Hairy Roadtrip
Chapter 17

Copyright© 2017 by Old Man with a Pen

Thank God ... in 1980 Gibson guitars were in a slump on popularity. Changes in ownership brought on a decline in quality, workmanship and materials. Because of that I bought a 1952 Goldtop Les Paul from Johnny for 250 bucks, with the hardshell case and three sets of strings ... half the price of a brand new model. John senior was happy, Johnny was mostly pleased ... I was ecstatic. The puppy was pretty happy too.

Now, I had to figure out how to play the damn thing. I’d been nylon strings and wide classical necks since my first guitar. Three finger, four finger and flamenco picking was what I knew ... not that I was very good.

<We can teach you.>

“Yeah, I’ll just bet,” I said.

“Bet what,” said Johnny.

“Just talking to the voices in my head,” I said.

“You and Karen,” John said.

“What?”

“She talks to herself all the time.” Johnny said, “She talked to the ceiling when she bought the Lottery winner ... or so the story goes.”

I burst out laughing.

When I settled down I said, “So did I.”

And that set us all off.

To change the subject I asked about the dog.

Hold on a second ... let me explain.

When I walked into the Two Bit, a long but not tall yellow and white puppy was right at my heels and nobody noticed.

Now, the Two Bit has an assortment of lawn furniture on display in front of the store. Johnny leaves them out during the summer ... for the tourists, he says ... although he’s been known to catch a few rays a time or six. His dad liked the seating but he’s getting on in years, so Johnny scouted out a few chairs for IN the store ... took ‘em in pawn.

Not that he takes in furniture ... not generally. But when it’s something he wants ... or his dad does...

A couple three of those chairs are right comfortable and we three were pickin’ and grinnin’ like we usually do. I had to try out my purchase, now didn’t I?

So ... I was laughing and this sorta Basset and sorta not puppy jumped up on my lap, wormed his way under the Gibson, licked my chin and settled down. “Hello Buttermilk,” I said.

“Buttermilk?” said John.

“What else are you going to call a white dog with yellow splotches,” I said.

“Perfect name,” Johnny said. He stood, snatched the puppy off my lap and pitched it out the door. “Out you go, Buttermilk.”

He said, “Damn thing keeps coming around. I’ll just call the Warden. Pound’ll take care of the mutt.”

Buttermilk was pawing at the door and whining. He was looking right at me.

<The Pound will kill it.>

And of course I answered those damn voices.

“No. Johnny, I’ll take the dog.”

And that’s why ... when Karen, Wendy, Roz, Amy and Rachel ... and Davy ... stepped in the Pawn Shop a few minutes later, I had this dog in my lap.

And of course when Davy followed them in, he said, “I wanna pawn these here five items. What’ll you give me?”

 
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