Chapter 8

“What’s your name, anyway?” he asked; all the drivers did, not that I blamed them.

So I made up a new identity and shared it with him: “Tom Dayton. I play the guitar. I’m heading to Erie for a few gigs. I have a friend up there who wants me to hang out with him.”

“If you’re a guitar player, where’s your guitar? I thought every musician carried their instrument with them.”

“My buddy told me to leave my guitar in the city. He has a few I can choose from to use.”

“What kind of buddy is this? Do you fuck around with him or what?”

I sort of chuckled, kept my composure, and almost told him to fuck off and mind his own business. Why couldn't I tell him more lies though, since I was on a roll? So I talked for the next two minutes about living in a small town south of Pittsburgh, where I wrote songs, played on the weekends at bars, and made cash anyway I possibly could. Then I told him that the guy in Erie with the guitars had the tightest asshole, which I wanted to use my cock on.