the covers sound
different, less like we’re trying to imitate and more like we’ve created
something of our own.
    It’s only after we’ve finished, when I’m kneeling on the
floor settling the Telecaster back into its case, that it happens again. It’s
not so much what I’d even call a flash this time. Nothing startling or
disorienting. Just an image that I might have even attributed to my imagination
if it wasn’t for the feeling that comes along with it. This time I see her
staring out a window at night, her face reflected in the glass. The lights of
other buildings