Free Blind Luck by Scott Carter Page A

on her frame, as did a pair of khakis at least a size too big. Press-wood tables, a bland navy blue sofa too skinny to be comfortable, and aqua light stands made her apartment a B-version of generic IKEA.
    Grayson handed Dave an envelope, which he slid into the closest jacket pocket. Grayson broke the seal on a bottle of scotch he’d brought over.
    “Can I make you a drink?”
    “No thanks.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Okay.”
    Grayson poured himself a shot and drank it before leading Dave into the living room. Amy stood, and her arms went from her sides to crossed and back to her sides. Grayson rubbed her closest shoulder.
    “Dave, this is my sister, Amy.”
    Dave extended his hand, and Amy moved forward until Grayson stepped between them. He grabbed Dave’s arm with a firm grip.
    “Forget hand-shaking, hug.”
    Amy pivoted towards him, with a look that only a sister can give her brother and whispered, “Grayson.” She shook Dave’s now limp hand to be polite. “I’m sorry my brother made you come.”
    “He didn’t make me come.”
    “Then I’m sorry he bought you.”
    Grayson put his coat on by the door. “I’m going to leave now.”
    Amy turned to him, and her eyes looked defeated, like a kid being left at a new school for the first time. “What?”
    Grayson ignored her in favour of addressing Dave. “I’ll see you outside when you two are done.” He buttoned the top button on his coat and walked out the door.
    Amy flushed. She scratched at a red blotch on the side of her neck while pacing a small runway. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know he was going to leave.”
    “Neither did I.”
    She sat on the couch, and Dave chose a wooden chair to the side. They sat in silence for a moment while Dave tried to think of something to say and Amy struggled to stay still, until the agony of two strangers’ silence compelled her to straighten an armchair cover that was already in place.
    Dave walked over to a series of bookshelves that had been adjusted to fit records. He guessed that there were a thousand records on the shelves. He removed an album randomly and flipped it over to see that it was The Kensington Market. He had never heard of the band, and the ignorance left him with a curious combination of admiration and jealousy.
    “This is a serious collection,” he said, holding up the record.
    “I have over five thousand. I’d fill a house with them if I could spare the space, but most of them are in storage.”
    “I’ve got about three hundred in storage myself.” His eyes locked on a Crowbar twelve-inch, ‘Too True Mama’. My mother used to play that song all the time. I haven’t been able to find this anywhere. Where did you get it?”
    “Grayson bought it a few years back. He gets me a lot of my records.”
    “Play something for me.”
    “What are you in the mood for?”
    “I want it to be your choice.”
    She walked to the shelf closest to the window, pulled a record from the second shelf and turned to a vintage Garrard RC1 player.
    Dave took a seat in the armchair. “If you play the Monkees, we’re going to have a problem.”
    She set the needle on the record, and it popped twice before finding the groove. Raw vocals growled through the speakers, setting off an explosion of pre-punk-fuelled guitar as “Kick Out the Jams” filled the room.
    Dave’s eyes widened. “The MC5? You could have given me a hundred guesses about what you were going to play, and I wouldn’t have been close.”
    “Best band ever. And underappreciated.”
    “And crazy. They used to play with rifles onstage, and they were part of that day-long concert at the Democratic convention, the one where all the violence broke out.”
    “Not part of, they
were
the concert. Most of the other artists didn’t even show up because of the chaos. Neil Young was there, but his people wouldn’t let him play, so the MC5 played for over eight hours.
That
is backing what you believe in.”
    Dave smiled. “That’s a