When his mother called, said Daddy was dying, Mike knew he would sell the guitar for a plane ticket home.
The first caller was a bust. Offered three hundred. Three hundred for a John 5 Fender. The guy was clueless. Mike had barely raked the strings with a pick.
“No, man. It’s like new,” Mike said.
“I got cash,” the voice chirped.
“Keep your cash. It’s a steal at six.”
Mike tossed the phone onto the marred pine table by his bed and slumped into the nest of covers; once again, itemizing the possessions he could sell. He might get fifty for his leather. His gaze cut from the jacket, sprawled over a chair, to the Fender. The gig bag fit like a sheath, like black lingerie. Mike hadn’t touched it since his mother called, but that long night he had tuned the guitar, strumming familiar chords and spiraling into playful licks until it became wooden again. Just an instrument.
The next caller wanted to make payments. “A hundred down and fifty bucks a week.”
“You gotta be shittin’ me. I don’t even know you.” Mike was pacing. Five steps from the window at the foot of his bed to the door.
“Hey, I’m good for it.”
“It’s six hundred. That’s what I need.”
Mike started to explain why he had to sell the guitar, but stopped himself and hung up. The calloused fingers of his left hand pressed chords into his hard thigh, while the other extracted the box from the pocket of his jacket. The neat corners and sharp edges fit the curve of his palm. When they were kids, he and Lonny would fight over who got to peel back the cellophane tab of Dad’s Viceroys exposing the tight folds and then the foil wrap that sheltered the cigarettes like Cracker Jack prizes.
Mike knocked one loose and stuck the filtered tip between his dry lips. His hand shook until he pulled the cloying vapors into his lungs.
The phone rang and rang. Mike lurched to answer it after the fourth ring.
“Hello?” He relaxed at the unfamiliar voice and said, “That’s right, like new.”
His eyes found the guitar, propped up in the angle of light by the window. Its
shadow on the wood floor curved like a question. He turned away.
“Sure, sure, the gig bag’s in, but it’s six hundred firm—cash.” Mike said. He traced the course grooves he’d carved into the table. One for each month he’d been in New York. His year was slipping away. The cigarette fit between his yellow stained fingers like an extra extremity. Mike was suddenly nauseous.
The last time he was called home, after the surgery, Mike’s dad had bummed a cigarette and then pressed the tan filter to the stomata protruding from his throat. Mike saw himself in the set of his old man’s jaw.
“Tonight’s good.” Mike answered the last caller. “No worries, man, like I said, I need the money.”
The rising smoke stung Mike’s eyes. He squinted through tears and pressed the butt against the side of the ashtray, burning himself until, finally, it went out. His fingers arched and bent, pressing soundless patterns into the air.
Pamela McKenney is a recent graduate of the Stonecoast MFA Program and the University of Southern Maine. SHe is currently working on a collection of short stories.
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12 Responses to “NO MORE, NO LESS • by Pamela McKenney”
Comments
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December 20th, 2007 at 5:39 am
fantastic.
December 20th, 2007 at 6:49 am
Yep. Fantastic. All in such a short space: father-son.
December 20th, 2007 at 7:50 am
So in tune with the character’s emotions. You cut straight to the heart of the moment. Amazing.
December 20th, 2007 at 8:13 am
Sad, but very good story.
December 20th, 2007 at 1:34 pm
Amazingly strong emotions. Brilliant.
December 20th, 2007 at 3:14 pm
Good work, Pamela. I’m a UMF grad. A story of mine appeared here not long ago. Continued success with your work.
December 20th, 2007 at 3:49 pm
What the future can hold! Great writing.
Cheers
Mark
December 21st, 2007 at 6:16 am
It would have been nice to see a satisfying ending to the story. This was simply a vignette.
December 22nd, 2007 at 7:07 am
This is a beautiful story. It’s an art to write a touching flash in such a short space, without relying on a twist at the end. Nice touch about his father dying from smoking while Mike does the same thing.
December 26th, 2007 at 8:21 am
The spare, clipped lanuage mirrors the main character’s emotions as he sets out to do what’s necessary to raise the money for that ticket home. Great writing. I also like the mirror images of father/son and the fact that a female author nailed male response to crisis so well (practical outlook, busy planning and preparing). And without being told, I know at the end that the protagonist is headed toward a similar fate.
January 3rd, 2008 at 10:20 pm
[...] No More, No Less [...]
October 6th, 2008 at 8:58 am
I’m not sure if you’ve made me mad or sad that his only way is to sell the Fender–both maybe. As always, just the right touch on the descriptive details–earthy–love “the gig bag like a sheath, like black lingerie.”