By Charles Gray
I hurry upstairs before dinner. In the nook, a stereo awaits. Albums lean against wall.
Vinyl drops onto turntable. Needle drops onto worn-out grooves.
With electric guitar slung across hip, I sweep my arm upward, sustain a power chord, pose with hand high. Opened leather vest reveals Eagle and Flag tattoo. Pumping the whammy bar, I bend a note, slide my polished red fingernails down the neck. I strut downstage, flaunt my white bell-bottom jeans and blue platform shoes, toss a guitar pick at cheering fans. They reach for me.
“Richie, dinner’s ready.”
Damn, I hate when mom interrupts my stardom.
Great descriptions of the turntable and the “star.” A lot of adults can relate to this story about childhood dreams of being a famous musician.
Thanks Susan.
That story certainly resonates with me Charles. I lived with my grandmother for a period and she interrupted my moments of guitar hero glory more than once.
Thanks for commenting Archibald.