My Friend, the Rock Star

I have some pictures of Vince on my cell phone. Most of them are pretty dumb. He’s usually just pulling a face or making some sort of joke or something. But there is one that I like in particular. One that I can’t seem to get out of my head.

“Sam,” his text message began, “I just got a great offer on a bass. I can afford it too. Should I do it?” I hated when he asked me questions like that. It was his money, why should my opinion count? Still, I answered.

I typed, “I don’t know. Is it in good condition?” He answered with a quick, “Yes!” I smiled.

Then I remembered a story Vince had told me long ago, about living in Texas and getting into trouble. He had a distinct knack for that. This particular story was about playing bass guitar in a band of twenty year olds when he was only thirteen, playing gigs, and loving it. Sometimes he would reminisce, especially after he found out that I had played the bass some in high school.

Thinking about the look in his eyes when the regret washed over him, I knew the answer I had to give him.

“I think you should do it. It might get you to play again.”

And so, impulsive boy that he was, he bought it from his friend in the next minute, and the minute after that, he sent me the picture.

It’s at kind of a weird angle. Most of the picture is taken up by the wall and carpet in the hallway of his apartment. His skinny, gangly body takes up the right of the picture, the black and white bass guitar slung around his body. He isn’t smiling. He’s got the rock star look perfectly.

My breath still catches a bit whenever he calls, and the picture flashes across the screen.

(316 words)