Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3

by Devon Hartford

  “Um,” I ask, “Do you remember how much the guitar was?”

  “The tag said $699.”

  “I bet you could talk them down to $500.”

  “You think so?”

  “Sure. I work in a guitar store. We always bargain. So does Guitar Central.”

  “Okay, give me $500 and I’ll go do it.”

  I pull the money out of my purse, counting out the bills, which are hundreds. I hold it out to Frank. Moment of truth. Do I really trust him?

  Ms. Gut says yes.

  Ms. Sensible says, Gosh, I don’t know…

  Shut up, Ms. Sensible! I need to get my Fender back!

  Frank takes the money, folds it, and pushes it into his pocket. He looks at me shrewdly. “You’re nervous about the money, aren’t you?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I can tell,” he smiles. He pulls the money out of his pocket and holds it out to me. “I’m not taking your money—”

  “What, aren’t you gonna buy it for me?!” Ms. Gut goes cold. She didn’t read Frank as well as I thought.

  “No…” he proffers the money, “…I’ll put the guitar on my credit card. When I come out, you can give me the cash. Okay?”

  Phew! Relief! “Totally.”

  “Be right back,” he says and walks away.

  “I’ll wait right here. Oh!”

  He turns, “What?”

  “Don’t forget to ask for the case that came with it! It says Payne on it in spray painted silver letters above the Fender logo!”

  “Got it.” Frank walks away, still holding his Les Paul case at his side.

  I skulk down to the corner of the Guitar Central building and watch Frank walk toward the front doors. I’m suddenly nervous one of the Guitar Central salesmen will see me, and make a connection between me and Frank. Then I’m screwed. I pull back and wait nervously around the corner, out of sight. But I check repeatedly, glancing carefully with one eye around the edge of the building.

  It takes forever.

  Which isn’t a surprise. You can’t walk in and buy a guitar like you can a candy bar at a convenience store. Especially if the salesmen are busy. This could easily take an hour.

  My nerves mount as the time ticks by. I stop checking how many minutes have passed after fifteen because it’s driving me nuts.

  I catch myself biting a fingernail and make myself stop. I pace in circles, wearing a groove in the cement sidewalk. Come on! How long is this going to take!

  Some woman in fancy jogging clothes walks by with an Irish Setter on a leash. She takes one look at my harried face and gives me a wide berth.

  What is taking so long?!

  Did Frank give up and go home?

  No, he doesn’t seem like the type.

  Ms. Sensible reminds me, You don’t really know him.

  Ms. Gut says, SHUT IT!!

  I pace and pace. The circular groove I’ve worn into the cement is now a foot deep.

  Do I go inside and check for Frank?

  No, Ms. Sensible warns, if you do that, Rob the Knob will figure it out.

  She’s right.

  I wait and wait.

  Fuck, I can’t deal with this!!

  “Hey,” Frank says as he walks around the corner, holding two guitar cases. “Sorry it took so long.”

  I recognize my Fender case instantly. “You did it!”

  He smiles, “Yes I did! And I got Felix to throw in the case for five hundred out the door.”

  “Yay!” I throw my arms around him. “Thank you so much Frank!” I pull the money out of my purse and hand it to him.

  He sets my Fender at my feet and puts the wad of bills in his wallet without counting it.

  I squat down and lay the guitar case flat and pop it open. There it is! My Fender! I pick it up and cradle it like a newborn child or long lost love. “You did it, Frank!”

  He smiles. “You look like my daughter when I bought her a cello last Christmas.”

  “Your daughter plays the cello?”

  “She does. She’s pretty good, too. She takes lessons.”

  “That’s awesome! You’re a musical family! That is so cool!” I gush with gratitude and excitement.

  “Victory, it was a pleasure,” Frank holds out his hand.

  I grab it with both of mine and shake it energetically.

  “If you ever need anything,” he says, “give me a ring. Here’s my card.” He hands me a business card. “That’s my cell phone and office number.”

  “Okay, I will!”

  “I’ve got to run. See you around.”

  He walks off into the sunset on Sunset Boulevard like a hero from days gone by.

  I glance at his business card. It has the familiar blue, red, yellow and green letters that reads:

  “Google. Frank Giacomo.”

  Hmmm. That could come in handy.

  But more importantly, I got my Fender back!

  I literally jump for joy, both fists in the air.

  Chapter 74

  VICTORY

  When I walk past the front doors of Guitar Central, my Fender case in hand, I flip off the storefront, grimacing, and mutter, “Fuck you, Guitar Central!”

  At that exact moment, one of the front doors opens and a salesman walks out.

  Oh shit! They want my guitar back!

  I make a mad run for my car.

  “Wait!” the salesman at my back shouts.

  No way in hell I’m waiting! I run as fast as I can, which is hard with a clunky guitar case in hand. I wrap both arms around it, hugging it against my side while I run. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  I hear feet slapping the sidewalk as I turn the corner and run up the side street to my car.

  “Hold on!” the guy shouts.

  The only thing I’m holding onto is my guitar. My purse bounces against my side as I run for dear life. My car is only half a block away.

  “Hey! Wait!” my pursuer shouts.

  Nope, not me.

  I reach my car and squeeze between my back bumper and the station wagon parked behind me. I set the guitar down and hastily fish through my purse. The guy is right behind me. Found it!

  I whip my rainbow rape knife out of my purse and flick the blade out. “Back the fuck off!” I growl into the face of the salesman.

  He instantly has his hands up, open palmed. He backs up a step, his eyes glued to my rainbow blade, “Whoa! Wait a second! Put that away…”

  “Back off!” I jab the knife toward him, but he’s several feet away, dancing nervously in the middle of the street.

  “Easy,” he says calmly. “I just wanted to—”

  “No!” I shout as I dig through my purse with my free hand, trying to find my keys. “You can’t have my guitar! So fuck off!”

  He drops his hands, and stops dancing suddenly, “What? Your guitar? I don’t want your guitar…”

  I find my keys and yank them out of my purse, but the look on his face causes pause. “Wait, you’re not here to take my Fender back?”

  “What?” He’s totally confused.

  “I thought your manager sent you to take back my Fender.”

  “Huh?”

  I can tell by the look on his face, that’s not why he’s here. I also remember that he wasn’t one of the salesmen standing around the guitar counter when I called my dad and Rob the Knob got all uppity with me. He was busy helping Frank. I remember they were sitting in front of a Line 6 amplifier trying out guitars. Then I remember his name, “You’re Felix.”

  He grins, “Yeah.”

  “You sold a Les Paul to Frank.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “The purple one?”

  Felix smiles, “That’s the one. And some used Fender Strat we just got.”

  He’s talking about my guitar. I say defensively, “You sure you’re not here for my Fender?”

  He shakes his head, “Nope.

  Cool, clean relief washes over me. I drop my knife to my side. “Then what are you here for?”

&
nbsp; “Uh…” he nervously runs his fingers through his hair, “I kinda wanted to ask for your number? Maybe I could take you out for a drink sometime?”

  Muggy discomfort soils my mood. I hate it when guys ask me out and I’m not in the mood. I sigh, “I’m really sorry, Felix, I’m not dating anyone right now.” I smile as politely as I can. I hate the disappointment on a guy’s face when you have to brush them off.

  Just then, a black whale-tail Porsche 911 rolls past and honks. Frank sits at the wheel. The Gibson case sits in the passenger seat next to him. He waves at me, “Good luck, Victory!” He cocks his chin at Felix and they exchange a smile.

  “Later, man!” Felix waves as Frank drives away, then turns back to face me.

  I can see the wheels turning in his head. What is he suddenly thinking? I realize I’ve unconsciously tightened my grip on the rainbow rape knife still dangling at my side. You never know when some guy might get the wrong idea.

  “Hey,” he says, his eyes narrowed.

  I tense my knife arm.

  He says, “Is your name Victory?”

  “Yeah,” I say suspiciously, “why?”

  “You’re in that video.”

  Confused, I say, “What video?”

  “The one on YouTube.”

  That’s the second time today someone has asked me about a YouTube video. The first time was when Paul Gilbert asked me outside Rock & Roll High School. I say, “You’re not talking about a Skin Trade video, are you?” Maybe someone posted cell phone video of our show at The Cobra Lounge. I never bothered to check, because I don’t care about anything having to do with Skin Trade at this point.

  “I’m not sure,” Felix shakes his head. “It’s the one with that guy?”

  What guy? I open my mouth then close it. I have no idea. Is there some sex tape video circulating the internet I don’t know about? Did Scott secretly film us having sex at some point and post it online after the breakup? I wouldn’t put it past him. Fucking Scott. “You sure it’s not a Skin Trade video? I used to be in the band.”

  “I don’t think so. Did you guys have a second guitar player?”

  “No.” I’m lost. “Are you talking about Rex? The bass player?”

  He looks up thoughtfully, “I don’t really know…”

  “Well, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s cool. Hey, anyway, you sure you don’t want to go out sometime?”

  I smile, appreciating his persistence. He seems like a nice enough guy, and he’s cute, but I’ve got too many cute guys meddling in my life already. “Thanks, Felix. That’s really sweet of you. I just can’t.”

  “Okay,” he shrugs. “If you ever need any deals on guitars or whatever,” he reaches into his pocket, “here’s my card.”

  I take it. “Thanks.”

  “Nice meeting you, Victory,” he lingers.

  “You too.”

  “I’ve got to go get some lunch before my break runs out. You sure you don’t want to join me?”

  His persistence is charming. “Sorry,” I sigh.

  “All right. Well, later.” He walks back to Sunset Boulevard.

  He does have a cute butt. But no! No more men! I have too much to do with my new job and getting my chops up for the L.A. Gunslingers competition. If I win that $5,000, that will seriously ease my financial woes.

  I glance at his business card.

  It reads:

  “Guitar Central. Felix ‘The Business’ Hudson. Sales Associate.”

  What a strange name.

  Then it hits me. The L.A. Gunslingers competition is hosted by Guitar Central! Will they even let me enter after today? I’m sure Rob the Knob won’t be too happy about the idea of giving me a shot at the prize money. I may be barred from entry entirely.

  Crap, maybe I should’ve joined Felix for lunch and flirted with him for thirty minutes?

  But he’s already turned the corner at the end of the block.

  Whatever.

  I’ll deal with it later.

  I can always use a stage name and wear a disguise like Buckethead.

  KFC, anyone?

  Chapter 75

  VICTORY

  I dive bomb the whammy bar on my Fender before pulling up on it and make my guitar squeal.

  “Wow!” Aleksandra says, her eyes popping out of her head in astonishment. “How did you do that?!” Aleksandra is thirteen, has long silk straight beach blonde hair and golden brown skin. She wears an Ocean Pacific tank tee, bright orange shorts, and flip flops that don’t match because it’s too hot to bother with mismatching shoes and socks. She grins gleefully, “I totally want to learn how to do that! Show me, show me!”

  “For sure,” I giggle, “It’s pretty easy. You do it like this…”

  Needless to say, teaching at Rock & Roll High School for the past two weeks has been the bomb. I had four students today and they’ve all been the coolest kids. They’re all so different and want to learn different musical styles on guitar. Blues, punk, funk, rock, you name it. It’s a challenge figuring out what teaching approach works best for each student, but it keeps it interesting. And the appreciation from the kids makes it totally rewarding. They all want to be here.

  It makes all the difference that they’re learning songs they want to play, not boring music school standards. Seriously, who thinks it’s cool to be able to play nursery rhyme melodies except for grandmas?

  When I finish Aleksandra’s lesson, I walk her into the waiting room out front.

  Her mom stands up from a chair. She smiles at me and asks, “How did Aleksandra do? Was she well behaved?”

  “Mom!” Aleksandra frowns and tosses her hair like an agitated pony.

  “She was incredible,” I giggle. “She’s a really fast learner. Isn’t that right, Aleksandra?”

  Aleksandra rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.

  “And,” I smile, “I only had to give her one time-out during the lesson.”

  “Nuh uh!” Aleksandra protests.

  “I’m kidding,” I grin. “She was great.”

  “I’m glad,” her mom says. “Thank you so much, Victory.” She extends her hand, which I shake.

  “Any time.” As they walk out the front door, I say, “Don’t forget to practice!”

  “I won’t!” Aleksandra grins and waves.

  I already know she will. She’s as into guitar as I was at her age.

  Before the front door latches behind Aleksandra and her mom, a very attractive young woman who looks slightly older than me with long neon pink hair walks inside. She looks like a punk rocker, complete with Doc Marten lace up boots. Is she my next student? No, she seems a bit too old. All of my students have been teenagers or kids. But maybe we teach adults here too?

  Pink Hair looks around uncertainly.

  “Can I help you?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Is Kellan here?” she asks.

  “Are you here for a lesson?”

  “No. I’m picking him up. Is he done with teaching for today?”

  I try not to frown, “I’ll go check.”

  “Awesome.”

  I walk through the door to the back of the building. I find Kellan in the kitchen leaning one hand on the open refrigerator door, sorting through the various bottles and cans on the top shelf.

  “There you are,” he says to the refrigerator and pulls out an unlabeled bottle of dark green juice. He twists off the cap and guzzles half of it. “Oh, hey, Victory. What up?”

  I grimace, “How do you drink that stuff? It looks rotten.”

  “What, this?” he holds up the bottle. “I get it at the health food store. They make it fresh. Kale, spinach, pineapple, honey dew, a bunch of other fruit, and lots of ginger. It’s great. You should try it.” He holds the bottle out to me.

  I wince, “Uh, no thanks.”

  He smiles and takes a swallow of his rotten looking juice before saying, “I noticed you got your Fender back.”

  “Yeah,” I say casually.

 
“I bet that makes you happy,” he smiles.

  I nod, “Totally.” I don’t know what else to say.

  He doesn’t say anything else either, just swallows more juice.

  Crickets chirp.

  I consider not telling him about Pink Hair in the waiting room, but that would be lame. Although Kellan has been distant since I started working here, he hasn’t been the tiniest bit rude. He’s always polite. I owe him the same amount of respect.

  I’d thought maybe we were past whatever weirdness there was between us after I spent the night at his apartment and we could officially be friends, but I guess not.

  Men make no sense.

  Whatevs.

  I say, “Some woman with pink hair is waiting for you in the waiting room. She said she’s here to pick you up?”

  Kellan nods and grins, “Switchblade.”

  “What?”

  “Switchblade. She’s here to pick me up,” Kellan says before swallowing the last of his sewage juice. He tosses the empty bottle in the trash can in the corner of the room. “See ya,” he smiles and walks out of the kitchen.

  Now I’m a hundred kinds of curious about this Switchblade girl of his. I mean, I know Kellan’s a manwhore, but after two weeks teaching at the school, this is the first time a woman has come by for him. I got the sense the school was a special place and he didn’t bring women here. So, what’s so different about Pink Hair?

  I’m not in control of my feet when they guide me down the hallway after Kellan. They also tiptoe of their own accord. Seriously, I’m just along for the ride.

  The door between the hallway and the waiting room is on a spring and it’s already shushing closed when I reach it.

  I hear Kellan drawl, “Hey, Switchblade…”

  My foot, which is still doing its own thing, stops the door a half inch before it closes. I can just see Kellan with pink haired Switchblade. I frown to myself. What kind of name is Switchblade? She’s probably lame. Not that I care. Because I totally don’t.

  It’s hard to see both Kellan and Switchblade at the same time because the gap in the doorframe is so narrow. But I clearly see Switchblade gazing up into Kellan’s eyes with a big grin on her face. She places her fingers on Kellan’s forearm. She seems very familiar with him. And her eyes are twinkling. A lot.