Sighing, he removed the guitar from its bag and positioned it on his lap while pulling a pick out of his pocket. He usually had at least 5 with him at all times. He cautiously looked around at the other passengers on the bus before he quietly began playing “Adam’s Song,” by Blink 182. It wasn’t his favorite band and the song was way too simple to be impressive, but he loved the tune and enjoyed the message of the song.
Everything will get better; you just have to make it home first. That’s what he got out of it anyway.
He mumbled the words softly under his breath so as not to bother the other people, most of who were sleeping or listening to head phones, but quickly lost himself in the song.
His left hand moved gracefully along the neck, pressing down the wires and moving from fret to fret with a practiced ease. With harsh words whispered in song, he heavily strummed the strings and played the ending loudly.
The sound of scattered applause came from the front of the bus, jarring hi out of his trace-like state. A large portion of the people on the bus had turned to watch him and listen. He blushed brightly.
An elderly woman seated near asked with a smile, “Do you know any Sinatra?”
--------------------
Scott Robins was an extremely hyperactive individual. He was almost constantly moving in some way and had to avoid all kinds of caffeine and sugar to keep himself from scaring the people around him.
He was a mess, physical appearance wise. He had paint absolutely everywhere; under his fingernails, caked on his clothes, smeared on his skin, and splattered in his shaggy auburn hair. His face was unshaven, but he didn’t quite have a beard. He was very unkempt and very excited, bouncing on the balls of his feet while glancing around in every direction. Many of the other people at the bus station were giving him odd looks.
The bus pulled up and stopped. Scott barely refrained from sprinting over. People got off and got their bags and anxiety grew in the pit of Scott’s stomach. What if Edan didn’t come? What if he’d gotten off at the wrong stop? What if he’d gotten on the wrong bus? What if the bus he was on had gotten into a huge accident and exploded and everyone on the bus died? What if—
“Uncle Scott?”
He whirled around to see Edan standing there with two large duffel bags, two guitar cases and a heavy backpack hanging from his shoulders.
“Edan!” He exclaimed and enthusiastically hugged him while trying not to knock him over. “Let me help you with all of this,” he said and took the two duffel bags from him. He led Edan away and started asking him questions.
“So how was the bus ride?”
Edan shrugged as best as he could, “Fine, I guess. I didn’t die.”
“And I am very happy about that,” Scott laughed, “It would have been a pretty lonely summer if you had died, you know?” He was quiet for a second, but then perked up again as they made their way through the parking lot. “So what do you want to do this summer? See the sights? Paint the town red?”
Edan shifted his bag, “Umm…”
“Or we could just hang around my gallery.” He found his car, a beat up red Ford Escort. He pulled out his keys and popped open the trunk. He shoved in the duffels and unlocked the car so Edan could put the guitars in the back and they got into the car.
They listened to Queen as they drove. The traffic wasn’t too bad so they made it across town quickly. There was a small parking lot next to a brick building that Scott pulled into and stopped.
“This is my gallery,” Scott said as he got out of the car and went to unload the trunk. Edan stared at the building.
It was four stories tall with a basement where you could see the windows peeking just above the pavement. It looked like it had been painted once and now all of the paint was slowly chipping off, making the building look old and dilapidated. The window boxes and open plot on either side of the steps leading to the main doors were full of dirt and dead plants. The windows were dirty and warped with age. The door looked like it was about to fall off. Edan tried not to gawk. The place looked like it should have been condemned.
“We’re staying here?” Edan said when he realized his uncle was carrying his bags inside. He shrugged on his backpack and got his guitars out of the backseat.
“There’s an apartment on the top floor,” he said with a grin, “Artist studios are in the basement, bottom two floors hold art exhibits and conference rooms, third floor is for storage and fourth is my apartment.”
Edan’s jaw nearly hit the pavement, “You mean you actually live here?”
Scott shrugged as he walked up the front steps and lead him inside, “It’s sanitary and stable.”
Inside everything looked completely different. All of the walls were a fresh white. There were no doors leading from room to room. There was a circular desk a few yards inside the door with clean wood paneling and a door behind it that said “Stairs.” Further back were some other rooms with doors, but Edan was too busy staring at the art all over the walls to wonder what they were.
Someone came in through the door, a Latino woman. She had dark skin and messy black hair and wore plain clothes, a mauve t-shirt and worn, paint speckled jeans.
She frowned, “The bell went off. I thought you were someone who mattered.”
Grinning, Scott replied, “Miranda, this is my nephew, Edan. Edan, this is Miranda, one of the hosted artists.”
“Nice to meet you,” Edan replied. The two said a few other things while Edan looked at the art and she went back through the doors. Scott then led him though the same doors where they then climbed three flights of stairs to the fourth floor.
There was a locked door that said “Private: Staff Only,” at the top of the stairs. Scott opened in and led him into a comfy, homely area. There was a worn couch, a bright coat of green paint on the walls, a broken chair next to the couch in front of a small TV with aluminum foil on the antennae. The was a small end table with a broken lamp and several face-down picture frames on it that seemed out of place.
“This is your room down here,” Scott said leading him down the hallway where the walls were a nasty yellow and there were holes in them, small ones like the walls were a giant cheese grater. He opened the door to a room that looked like it had never been used. There were stark white walls and a bed on the far wall white whets on it. Other than the oak door to the closet, there was nothing else in the room.
“I haven’t gotten around to getting any furniture in here yet,” Scott said softly as he set the duffels on the floor in a corner, “You can help me pick out a dresser and a desk and stuff, ok?”
Edan frowned and stared at the room. “White,” he mumbled.
“Just like St. Catherine’s,” Scott added quietly, “We’ll fix this room up for you as soon as we decide how you want to do it, ok?”
“Ok.”