Jimi.
A real autograph. The record itself is in pristine condition.
“Holy shit!” Laney says. “That is too awesome! Is it for real?”
“One hundred percent authentic. My grandpa left it to me,” Seth explains. “He was cool. All about the Hendrix. I guess he went to this festival in Germany in ‘67, and one of his friends was an organizer, so he got backstage and met the man himself. I know you’re a fan, so—”
Jake shakes his head and tries to shove the album back into Seth’s hands. “Seth. No. I can’t take this.”
“Yeah, you can. I owe you.” Seth turns to Laney and I. “Three months ago, I’m in Detroit protesting a free trade conference, right? Some pig shoves me, I go flying into another, next thing I know I’m on the ground with a Taser in my back. I get thrown in city jail, no money and one phone call. So I call Jake. You know what this fucker did? He dropped everything, drove up and bailed me out, no questions.”
“Like I could just leave you,” Jake says. “You’re too pretty. You’re a delicate flower. They would’ve ripped you apart in there.”
“You were in
jail?
“ Laney sounds both curious and titillated. “What was it like?”
“Boring. Dirty. Smelled like ass,” Seth tells her, shuddering at the memory. He looks to Jake. “Keep it, man. My gift to you. Besides, it’s not like it’s Marley. In that case, it might be different.”
Jake gazes down at the album in his hands reverently, like it’s a rare religious relic. “Thanks.”
Everyone else, Seth tells us, is down at the beach, having a bonfire.
“You might want to grab a jacket,” he says. “It’s windier by the lake.”
He’s right; it’s cool outside, with the sun almost set and the stars coming out from behind the clouds. I hear the waves the moment we step onto the back deck. There are plastic fold-up chairs leaned against the side of the house,so we each pick one and make our way down the stairs, through the grassy weeds and onto the sloping beach. An orange fire roars from a pit a couple yards down. As we get closer, I overhear several people in the midst of a spirited debate.
“It’s about privilege. You can’t erase that.”
“No, but it doesn’t mean you can’t be an ally to the oppressed. If the majority is incapable of empathy—or of support—then the whole world is screwed.”
“But so many people don’t admit their own privilege! You can’t fight what isn’t even acknowledged. We have to check ourselves, and then maybe—” A tiny Asian girl with a pixie haircut suddenly notices our approach and stops mid-sentence, bounding to her feet. “Jake! You made it!”
She all but leaps into his arms as Laney and I stand back, amused. Jake does not seem remotely like the affectionate type, so to see him on the receiving end of a giant bear hug from a pint-size girl is pretty amusing. He sees us biting back laughter and glares, patting the girl’s back and awkwardly maneuvering away from her hold.
“Hey, Anna,” he says. “How’s it going?”
“Discussions of cultural appropriation aside, it’s all good!” She spins to face Laney and me, and, without warning, throws both arms around us in a suffocating squeeze. Considering her size, her upper-body strength is impressive.
“Hi! I’m Anna! It’s so great to meet you!” Everything she says sounds like an exclamation point.
This time it’s Jake trying not to laugh. I shoot him daggers over Anna’s shoulder.
“Long time, no see.” Danny and Jake exchange some complicated handshake thing, the way guys do. He has on a pair of ultraskinny jeans that look a lot like the ones Laney is always buying, and his bangs are long and swept to one side. “When was the last time? That sit-in in March?”
The voice that answers isn’t Jake’s. “And look how much was accomplished on behalf of immigrant rights.”
Another girl sits on Danny’s other side. Her long legs are crossed, arms folded across her chest, and she
A real autograph. The record itself is in pristine condition.
“Holy shit!” Laney says. “That is too awesome! Is it for real?”
“One hundred percent authentic. My grandpa left it to me,” Seth explains. “He was cool. All about the Hendrix. I guess he went to this festival in Germany in ‘67, and one of his friends was an organizer, so he got backstage and met the man himself. I know you’re a fan, so—”
Jake shakes his head and tries to shove the album back into Seth’s hands. “Seth. No. I can’t take this.”
“Yeah, you can. I owe you.” Seth turns to Laney and I. “Three months ago, I’m in Detroit protesting a free trade conference, right? Some pig shoves me, I go flying into another, next thing I know I’m on the ground with a Taser in my back. I get thrown in city jail, no money and one phone call. So I call Jake. You know what this fucker did? He dropped everything, drove up and bailed me out, no questions.”
“Like I could just leave you,” Jake says. “You’re too pretty. You’re a delicate flower. They would’ve ripped you apart in there.”
“You were in
jail?
“ Laney sounds both curious and titillated. “What was it like?”
“Boring. Dirty. Smelled like ass,” Seth tells her, shuddering at the memory. He looks to Jake. “Keep it, man. My gift to you. Besides, it’s not like it’s Marley. In that case, it might be different.”
Jake gazes down at the album in his hands reverently, like it’s a rare religious relic. “Thanks.”
Everyone else, Seth tells us, is down at the beach, having a bonfire.
“You might want to grab a jacket,” he says. “It’s windier by the lake.”
He’s right; it’s cool outside, with the sun almost set and the stars coming out from behind the clouds. I hear the waves the moment we step onto the back deck. There are plastic fold-up chairs leaned against the side of the house,so we each pick one and make our way down the stairs, through the grassy weeds and onto the sloping beach. An orange fire roars from a pit a couple yards down. As we get closer, I overhear several people in the midst of a spirited debate.
“It’s about privilege. You can’t erase that.”
“No, but it doesn’t mean you can’t be an ally to the oppressed. If the majority is incapable of empathy—or of support—then the whole world is screwed.”
“But so many people don’t admit their own privilege! You can’t fight what isn’t even acknowledged. We have to check ourselves, and then maybe—” A tiny Asian girl with a pixie haircut suddenly notices our approach and stops mid-sentence, bounding to her feet. “Jake! You made it!”
She all but leaps into his arms as Laney and I stand back, amused. Jake does not seem remotely like the affectionate type, so to see him on the receiving end of a giant bear hug from a pint-size girl is pretty amusing. He sees us biting back laughter and glares, patting the girl’s back and awkwardly maneuvering away from her hold.
“Hey, Anna,” he says. “How’s it going?”
“Discussions of cultural appropriation aside, it’s all good!” She spins to face Laney and me, and, without warning, throws both arms around us in a suffocating squeeze. Considering her size, her upper-body strength is impressive.
“Hi! I’m Anna! It’s so great to meet you!” Everything she says sounds like an exclamation point.
This time it’s Jake trying not to laugh. I shoot him daggers over Anna’s shoulder.
“Long time, no see.” Danny and Jake exchange some complicated handshake thing, the way guys do. He has on a pair of ultraskinny jeans that look a lot like the ones Laney is always buying, and his bangs are long and swept to one side. “When was the last time? That sit-in in March?”
The voice that answers isn’t Jake’s. “And look how much was accomplished on behalf of immigrant rights.”
Another girl sits on Danny’s other side. Her long legs are crossed, arms folded across her chest, and she
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