CHAPTER 7: PUNK ROCK
I kept it under my bed next to a He-Man lunchbox and loose collection of dirty magazines. Had my mom stumbled on either of my three treasures, I deduced it would bring an equal amount of discomfort and anxiety, though I could have probably explained away the Hustlers. Had she opened said lunchbox, well the dime bag and cocaine-y piece of glass would have been a little more difficult to justify, though to my mother, probably somewhat less than why I had my father’s 1959 Fender Stratocaster tucked under an old blanket.
The case was pristine. It was a sort of metallic black that shimmered in light, a single peace sign sticker centered on the back. It had two clasps, each with its separate three digit combination lock coded 666 and 420- hey, I never said the man was clever- and between them, a silver engraving with my father’s name and my mother’s (our) phone number on it. The velvet lining inside was soft to the touch. Under the neck was a box for picks, capo, tuner, rolling papers and a lighter, all of which were included. The strap was handmade and smelled like a freshly deadened cow.