Went to pick up my guitar today. When I was almost there, navigating the vast and bewildering crosswalks of the Atlantic Center, it occurred to me I didn’t have the little ticket Igor gave me when I dropped it off. Insurance, he called it. They couldn’t keep my guitar without giving me a ticket. “What’s the value?” he asked. I said five grand, what the hell. Coulda said one, coulda said ten. He handed me a receipt that said work order and had the estimate total, seven hundred something. At home I put it on my desk and forgot about it.

What if they demand it? What if they won’t give me back my guitar if I don’t produce it? I saw myself protesting furiously. That’s my guitar. Appealing to Igor. You know that’s my guitar. But it’s Guitar Center. All corporate and shit. Owned by God knows who. They do things by the book. No ticky, no guitar. I envisioned the altercation becoming savage, physical. I’m not leaving without my guitar! The security guards upstairs would be summoned down. What seems to be the problem? Sir? Sir? Motherfuckers calling me sir. I’d get my phone out, tremblingly call 911. No, not 911. That’s ridiculous. Clownish. I’m not making a fool of myself. No, I’d call the police. Explain in a measured voice that this place of business had stolen my guitar. 

When I went in Igor didn’t seem to recognize me. But he did. Then he gave me my guitar. I played it a little. Paid him and left.