My Dad Started Charging Me $250 a Month for My Room When I Turned 18 — Five Years Later, After His Funeral, His Best Friend Handed Me a Box
Two customers were not a business either, though they would help pay the electric bill.
“I can take another session,” I said.
“If it doesn’t interfere with my shifts.”
Marcus held the stockroom door for me.
“Write that down before you forget.”
On November 21 I carried the leather band vest into the warehouse studio and hung it on a hook beside the old concert photographs.
Marcus had brought a box of guitar cables, and we spent the first hour deciding which belonged near the mixing desk and which could go into storage.
The repaired black guitar stayed within reach of the chair.
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