Last August, I was performing on the street in Monterey for a couple weeks. One couple caught my eye. Andy was a homeless guitar player and his girlfriend Mona played the bongos. She was high every time I saw her. In fact, once I saw her loitering in a parking structure, and she didn’t even recognize me. Looked like she didn’t even know where she was. It was such a shame. She was a pretty girl.
When writing my newly published novel, What Happens to Us, http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00DSSN5SU, I inserted them into it. They’re the couple, Brescia and Memory, from whom Dante tries to buy a car with a fake registration, but which transaction opens up a whole other can of worms.
“Her name was Memory, although behind her back, all the guys called her Mammary for too-obvious reasons. She was wearing a tank top, exposing her labyrinth of tattoos that ran up and down her arms. Her purple hair shone in the morning sunlight like neurosis, a gold ring glistening on her nose. She was making an iced coffee, and loudly. From the creases on her forehead, Cat just knew that she had troubles like a bramblebush. Looking at her, Cat was lost for a moment in Memory’s patterns of ink and skin, art and flesh, cause and consequence, symbolism and dysfunction—in fact, each of her piercings seemed to Cat like a medal commemorating its own dysfunction.”
Last week, after a year’s absence, I returned to Monterey to perform and saw Andy, playing his guitar on the same old wall. I said hello.
“Hey, dude,” Andy answered back.
“Hey, where’s your girlfriend?”
But at the mere mention of her, Andy’s whole face changed as if a storm had suddenly moved in.
“In a ditch dead somewhere, I hope!”
It seems like mayhaps they had issues?