Free Blazed by Jason Myers Page B

the street at this two-story building on the corner.
    The word TRANSMISSION is spelled out in shiny, lowercase black letters above the door.
    â€œWhy that name?”
    â€œJoy Division,” he says, grinning.
    I can’t help but grin back. “Nice, man.”
    â€œCome on,” he goes, and we jog across the street and go inside.
    The Talking Heads are playing on a record player that sits on a stack of crates behind this glass counter.
    There are maybe ten other people here too.
    This gallery is pretty sick.
    Clean white walls. Beautiful hardwood floor. An information desk at the back.
    There’s a small, finely crafted bar on the right side of the room. And a winding stairwell next to the glass counter that ascends.
    Regardless of how big an asshole my father is, dude’s got some good cultural taste.
    This middle-aged black lady with glasses appears, holding a clipboard and a manila envelope packed with papers.
    Her hair is pulled back tightly, and she’s wearing a white dress, a black cardigan, and black heels.
    She’s pretty.
    My father and her immediately engage in a very intense and important-seeming conversation.
    I already feel like a third wheel.
    Maybe if I would’ve ogled over his house and his wife and the maids earlier, he wouldn’t have dragged me down here in his ninety-thousand-dollar ride (I looked it up on my iPhone) to show off some more.
    I wonder where Savannah is.
    I don’t see her anywhere.
    I Googled her in the car too.
    Her picture left me breathless and clumsy.
    Savannah is beautiful in the way that Van Gogh’s Starry Night is beautiful.
    In the way that Françoise Hardy’s voice is beautiful.
    In the way that Kim Novak looks during every second her face appears on film in Vertigo .
    My father finishes his conversation, then waves me over to introduce me to the lady.
    Her name is Jackie, and she’s the publicist for both my father’s galleries.
    She gives me a hug and says it’s such a privilege to meet me. “You look just like your daddy. Welcome to San Francisco, Jaime. Welcome to the Transmission Gallery.”
    I thank her and follow my father up to where Savannah will be staying and working all week.
    Savannah opens the door. The look on my father’sface as he meets her in person for the first time, well, it’s something else. Something I’ve never seen before.
    Eager.
    Intense.
    Engrossed.
    Her dark-brown hair is pulled back into a bun. Her lips are thin and her cheekbones are raised and so defined. She’s wearing this baby-blue and soft-pink plaid shirt that’s buttoned up just past her decent-size tits, leaving her cleavage exposed. She’s also got on a pair of cutoff shorts that are practically covered by the shirt. And she’s barefoot. And she’s wearing this large silver chain with a locket that hangs down to the middle of her stomach.
    As they begin to chitchat, my eyes drift to the studio space.
    Like, holy shit!
    In the center of the room is a black Bechstein Model B grand piano.
    Now I’m salivating.
    â€œDamn,” I say, walking toward it. “This is amazing. I’ve never played one of these before.”
    â€œYou play?” Savannah goes. “So do I.”
    â€œHave you tried it yet?” I ask.
    â€œI have.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œIt sounds beautiful. It’s tuned perfectly.”
    I glance back at the two of them, and my father looks creased because I’ve butted in.
    â€œMay I?” I ask.
    â€œUmmmm, sure, Jaime,” my father goes. “Savannah, why don’t you come downstairs with me. I want to run over some things with you and Jackie now that I’m back.”
    â€œSure,” she says.
    â€œGreat.”
    â€œJaime, have fun,” she says.
    The two of them leave, but they don’t shut the door behind them.
    Me, I take my seat on the bench and strip off my parka and stretch my arms and fingers. My knuckles crack. I